Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

---

Like a satellite,

I'm in orbit all the way around you,

And I would fall out into the night,

Can't go a minute without your love.

- Rosanna of Devisiun, <<Satellite>>

---

The air is warm and mild, stirred by a breeze faint enough that it barely rustles the plants on the balcony. When Wheeljack rests a hand on the low wall, staring out over the city, the metal feels slightly cooler than the air. His scanner beeps impatiently, but it could be worse: Brainstorm-adjacent devices tend to announce findings in either squeaky voices or silly songs, and Wheeljack left his scanner unguarded a few too many times for comfort.

He feels…rested. Weird, how that's not normal anymore. His optics don't feel strained. His joints don't crack when he stretches and rolls his shoulders. The tension in his wires, 'specially the ones between his doorwings, feels relaxed for the first time in - years, probably. Ironically, he's been wearing out his metaphorical tires faster and faster since the war ended.

Feels like every time he gets a grip on things, they wrench out from under his hands.

Slag, he could use a break. It's tempting to head back to the berth and lay down. Sure, it's an unfamiliar room in the middle of a Cybertronian-ish city he doesn't recognize, but he's slept in worse places. A few more minutes couldn't hurt. He squints up at the Matrix looming in the sky to try to get a sense of the local time, but he's pretty sure it's not in orbit. Just…hovering there. Gravity would probably be playing merry hell with it if it were orbiting like that naturally; it's well within the Roche limit.

Abruptly, a sharp sting lances through his optics. Wheeljack winces - it's the first real jolt he's felt since waking up. He rubs the lens with his thumb and looks away from the enormous, pale blue Matrix. Shouldn't've stared at it that long without protective lenses.

Whatever this place is - the Afterspark, or some place that coincidentally decided a giant Matrix was a stellar centerpiece for planetary décor - Wheeljack can feel the tug of responsibility. His memory of before he woke up is a little fuzzy, but they were on the verge of stabilizing Tailgate in the right universe. For a joint project with Killmaster, Brainstorm, and Nautica, the setup had seemed fairly sound, but any number of things can go wrong when you're tampering with the fabric of the universe.

So. Maybe he's halfway across the galaxy, or maybe he's a little dead. Awkward. Wheeljack never put much stock in the various spiritual renditions of the afterlife (the Pit, the Forge, the Afterspark, the Well, etcetera), so this is fascinating. He's been studying the transition between Cybertron and Neo-Cybertron with Shockwave this past year, as much to understand it as to keep Shockwave engaged, and the replenished core of spark energy that Unicron deposited into the molten metal became the center of debate. Windvoice believes it's everyone who ever died, the energy captured by Unicron and reforged. But the logistics of that remain a mystery. No one can visit the still-molten core to take samples and confirm her hypothesis. If Wheeljack died - yeesh, that's still a not-good thought - did his spark energy really get sucked halfway across the universe by a planet-sized garbage disposal? Is this a mass hallucination, where he and a bunch of other disembodied mechs hang out in Unicron's internals for a few billion years?

Well. Whatever the case. He needs to get back now. Preferably yesterday. If he, Brainstorm, and Nautica managed to slingshot themselves to random corners of the galaxy, Starscream's probably freaking out. If he's dead, Starscream's freaking out even harder. Death's pretty slagging inconvenient, like that. But he's got his scanner, and he's got his head on his shoulders. So he's got this. Probably.

How hard can resurrecting oneself be?

Cycling a deep vent, Wheeljack dims his optics for a moment and leans his head back. It'd be nice to zone out for a while. When was the last time he went on a drive with nowhere to be? Or spent a day or three at home, doing nothing much at all? Just the thought of sciencing his way out of here draws the memory of strut-deep exhaustion back to the surface. He wants -

The roar of engines cuts through the air.

Wheeljack jerks back to attention, optics snapping on in a rush as he scans the skies. Definitely flight engines - he knows that sound - he's got a weapon around here somewhere, right? He pulls back from the edge of the balcony to get back under cover.

But he stalls out mid-step, freezing, when he sees the familiar alt skimming down over the rooftops for a landing. He built that frame with his own hands, but it still takes a second. Starscream's never been so blue before this past year.

Starscream pulls up to transform over the edge of the balcony. Wheeljack takes another half step back, to make room, but as soon as his feet hit the floor Starscream steps forward, arms out, and catches Wheeljack in a hug, laughing. "Wheeljack!" he sings out, whirling Wheeljack in a circle. Wheeljack's feet kick a little, uselessly, before Starscream finishes spinning and sets him down, his smile crooked and soft. "There you are."

Wheeljack stays perfectly still, his brain stalled out. There's an unfamiliar sound buzzing in his audials that he realizes, belatedly, is Starscream humming.

"Starscream," he says, after too long a pause. "Wait. Hang on. You know where we are?"

Starscream arches a brow at him. Wheeljack recognizes the 'oh, not again, dear Wheeljack,' look but it's - not... "Home, of course."

Starscream draws away, hands lingering on Wheeljack's arms for a moment before he sails away into the room, still humming. The sound is entirely unself-conscious. Starscream doesn't have a singing voice, and Wheeljack's never seen him unwind enough to do anything unconsciously. "No, I mean -" Wheeljack breaks off, then tries again. "You're acting…odd."

There's a fundamental disconnect. Wheeljack can't reconcile what he remembers with what he's seeing. If they were displaced or dead, Starscream wouldn't be acting so calm. He must be missing something.

How long was he out?

Starscream's brow furrows, but only for a moment. Then the irrepressibly fond expression comes back. "Odd? Odd how?" he asks. Then he flops back on the berth with a lengthy sigh. "Finally."

Wheeljack takes a hesitant step back into the room, one hand flexing by his side. His scanner is still trilling at him, insistently. "Happy. Er. Happier than normal," he says, with a weird pang. He gestures back over his shoulder. "Aren't you worried? We need to get back -"

Starscream snorts. He rolls onto his side, stretching, and rests his face on his hand, still smiling at Wheeljack wistfully. "Back? Piffle. Why would you ever want to go back? I'm happy here with you." He beckons Wheeljack with just a touch of playful impatience. "Now then. This is the part where you tell me you adore me, and make much of me."

"I don't think your ego needs any help there," Wheeljack says, on autopilot. It earns him another fond quirk of a smile.

Something in his spark clenches.

It's not Starscream.

He tries, anyway. He needs to figure out what's going on here, and this Starscream (who laughs, whose smiles aren't sharp, thorny things, who doesn't touch Wheeljack like he's a mine waiting to go off under his hands) is at least answering questions. "Starscream. Does this place look like the Spectralist Afterspark to you?"

Starscream flourishes his hand again, a roll of his optics softened by a smile. "Details, details." He sits up and leans forward, reaching to try to catch Wheeljack's hand. "Come here."

And it would be nice to rest.

Wheeljack's intake feels very tight as he takes that half step back, out of reach. His chest is one compressed, twisting ache. "Starscream. I don't think you're really here."

Starscream sits the rest of the way up, frowning. There are no shadows under his eyes. Even his frown just looks mildly puzzled, not upset. "Why would you say that?" he asks. Then a sly smile flickers back into place, and he snaps his fingers and hops off the berth. "Here. I know what will make you feel better. It was supposed to be a surprise, for later," he chatters, spinning Wheeljack around as he strides back out onto the balcony. A dip to press a kiss on Wheeljack's mask -

Wheeljack feels like he's been sucker punched. "Wait."

Then Starscream has one foot on the banister, shooting Wheeljack a teasing wink before he transforms again. "I'll be back in a klik."

Half a second too late, Wheeljack tries to make a grab for him. He's suddenly, agonizingly sure that if Starscream goes, he's not going to see him again. Not happy. Not like this.

But Starscream's already off, swinging low under an arching bridge between two buildings, and out of sight. Even the sound of his engines fades into the distance, swallowed by the city.

Wheeljack lets his hand fall.

"So," a voice says, from behind him. "You're real, too."

Wheeljack resets his optics, and turns to stare at Prowl.

-

Prowl looks like shit.

Really. Sometimes only Earth words can cut it.

The last time Wheeljack saw him - really saw him - Prowl was bulked out after some kind of rebuild. Not by choice: he'd been controlled by Bombshell for months, by then, and no one noticed that it wasn't Prowl in the driver's seat until it was too late.

Then he'd shot Wheeljack in the head, and Wheeljack lost almost a year to the blank drift of a CR chamber. Missed Shockwave's grand plan to collapse the universe into a singularity, slept right through Windblade's arrival with Metroplex, and all that jazz. He's caught a glimpse or two of Prowl along the way, but Prowl's largely been AWOL since Optimus tossed him out a window and threatened to kill him after Menasor's rampage on Caminus. They'd narrowly averted disaster there by having Metroplex shut down his space bridge once Superion dragged Menasor back home, ending the combiner crisis before it could escalate further, but Optimus and Prowl blew up at each other after that first diplomatic overture with the Mistress of Flame, and Prowl deserted.

Not that there was technically anything to desert. The war was long over.

Since then, nothing but whispers about him on Earth; something involving the Wreckers. Later, a notice from Red Alert that Prowl was on sabbatical on Luna-1.

And now he's here. He's slimmed way down and shifted to muted shades of black and grey, the only white paint left as accents on his face, hips, hands, and wings. No sign of Earth police tags. Heavy shadows dig in under his optics, which are unevenly lit. Like he hasn't recharged or fueled right in months.

Not exactly the look of someone who's supposed to have been on vacation for the sake of his mental health for the past year and a half.

They haven't spoken since Prowl shot him. It's only just now striking Wheeljack that that's…frag, this is awkward. Was the avoidance mutual, or just coincidental?

"Really?" Wheeljack says, feeling incredibly self-conscious. He glances down at himself so that he's looking anywhere but at Prowl's face and pokes his own chest. "How can you tell?"

A sharp, short snort. Prowl moves away from the wall and glares out over the city like it personally offends him. "They try to tempt you. Lure you in. You're too confused to be one of them."

Just once, Wheeljack wishes he could turn the noticing off. Prowl puts on a good front, but he's not nearly as good at hiding the cracks in his façade as Starscream. "'They'? What's going on here, Prowl?"

"A trap. This is all some kind of simulation. If the simulacra can't win you over with the first fantasy, they make up an excuse to leave and come back with a better lure." Prowl jerks his chin toward the corner where Starscream dipped out of sight. "They're fixated on persuading people to relax and let down their guard. I'm not interested in seeing what happens next."

In an instant, the unease gnawing at Wheeljack crystallizes into a hard, grim lump in his chest. Slag. The last dregs of lassitude clear from his processor as he joins Prowl in staring at the cityscape. "A targeted daydream," he mutters. He checks his scanner, turning the raw data it spits back at him over in his head. Anything it can feed him could provide clues. "Who did you see?"

Prowl's mouth tugs to the side in a thin, flat non-smile. "What can I say? I'm unpopular," he says. Then his expression curls, weirdly bitter. "Starscream? Really?"

That doesn't jive; clearly he's run into someone. Prowl's sidestepping the question, for whatever reason. "Whatever you have to say, I've heard it twice from Optimus. Just don't," he says, wearily.

Optimus made it clear a long time ago that he expected Wheeljack to keep an eye on Starscream and feed Optimus intel from Cybertron while he was away on Earth. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn't accuse Wheeljack of being a traitor for failing to live up to that expectation, but he never let up on the disappointment in his field, or the hints that Wheeljack needed come to Earth to get his priorities back in line.

Now Prowl's watching him through the corner of his eye with an assessing glint. He still tilts his head just so when he's analyzing someone, like they're a battle simulation he needs to tackle; it sends a pang of nostalgia through Wheeljack. "So you're sure we're not actually dead, and taking out our latent paranoia on the perfectly pleasant denizens of the afterlife?" he asks, to lighten the mood.

Prowl leans hard on the balcony wall, his hands curled into fists. "Does anything about my paranoia look latent to you?" he says, completely deadpan.

Wheeljack stares at him for two beats before losing it.

His laugh echoes too loudly in the empty city.

---

And I wonder if, while running the legacy of the Decepticons into the dirt, Starscream also succeeded in destroying himself.

- Megatron of Tarn

---

A medical monitoring program lets his processor cycle back to awareness in slow, controlled stages.

His processor, naturally, punches a hole through the program the instant it notices a foreign process impeding his thoughts, and Starscream brute-forces his way through the groggy vestiges of recharge. His arms and legs feel heavy and slow; one has almost no sensation at all until Starscream rips through another medical block. The pain and damage alerts throbbing in his HUD mean nothing compared to the jangling shriek of proximity sensors -

He is in a medical bay. Not Flatline's - the main hospital in Metroplex. High enough that he can see the orange smear of the sun rising through a misty haze of cloud cover through the window.

And someone is sitting beside him.

Blast Off watches him, violet visor unreadable, his legs sprawled out, hands hanging at loose ends in his lap.

Perhaps the third time's the charm. "What, now you're haunting me?" Starscream demands, dragging a hand down his face and glaring in between his fingers. "You're the worst excuse for a conscience I've ever seen - and I've hallucinated an Autobot, so that's saying something."

Blast Off stirs, barely. For someone who hogged one of Starscream's CR chambers for the past year, he looks like slag. "Hallucinate often?" he says, hoarse.

Starscream throws his arm across his face. "I'm oh-for-two, at the moment." All of his ghosts thus far have turned out to be alive, with a convenient scientific explanation for them. Just his luck.

It then occurs to him that he might well be oh-for-three.

He pitches himself off the medical berth with a snarl, and promptly faceplants on the floor.

Blast Off, solid and real, snorts at him.

-

His numb arm's too slow to respond; he's going to find whichever grossly incompetent Autobot medic dosed him and rip their arm off so they can see how they like it. Flatline would've known better. But the berth gives him cover, and that buys him time to flip through the damage reports - arm, crush damage to both wings, knee joint recently twisted back into its socket - and dismiss the rest.

The medic-induced sluggishness will be what gets him killed.

That kicks his processor the rest of the way awake. By the time Starscream rolls upright, drawing an energy sword with the hand he trusts, he's shunted everything else aside. Blast Off outweighs him ton-for-ton, a disadvantage in close quarters, but the difference isn't nearly as pronounced thanks to Starscream's new frame.

Blast Off stares at him. He hasn't moved an inch.

Blast Off doesn't need to move to ruin everything.

Starscream was supposed to have more time. Vortex and Swindle, the two Combaticons to make it through the last year unscathed, are still operating under the false memories that Airachnid planted in their minds. But Onslaught, Brawl, and Blast Off all had their processors shot to slag. Spark memory is an unpredictable thing - if it restored their regrown processors with the original memories, everything Starscream has built could collapse.

And Blast Off was aware of every last sordid detail. He agreed to the mnemosurgery, on the condition that Airachnid would nudge Onslaught to finally notice his embarrassing little crush. He remembers Starscream's feud with the Combaticons; he remembers what they plucked out of Swindle's brain-dead processor.

It seemed so logical at the time. The mere thought of Airachnid makes Starscream's neck crawl now.

(If Blast Off's awake, are the others? Brawl doesn't have the independence or ambition to make a move on his own. Onslaught most emphatically does.)

Starscream procrastinated on this. He cajoled and coaxed and persuaded the nurses to be conservative in their estimates for the Combaticons' convalescence. He was supposed to be informed at least a week in advance of their release. Putting them in the CR chambers to demonstrate his good will to the Council set him up for this fall, but he should've had stopgap measures in place by now. Something. Anything.

But he didn't want to think about it. The ugliness of his reign over Cybertron. He clung to power with such tight fists that it spilled out between his fingers like sand. Brought in a monster like Airachnid, when he should have known better. By the end, he wasn't planning or even thinking - just desperately reacting. Everything was a threat, Bumblebee was further proof of his own mind's deterioration, and if he stopped sabotaging himself for even a moment, he'd stumble over his own frantic momentum, and crash, and burn.

Well. He managed to fall in style, at least.

When it becomes clear that Blast Off intends to wait Starscream's mental monologue out, Starscream musters some semblance of dignity and rises onto his knees, biting back a curse as he rests his hand on his fist and bares his teeth in a smile. "Blast Off! Long time, no see," he says, lightly.

Blast Off stares at him, unimpressed. "Shut up, Starscream."

Which would've been an excellent opening line, if Blast Off followed up on it. Instead, he sits and says nothing. His ventilations sound wet; what idiot removed him from the CR chamber without drying him out?

"Well? Spit it out. I don't have all day," Starscream snaps, when Blast Off sits there like a lump. Typical. If Blast Off had half the brains Onslaught did, he would've gone to the media and Ironhide with everything he knows before Starscream woke up. No initiative, honestly.

Blast Off's visor flares. "You never change, do you?" he says, bitter.

Oh, please. Starscream stands up. "You're alive, aren't you? Don't think I didn't consider rectifying that little problem," he says. "If you're going to waste my time, at least do it when I'm not in the hospital for -"

He prods at the medical terminal until it spits up his records, so he can find out what the slag happened to him. "- Wha- fall damage?!"

That's simply mortifying. Skywarp would never let him live it down, if they were on speaking terms. He can tell Ratchet wrote the report, because it's snidely straightforward about the fact that Starscream fell out of a Worldsweeper in root mode, skipped several kilometers of an otherwise terminal fall due to a pulse wave from Killmaster - what - and crash-landed in a field outside of Caminus, where Vigilem kindly refrained from stepping on him until help arrived.

While Starscream's busy trying to have a mid-life crisis over this, Blast Off rises from his seat. "I remember, Starscream. Everything," he says, voice cracking.

Obviously. "Good for you," Starscream retorts, pinching his brow. He feels - well, not prepared to deal with anything about Blast Off. But he has to. Shooting Blast Off in the head in the middle of a hospital might be a little too on the nose for him to sweep it under the rug.

And he's - ugh, the mere thought gives him a migraine - trying to avoid things like that. Shooting people, he's been informed, always makes his problems worse. And 'something, something, shooting people is bad'; he tuned Bumblebee out at that point. It's a quick, sloppy fix that would eliminate one problem, but give rise to ten more.

(Case in point - Swindle's entire existence.)

He's trying to be better about that. He saw the towering disaster he left in his wake after he abdicated, and realized that all his clever, cunning plots, those tactics that kept him alive and on top of the Decepticons, just dug his grave deeper. His instincts, screaming at him now, aren't useful. They've only ever sabotaged him in the long run.

It's difficult. It tests the very limits of his patience.

It keeps Wheeljack from looking at him like he did after the dispute over Superion.

He stalks around the berth. "Just remember that 'everything' includes you agreeing to our little deal in the first place," he hisses. Blast Off closes his hands into fists; he hit the blindly obvious nerve. "Oh, that would be rich. Getting to see the look on Onslaught's face when he realizes that you sold him out -"

Blast Off's voice is too quiet. Weary. "Maybe we both deserve it. Did you ever consider that?"

Starscream freezes.

The door bursts open with aplomb, and Swindle trots in. He fails to read the room and claps Blast Off on the back, his animated smile disturbingly earnest. "Blast Off! There you are! Hey, Starscream! You're up, too! Crazy coincidence."

Blast Off shifts, discomfited. "Hey, Swindle -"

"Good thing you're up and about," Swindle blathers. "Having a chunk of my valued customers vanish into thin air isn't exactly a fun time! Though on the other hand, I can't wait to really bust into the Camien market." He rubs his hands together with anticipation. "No more space bridge tariffs! I need to talk to you and the boss lady about discounts, bee-tee-dub, whenever you get a chance -"

Starscream's processor finally catches up with Swindle's mouth. "Vanished into thin air?" he repeats, sharply. That, and the Killmaster thing earlier - slag. He takes a step toward Swindle. "What happened?"

Blast Off overreacts spectacularly by shoving Swindle behind him. It would be saccharinely touching, if it weren't stupid. "Don't touch him," he snaps.

Swindle blinks twice, glancing between the two of them with a nervous giggle. "Right, right. You guys've clearly got some issues to work out, so, uh, I'll just head very far away while you do that -" he babbles, hitching both of his thumbs toward the door as he backpedals.

"Swindle." Starscream's cool voice nails Swindle in place. He smiles, one corner of his lip twitching. "What. Happened."

Swindle thinks that the Combaticons are on good terms with Starscream, these days. The floodgates open. "Oh wow, where do I even start? Good news, Brawl's up too -" Starscream twitches "- bad news, he doesn't remember much of the past century. Y'know. Luck of the processor rebuild draw. I don't think Vortex is explaining things too well, he's got him half-convinced you and Speaker Windvoice are getting hitched next week in these skimpy golden veil things." Swindle uses his hands to outline his face and hips demonstratively, and what. "The Hatchet said they'd have their on-call mnemosurgeon look at Brawl -"

"He should have a look at Vortex while he's at it," Starscream says, mostly to the palm of his hand.

Swindle shrugs. "Eh, Vortex has always been like that. Anyway, turns out the mnemosurgeon was one of the people Killmaster zapped to who knows where -"

Finally. "Killmaster did what now?" Starscream knew he should've kept a better eye on that one. Shockwave was too obvious a candidate for a megalomaniacal breakdown, but Killmaster didn't make the Warriors Elite without a stunning résumé as a solo artist.

Swindle does that nervous giggle again. "Haha! Funny story!" he says, voice cracking.

-

He checks the official government census of the missing. Given his rank, it's right there waiting for him in his inbox, once he bothers to check it.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter that Blast Off is still in the room, or that Swindle's talking faster than Blurr in a desperate, high-pitched bid to change the subject.

How could he forget?

This is what happens when you get what you want.

-

Bumblebee can't resist meddling. He can no longer slip through the walls to harass Starscream, but that doesn't stop him from using the door like a normal person. When he comes to hover behind Starscream's shoulder, it makes something in Starscream's processor want to scream, or laugh, or - most damnably - cry. He's a year back and hallucinating a conscience all over again.

If I must be haunted by anyone, why does it have to be you, he thinks but doesn't say. He throttles the mangled impulse with brisk, brittle hands.

"We don't know that they're dead," Bumblebee says. As though it's meant to be a comfort. Reasonable doubt. Like he can logic Starscream away from the edge of the precipice. "Killmaster could have sent them anywhere. We know that he has at least one pocket dimension to imprison enemies."

The fatal flaw in his logic, of course, is that Starscream isn't that lucky. Abdicating was never going to be enough to satisfy; the universe was always going to find something else to take from him. This is just what happens when he gets what he wants.

Killmaster was always so - impersonal. Of all the Warriors Elite, he had no intra-factional feuds, no personal vices, no grudges against life, the universe, or Megatron.

When he kills people, there's nothing left to find.

Wheeljack is gone. Starscream doesn't want some mind-numbing false hope foisted on him like a slapdash patch job. He wants to sit here, alone, and decide whether a coup might make him feel better. Slapping at Windvoice would give him an excuse to lash out, to take all the snarling, savage, piercing - discomfort currently clawing at his insides, and turn it outward. Even if he fails (and he always fails), he'll get to self-destruct in the most extravagant fashion possible.

When he's done, maybe it'll feel less like his chest is an open, jagged wound. Maybe Bumblebee will stop rummaging around and snapping off fresh, bleeding edges with his bumbling hands.

Transmutate dropped by to drop off a datapad a half hour ago, and the mere sight of her sad, wide eyes made Starscream want to vomit again.

It wouldn't work. Even if he succeeded in unseating Windvoice, he can't think past that point. He doesn't crave that power for power's own sake anymore. All he ever got from ruling Cybertron was a perpetual headache and an insurmountable flood of paperwork. He can run through the steps he'd need to take, tugging one bloody thread after another until he's left standing over Windvoice's corpse - and then he stalls out there, all the momentum cut out from under him, on the verge of leaning too far forward and tipping over the edge.

He can't even conceive of trying to rule, after that. Everything just - stops.

He just stares down at his hands, hollow and blank-eyed, and realizes he's punched another hole through his chest.

Something inside him smiles, bitter and nasty, and says that if Windvoice matters so much to him, he might as well get a head start. Kill her and deal with the requisite agony from this latest, hideous burst of sentiment, before someone else can use it to cripple him. Strip away everything and everyone - Bumblebee, Transmutate, maybe Thundercracker and Skywarp for good measure - until nothing's left of him but a sleek, blade-sharp frame. Free of all these nagging vulnerabilities.

And then what?

Starscream stands. He snapped the datapad in two neat pieces a while ago; he leaves the dark halves on the edge of the balcony. One of his wings clips Bumblebee's arm as he stalks past. Not even on purpose - he feels off-center, the extremities of his frame distant and not quite where they should be, and wouldn't it just be typical for this new frame to end up just as ill-fitting as the rest?

"Starscream? Where are you going?" Bumblebee asks, apprehensive. If he came here to keep Starscream pacified and pliant, propping him up like a crutch when Starscream's lost a leg, he needs to work on his delivery.

"To work."

-

By the time he enforces order in his underlying segments of the government, Starscream grasps the new, rearranged political landscape.

A quarter of the government is - missing. Of that number, half were only displaced; Windvoice had them sweep Neo-Cybertron to locate those Killmaster scattered around the planet, and many are already filtering back in, one straggler at a time. Enough for Metroplex and Censere's governing body to function.

Unfortunately, their cadre of scientists was…neatly decapitated. Probably by design. Of the major players on Neo-Cybertron, only Shockwave remains. Eugh. The remaining researchers and lab assistants are basically useless in comparison, and Shockwave is on the verge of converting them all into minions, which Starscream needs to stamp out before Shockwave starts getting ideas. Brainstorm and Nautica, their only non-Killmaster specialists in weird quantum slag, are both among the missing, along with Nightbeat, Chromedome, Whirl, and Drift.

Which, naturally, means that Rodimus insists on sticking his rod into the whole mess, since they're members of his crew of ragamuffin miscreants.

The battle with Scorponok didn't end cleanly. People are shaky as they struggle to handle the effects of Killmaster's pulse wave. Too many people in Censere are outright missing to smooth the whole thing over with PR. Between them, a battered Ironhide and Ultra Magnus have organized a check in system and tallied the missing and the dead. The Camiens came through with only a few missing; Vigilem was already uninhabited when he landed.

Scorponok himself vanished in the pulse wave. Which means that after all that effort, Starscream managed to accomplish nothing. What a waste. Most of his army is locked up, the Worldsweepers in pieces, but Scorponok is a one-mech problem. No sign of his little organic abomination, either.

Killmaster didn't have the decency to vanish Optimus or Onyx Prime and improve Starscream's overall quality of life. But Elita-1 is missing.

Killmaster himself, of course, nowhere to be found.

And Airachnid, still at large. In the uproar of the mass disappearances, Blurr managed to get distracted with cross-continent search efforts, and Slug took off for the hospital before word came that Grimlock vanished. Of the team Starscream scrounged up to guard Metroplex's central processor before everything went to slag, only the two Tankors were capable of following simple instructions and staying on guard.

The planet hasn't capsized in Starscream's absence, so he'll just have to trust - his dentae aching as he grits them - that Windvoice can keep it together long enough for Starscream to fix everything. Or at least stop it all from getting catastrophically worse. There are simply aspects of ruling Neo-Cybertron that she doesn't think to consider: things like curbing Shockwave's subtle probes, or rehoming the Decepticons who trickled back in from Caminus in disgust.

His processor runs on a combination of grim determination and Transmutate's finest stimulants - she protested the second vial, but caved, doctoring his carefully measured cube of energon with something sparkly and fruity and another something that kicked like Nightmare Fuel, until the resulting drink was a crackling magenta sludge that she refused to hand to him without a pair of beaker tongs and rubber gloves. The underlying fatigue burns in the back of his head, a muted roar that eats up the processing space he needs to stay on top of things, but the rest of his mind soldiers through the noise at approximately a million kilometers an hour.

"I just feel like I'm your drug dealer more than I am your assistant, sometimes," Transmutate says, wistfully.

He rolls his eyes. "You're both." More to the point, she doesn't mind the occasional crimes, and she doesn't skeeve people out like Rattrap did, which truly makes her a gem among mecha.

This seems to cheer her immensely.

She receives strict instructions to bring him another cube at regular intervals. Loathe as he is to see what his recharge feedback looks like, Starscream arranges for Swindle to deliver soporific plugins to his habsuite by tonight. Sopor might not be as effective as having a medic forcibly knock him out, but it'll let him simulate a regular recharge schedule.

With a heavy, dragging vent, Starscream barges into the ops center where Ironhide and Ultra Magnus have set up camp. He ignores Ultra Magnus's startled frown, stalks over to the table, and dumps a heaping armful of datapads in front of Ironhide, disrupting the hologram that floats between them. "We still have a murderous mnemosurgeon in town, in case you'd forgotten," he says, sourly, and begins the tedious process of bullying Ironhide until he agrees to set up anti-shadowplay security measures throughout the cities. Decepticon protocols, obviously. Autobot protocols are complete garbage; they pretended their own unit of repurposed mnemosurgeons was a conspiracy theory right up until Overlord massacred the lot.

(As Overlord does.)

-

Focus. The stimulants sometimes send his thoughts flying down a tangent on a wild tear. He can't lose track of things.

-

He makes the mistake of trying to locate Blurr at the bar.

The minibot Blurr left in charge behind the counter waves, and yells, "Hey, you didn't get human-raptured! That's one betting pool down!"

Starscream walks right back out the way he came.

-

Shockwave has a minion serving him iced engex by the time Starscream storms into the main lab.

Wheeljack's lab. (Don't think the name.)

Not that that matters, anymore. No one else in the scientific community has the stone-cold ball-bearings to question Shockwave's sheer force of will, so Starscream will just have to outsource it. Starscream jabs a finger at the two of them. "No."

Shockwave blandly accepts the iced engex before the terrified minion can bolt. He's pink and gold today. "Now, now," he says, chidingly. The faint ripple of amusement in his tone is somehow more unsettling now than when he didn't emote at all. The slot in his throat opens and he starts sipping casually through a proboscis. "Temper, temper."

He knows.

Starscream jabs the finger at him more specifically this time. "Let me make something very clear, Shockwave. You are not in charge here."

Shockwave studies him like a specimen, his single optic perfectly mild. The amusement never leaves his EM field. "Speaker Windvoice has tasked me with maintaining the quantum stabilizers, as well as identifying Killmaster's multiple trajectories. Someone must. It seems intellectually stimulating enough to pursue." Then he cocks his head to the side, the sensors on either side of his helm tilted back. "Unless you have…something else in mind."

Really? Implying that Starscream is here to invite him to join a coup? Please, the coup thing is so thirty minutes ago.

"No," Starscream says, with a derisive curl of his lip. "I just brought your new supervisor, and thought I would introduce you two properly."

Shockwave goes perfectly still. "Supervisor," he repeats, dubiously.

"Unbelievable," the mech behind Starscream mutters. Ratchet steps forward, massaging his temples as he squints around the lab. "You dragged me all the way out here for this? You should still be in a medical berth!"

Starscream smiles. His expression must look vaguely manic. "Of course, Shockwave will be happy to come work in the medical labs," he says, through his teeth. "No need for him to work so far away from the epicenter of the pulse wave. That would just be silly." Then he dips a tiny, mocking bow. "But of course, you're in charge here. Not me. If you want to leave him out here, alone, unsupervised, that's entirely your prerogative."

Then he raises both brows at Ratchet, and waits. Pointedly.

For a moment, Ratchet stares at Starscream. Then he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Let's try this again," he mutters, before walking over and stabbing his finger against Shockwave's chest for emphasis. "You. Hospital. Now."

Shockwave very carefully sets his drink aside.

-

There's too much to do. Even before he starts juggling, Starscream feels like he can't keep up. Whenever he deals with one problem, he immediately lurches to the next. Every minute seems to take a small eternity to pass, and at the end of it, he knows that there won't be a reprieve. There won't be anyone waiting at the end of it. It just stretches interminably on.

He tries not to think Wheeljack's name too often.

-

Eventually, word must reach Windvoice that he's up and about; he's been too busy tying up loose ends and cajoling people into motion to do it himself. Vortex showed up midway through the day, and Starscream barely noticed.

At this point, it's tempting to just - let Blast Off happen. Whatever that may mean, in the end.

But Windvoice pings him with an urgent meeting invite, and since no one shows up to take him into custody, Starscream assumes that Blast Off is still procrastinating. He makes his way to Windvoice's office, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, of Vortex on his heels and Transmutate pattering along at his side, taking two quick steps for each of his own. Starscream flicks the security panel on the door, exhausted, and it opens promptly. While Vortex and Transmutate remain in the hallway, he walks inside -

- straight into what appears to be a meeting between Windvoice, Arcee, Chromia, and Liege Maximo.

Starscream stares at them.

They stare back.

Windvoice raises a hand. Starscream silently steps back into the hallway and shuts the door again. He stares at it for a long moment, while Vortex and Transmutate exchange worried looks.

If he wasn't ready for Blast Off, he's not ready to handle this.

He has to be. No one is waiting to put him back together at the end, anymore.

So he opens the door again, rubs his temples, and summons the last sad, pathetic scraps of his scheming mind.

"Trading me in for an older model? How tacky," he says.

---

[Smile! Today is a good day! Tomorrow will be even better.]

- <<Mood prompt issued by the Functionist Council>>

---

Getting upset always makes Sari feel…icky. She hasn't cried in ages - like, months, at least - before today.

This, she decides, as she creeps after Dominus Ambus, is way more fun. It didn't feel like a real Adventure at first, 'cause she was worried about Papa and on the run from the coppers, but she's getting the hang of it now! Some of the names and context whoosh right over her head, but she gets the gist. This is Cybertron, there are a bunch of dumb Functionist fascists tyrannizing everyone, and now they're on a secret mission to find out what the big shiny guy named Prima wants from the Council.

Easy! Sari thought she'd have to sneak along, on account of her being an outsider, but she's small enough compared to basically everybody that Dominus just gave her a very serious look, rested his hands on her shoulders as he inspected her face, and nodded. At which point Sari hastily banged her maskplate back into place. Still a little off center if you look at it too close, but good enough for an adventure!

Someone named Megaton or something went missing just before Sari arrived, anyway. They're doing a headcount of the Underside, and in the hubbub, no one objects about a newcomer heading right back out. Rewind tried to argue with Dominus, but she was gonna tag along one way or another. She needs to find a way to contact Scorponok, and it would be just plain rude to use the Underside's comms when they're in hiding. Papa was always very clear - never blow another Decepticon's cover when there's a bigger bad guy around, unless the Decepticons are mean or threatening her, in which case they can suck it. The Underside don't call themselves Decepticons, but they've got the right insignia (in orange-red) and they're fighting Functionists, who are the OG bad guys, and Sari is pretty sure that makes them friends.

And Dominus Ambus is very nice. He put on an extra body so he's not a turbofox anymore, but still - nice. She'll help them bust in, find a comms terminal, and signal the Prototype from there. These guys know all the sneaky ways to bypass security here.

Now they're crawling through the maintenance shafts beneath the Primal Basilica, where Prima's ship landed, instead of the defunct spaceport. Recalls, Dominus informs her. No more astro class, no more intergalactic trade, no nothing. Just an ever-dwindling population, and the ever-watching Council. The moon got stolen recently by a bunch of dashing rogues claiming to be from another universe, and Sari is in awe. Now that's an adventure! But it means the theoconomists cracked down on the last of the space flight mecha, since there isn't a moon to justify it anymore, and word from the Underside's last agent in the Cog is that fliers might be next on the chopping block.

The Cog waits in the sky, monitoring everyone below. Right now it hovers directly over the Basilica, a gigantic transformation cog in a dark cloud of sky spies. Security mechs have the place locked down, with giant spotlight-headed mechs sweeping the streets. There's a flathead on every corner, their screens blaring bright red warnings that they shoot on sight instead of stock phrases.

But Sari, Dominus, Rewind, and Resonance are small enough to crawl through the gaps.

"'You will miss the sun, and you will never see the sky again,'" Resonance murmurs, as they boost themselves up a ladder, "'but you could sing.' And yet - we sing anyway."

Sari has to be careful; her voice is different, echoes more behind her mask than the others'. "That's pretty," she says, spinning her wing-fans a little to reach the bottom of the latter. "How long have you guys been underground?"

"Oh? A year now, I think." Resonance cocks their head to the side, listening to the heavy thunder of feet rumbling overhead. "But it is not a poem about being underground. We may want to switch to hand."

Dominus grunts in agreement. He crouches at the front of the line, his compact form a completely different color from the irreducible form inside. "Agreed. After this point, we're under the basilica's floor - there will not be enough traffic to cover our movements." He lets one hand drop and catches Rewind's without looking. Sari blinks, then grabs the nearest hand, which is Resonance's.

"Do you know chirolinguistics?" they ask.

Sari shakes her head, then mimes zipping her lips shut. Which is an odd metaphor, since she hasn't met anyone who can zip their lips, unless they've been hiding it behind a maskplate. Sometimes Papa's language packets don't make a lot of sense, though. Resonance smiles, bemused. Then they all creep further into the dark under the Primal Basilica.

Like most of the underside of Cybertron, this place is dusty and stained with rust. In some places the walls and floor have rusted through, revealing holes that have no bottom. If this is supposed to be for maintenance, Sari doesn't think anyone has been maintaining it in a while. A lot of Cybertron's underside seems to be like that. Up top, the city is polished and gold and heavily monitored - but too many places are too quiet, under the shininess.

[Drop here,] Resonance traces into her palm, painstakingly drawing out the glyphs for Sari's benefit. Their hand is much bigger than hers - not as big as Papa's, and with fingers, but still - and there's not much space for them to work with. It tickles. Sari scrunches up her nose behind her mask as they drop down and pop open a hatch that leads to a gross-smelling pipe. The curved floor is tacky with dried up gunk; Sari's foot skids out from under her when she steps wrong in on a clump of something squishy instead. She kinda wishes she could stop and poke at it for the sake of Scientific Inquiry, but they don't stop until they reach a thin, ornate grate that looks out onto the room above. Too skinny for even Sari to squeeze through, it looks like this used to be a drain for a decorative liquid feature. The four of them lean in tight so everyone can peer through; the floor creaks slightly under Sari's knees. Rewind raises a hand to steady the camera on the side of his helm, optics dimmed.

[We're here only to observe,] Dominus warns, the message passed down the line from hand to hand.

But whatever used to be in the center of the room got kiiinda crushed by the shimmery spaceship. It takes up half the room, a sleek, golden shell with a rainbow finish, glossy white windows, and small, humming engines. Sari can just barely glimpse the dull maroon sky through open ceiling.

She recognizes the golden gear engraved into the bow of the ship.

Something worse, Scorponok said. An enemy even more awful than the Autobots. Anyone who shows up under that symbol is bad news.

The sharp, stifled intake beside her doesn't come until a group of twelve mecha approach the ship, though. Resonance clamps down on Sari's hand reflexively, tracing out another message. [All of the Council,] they sign, exchanging a grim look with Dominus Ambus. [One-of-Twelve never leaves the Cog.] Dominus reaches around Rewind to sign something on Resonance's free palm, but Sari can't exactly interpret it from way over here. She shifts her weight and bites her lip, peeking out at the Functionist Council that rules Cybertron with an iron fist.

They're not very intimidating as they approach, arranged in a perfect semi-circle and flanked by security drones. Every Councilor has an almost identical frame type, stripped down, with only a single hooded optic. A few stand out - a Councilor connected to a cluster of mechs by cords linked to their necks, all their optics turning in unison; one that keeps checking the watch on his wrist, almost absently; one whose hands are clenched into fists, accompanied by a mech that reminds Sari of something important. Someone Papa warned her about, maybe? Sari opens her mouth to ask the others what his name is, then snaps it shut. She can figure it out - it's on the tip of her tongue -

But before the name comes to her, the golden ship opens with a hiss. A shimmery panel slides out of the way and a ramp extends soundlessly down to the Basilica floor.

Two figures emerge from the ship. The first is the guy from the broadcast earlier today - Prima. His cape is way fancier than the Councilors': in person, the rainbow sheen on gold looks like a holographic effect, quietly twinkling with every step. A five-pronged crown sweeps up from his helm, and his big fancy sword rests against his back. He almost seems to glow, filing the dingy, faded Basilica with a golden light.

His smile looks fake. Sari sticks her tongue out, on principle.

The other mech looks less shiny, but more real. He quietly floats down the ramp - his feet barely touch the ground, his stilt-like limbs taking light, measured steps - with multiple sets of transparent, thin wings fanning out behind him. Most of his armor is yellow and green, with three sets of optics and an extra set of thin arms clasped neatly behind his back. He keeps a set distance behind Prima, his rigid intake fixed in a permanent, open gasp.

Prima spreads his arms wide as he descends the ramp. His optics narrow to match the warm smile on his lips, but they burn so harshly that it kinda ruins the effect. Sari squints against the brightness, trying to focus on his face, but it leaves smears in her vision. "Greetings," he says, warm and melodious.

The Council is having none of that. The one at the nearest end of the line - the first of the twelve - sounds studiously neutral. "You are the one who claims to be Prima."

Not a moment's hesitation. "I am." Prima comes to a stop before the semi-circle of Councilors, unfazed by their emotionless not-faces.

"Claims," the tenth, deep purple Councilor corrects with a hiss. His optic is a burning red. The first Councilor glances at him sharply.

[Dissent in the ranks?] Resonance says on Sari's hand. [The Evaluator was always a tetchy slagger.]

The eleventh Councilor raises a quieting, pale blue hand. "And this is?" they say, so neutrally that the interrogative almost skips right past Sari's ear.

Prima's companion draws his dark green arms out to either side, elbows pointed out. "Quintus Prime," he says, in a clicking whisper. "Enchanted."

The fifth Councilor clucks its vocalizer disdainfully and makes a note on its datapad. "Superfluous," it mutters.

"Enumerator. Remember yourself," the first Councilor says, sharply.

The black and pale blue Councilor folds their hands over one another. "Your claim must be evaluated and authenticated by Three and Ten. If you are truly Prima himself, then we will know," they say, calmly smoothing over the tension between the other Council members.

It's not enough to keep the peace. The ninth Councilor - the one who walked in with fists clenched, preemptively shaking with rage - snaps and jabs a needle-tipped finger at One-of-Twelve. "This is blasphemy."

Now the first Councilor just sounds strained. "Inquisitor -"

The Inquisitor keeps talking at the same time. "I will not allow -"

"- overstepping your bounds -"

"- my bounds -!"

The sixth Councilor snaps his watch shut with an echoing clack.

With a shuddering vent, One-of-Twelve restrains himself. Nine-of-Twelve is still trembling. The anger crackling in the atmosphere leaves a bitter, nasty taste in the back of Sari's throat.

Prima claps his hands together, calling their attention again. "Peace, councilors," he says. He probably wants to sound soothing; he just sounds smarmy. Superior. All holier-than-thou, and stuff. "I am surprised. Do you not have faith in me? Or has your vision been so corrupted that you cannot see the truth when it stands before you?"

"Who are you," the Inquisitor hisses, "that you claim to know the vision of Cybertron better than we?"

Prima tilts his head to the side, with a curious expression. "Prima, First Knight of Cybertron, first among Primes," he says, gesturing to his everything. "Your Grand Architect."

An odd silence as the Councilors stare around at each other.

Apparently, they don't agree.

Sari settles back on her heels and glances at the side of Resonance's face, but there's not a lot she can take away from that. Resonance looks fascinated, but that might be 'cause Sari didn't mention that Prima is just as much a bad guy as any of the Councilors. Whoops. Dominus's shadowed face looks pensive as he strokes his awesome mustache.

The eleventh Councilor clears their vocalizer. "There are those who have expressed - doubts. The timing of your arrival is…convenient. They question the authenticity of your claim. A simple matter to resolve, if you truly are who you say you are."

And Prima smiles.

Something's wrong with it.

Sari bites on her lip so hard she tastes energon.

"Indeed," he says, serenely, condescending. "A simple matter."

Then Prima snaps his fingers, and all twelve of the Councilors drop, screaming.

Belatedly, Sari sees it - thin, gossamer tendrils that crisscross through the air, rippling and warping before stabbing into the Councilors' optics. They were invisible before; now that they're active, they crackle with an eerie green light, worming their way deeper into the Councilors' heads. The extra mechs connected to the Evaluator collapsed in a heap, twitching like they're being shocked.

Quintus Prime steps forward, as unconcerned by the screams as Prima, and Sari realizes with a gulp that all of the tendrils wriggle out from the center of his transformed chest.

Inside the hole, there's nothing but hideous green viscera, tentacles layered over in shining coils, and metal, blade-sharp rib struts holding them in. Quintus hums as the Functionist Council crumples. The security mechs that accompanied the Council into the Basilica freeze in horror; one drops back, fumbling with the cap on his throat before purging his tanks.

Sari tugs on Resonance's hand and feels very faint. That's not like her insides. That's not even like Papa's insides. She really likes examining stuff under a microscope, but she wants to have not seen this stuff at all. "I think we need to go," she whispers, urgently.

Resonance snaps out of their horrified stare. [Not out loud -] they start to spell out, frantically glancing between Sari and the sight before them. Rewind shakes on the other side of them, his fingers dug into the edge of the grate.

But Sari has an awful feeling she knows what the enemy is doing. The Councilors' optics are all cracked, shattered messes, leaking energon and optical fluid as Quintus Prime digs around in their processors.

Prima shakes his head with a haughty sigh. "Curious. They show such promise. Ambition almost worthy of their betters," he muses.

Quintus Prime shrugs and folds his second set of arms, the joints bending the wrong way. "Those who have tasted power are ever reluctant to relinquish it," he says, like he's quoting someone.

Prima smiles and smiles.

Then, when Quintus Prime retracts the tendrils, he bends down and raises One-of-Twelve up with a finger pressed under the Councilor's chin. The Convener jerks, twitching, like something caught on a hook, and Sari wants to vom everywhere, too.

That's exactly how Scorponok moved when the enemy made him hurt. A leash in his mind.

"You were all a mistake. Time to rectify it," Prima murmurs, with that noble, condescending smile. Without breaking eye contact with the Convener, he gestures with a finger and the rest of the Council rises in jerky unison. "Now, Council. Let us try this again. Who am I?"

"Prima," every single one of them says, in chorus. The Inquisitor spits it, in fury and agony.

Prima claps once. "I commend you on your success. Welcome to enlightenment." Then he sweeps past the Council and their useless guards, his cloak flaring behind him. His steps echo through the Basilica. "The time has come for one last recall. Bring me everyone."

"Everyone?" the second Councilor repeats, sounding faint.

Quintus Prime finishes coiling his tendrils. His chest transforms closed, the spark panel at the center sealed with a gleaming forcefield as he falls back in his place at Prima's shoulder.

"Everyone," Prima confirms. "Waste not, want not. My oldest maxim." He smiles back at the Council as he nears a spiral stairwell that leads higher in the Basilica. "You should enjoy this, Inquisitor. This is the final purge."

Shuddering, the Inquisitor stops shaking his head and raises his helm. With a sharp crackle, the sputtering remains of his optic shift from red to gold. "Yes, Lord Prima," he says, with dawning, rapt awe.

Dominus shoves back from the grate. "We really need to go," he agrees, in a bare whisper. If his long audials weren't covered, Sari thinks they'd be pressed flat against his helm.

About time. Sari thinks they should've been out of here yesterday; she needs to find a comms terminal fast.

Because she thinks that Cybertron is about to become a nightmare.

"Yeah, time to go," she says, and moves to get her feet under her.

The floor of the pipe creaks under her again - and gives out the second she shifts her weight. Sari's foot drops neatly through the hole, and for a second she doesn't even register the too-sharp pain of the torn, rusted edges of the pipe slicing up through the armor of her leg, into the protoform underneath.

The sound of the metal shrieking, unfortunately, echoes through the pipe.

As one, every single Councilor's broken optic fixes on them.

---

jina jema hungara gizani

- <<observations>>

---

He keeps a count in his head. The old numbers and the new.

89/101. 16/205. Seven. One.

The old referendum. The real referendum - the sixteen people who came with him to the Necroworld, versus literally everyone else on board who chose to follow Getaway instead.

Drift, Rung, Nightbeat, Brainstorm, Nautica, Chromedome, Whirl. All missing.

And Skids.

He wants to be gone. His plate crawls. He can't just sit around and wait when seven of his remaining thirteen friends are missing. Not to mention his best friend. He's not good for anything here - everyone's running around with their heads chopped off. Ultra Magnus is burying himself in paperwork.

He has an almost-functional space ship, and Magnus, Megatron, and Drift each accounted for like. Half of his self-control. He needed that extra half, to be honest.

But there's the part of him that wants to recklessly tear off across the galaxy -

- and then there's the embarrassing part, that still craves something he'd given up on.

Which is how he winds up cruising through the memorial fields to rendezvous with a myth.

Not even, like, a well-known myth. Middling, at best. The Camiens are all over it these days, for whatever reason. In Nyon, the most you ever heard people swearing to was Primus, because it was convenient. Rodimus picked up some more obscure slag here and there from Drift and Cyclonus, though that tended to go in one audial and out the other.

He tried to take the stuff he learned about the Matrix to spark. Clutched the scraps close, trying to better understand that sense of familiarity he felt when it chose him. That sense of wonder. He'd thought that it meant something - that he was more than Nyon. It's something he's been chasing for what feels like his whole life.

He's not blind and stupid enough (anymore) not to realize that he's fumbling for a purpose. For approval. Again. He failed so miserably that first he got Megatron foisted off on him, then the crew mutinied, and finally Megatron himself jumped ship the first chance he got. He couldn't even cut it as a captain; pretending he was worthy of the Matrix of Leadership was him deluding himself.

Optimus doesn't care. He's always had more important things to worry about than Rodimus and his latest crisis.

The Matrix is super destroyed, so that's right out.

And then there's the Muse of Life.

Yeah, he's kind of desperate.

Too many of the memorial plinth holograms flicker, these days - you can't tell if someone's alive or dead just by looking at them anymore. Anyone hit by Killmaster's wave, including those who just got displaced a couple of meters to the left, is now a floating question mark in a sea of grey. The statues get more crowded as he heads toward Censere's base, until they form a wall of static.

He doesn't know who got rid of the bodies. Most of the spilled energon soaked into the soil, or something, but the scorch marks stuck around. The remaining flowers this close to the battlefield rustle in the breeze as he coasts to a stop, ending in ragged forks. There's a lot of unreadable piles of rubble, and huge divots torn out of the ground where entire fields of flowers got uprooted, blown up, and/or trampled. Rodimus spies the uneven spiral of ash and scorched earth where he lit himself up, and the far more unnerving, perfectly smooth circle of black where Megatron used antimatter to tear the DJD apart. The forcefield kept the explosion contained, but the ground where he stood for that last crescendo looks twisted, frozen in a roil of jagged claws and coils of inert stone.

Someone's planted five flowers around the circumference of the blackened ground. It's…weird, actually. Rodimus frowns and throttles the petty urge to step on them as he walks around it.

Okay, he steps on them a little. His sole squishes in the loose dirt.

"'Meet me with the dead,' she said," he mutters, folding his arms tightly as he ignores Skids' broken plinth. "'I'm an indestructible lunatic who falls out of the sky and lands on people for fun,' she said."

Then he rounds the corner of one of the arches, and nearly trips over the Necrobot mid-mutter.

This is kind of a huge deal, since the Necrobot is dead. Done and dusted. Rodimus reels back, startled. "What the fr-"

The likeness is uncanny. A life-size, painted metal statue of Censere sits on a grey stone bench, its long red and silver legs sticking out into the old pathway. The face has been carved with a gentle smile. The overall color scheme's right, but whoever made this painted flowers and vines all over the simple facsimile of the Necrobot's plating and stuck a cluster of bright flowers into the spark panel in its chest. Like the antimatter circle, they replanted a bunch of the grey spark flowers around the bench, along with other native plants in a burst of color. They're starting to twine around the statue's legs, so this isn't new.

"…Well, that's not morbid," Rodimus says, at last. He steps around the statue's legs. Primus, he knew there were a bunch of creepy weirdos wandering around down here, these days, but that's on a whole new level.

"Ten?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Rodimus nearly has a spark attack. He jerks to a stop and grabs his chest, swearing under his breath as an enormous golden figure rises from its crouch behind a bush. It's Swerve's Legislator, covered in scuffed up, painted flowers and wielding a giant garden trowel. It wears a wide-brimmed green hat woven out of grass to shade its eyeless, craggy face.

He'd…honestly forgotten it was still around. He doesn't think he's seen it in months.

And apparently it took up gardening as a hobby.

"Ten ten ten," Ten says, briskly lumbering around the bush to look at Rodimus. One broad hand curls against its mouth. It almost looks nervous as it glances between him and the neat hedges and gardens that now fill the space between the memorials and the Necrobot's base.

"Welcome back, Rodimus," Vivere says, her voice rising over the bushes. With one last weird look for Ten, Rodimus cuts through the garden and finds the Muse of Life perched by a small table that looks like someone beat it together out of wrought iron. Three energon cubes sit on the table, one twice the size of the others; Vivere absently plucks a grey petal from what looks awfully like a spark flower and dunks it in the cube before her. The petal sizzles and pops as it dissolves into the fuel.

"Please tell me you're not steeping people," Rodimus begs.

"Nonsense," the Muse of Life says, flipping her hand at him. "All of the flowers are empty now. And these were cultivated indoors. They weren't imprinted at the time."

Rodimus opens his mouth to ask, and then decides that, for the sake of his own sanity, he's better off not knowing. When he looks back at Ten, Vivere sweeps to her feet, the panels of her skirt flaring as she strides toward the atrium.

Rodimus ignores the energon left on the table and follows.

Like the old battlefield, the atrium of Censere's place was swept clean. Most of the neutrals, Autobots, and Decepticons that they rescued from Censere's creepy basement left the planet or filtered into Metroplex ages ago. The slabs where Dominus Ambus and Ravage died are covered in wide metal boxes full of dark dirt and transplanted flowers, with a tiny metal turbofox statue on one, and a metal replica of a cat on the other.

Seriously, who's been building this stuff? Rodimus is already keyed up. If he sees so much as a hint of a Skids shaped-object, he's going to lose his cool.

While he's distracted by the weird tribute, Vivere glides across the room. He catches up to her slipping into the room full of Censere's census equipment, her steps just a little too smooth. "Why are we here?" he asks, kicking a hunk of twisted scrap metal out of the way. Being back here makes his tanks sour.

Too many bad memories. Too many piercing, aching memories that turned sour after the fact. He wants to be able to hold that moment close - thanks for travelling with me - and not have the chance to scowl around the faded atrium and feel the bitter aftermath taint it.

Basically, fuck Megatron. Story of everyone's slagging life.

"It seemed like the place to be," Vivere says, absently. She skims golden fingers over the terminal of the census machine with a crooked smile. "The world was heavy here."

Primus. He had to trade Optimus in for a cryptic mentor figure who speaks only in riddles. Definitely an improvement.

(The appeal of that wore off within the first hour. Now, Rodimus is mostly just aware of how very, very much he is in over his head.)

"Yes, definitely a place to be," Vivere affirms, after a moment. She stares at the floor with a faint frown for a moment before beaming at him. "You have a question."

He has many questions. But he basically spilled his entire sob story to this mech the other day, and he's been trying to act like he has his slag together and isn't a walking disaster ever since. So, uh, better start at the top, and work his way down.

"You said," Rodimus says, shifting his weight awkwardly, "that I could be the Matrix." And now, the big one - "Is that going to involve, y'know, disembodiment?"

She blinks.

Slag. He tried to use the long, Nautica-level vocabulary word and everything. Rodimus tries not to look like he's folding his arms in an x over his spark chamber as he grimaces. "Like, am I going to sacrifice my banging bod and wind up a spark with fancy handles getting carted around all the time? This is a serious concern that I have!"

"Oh, that." Vivere purses her lips and presses a finger to them long enough to make Rodimus very concerned. "No, no. Kore was still very much embodied when I last saw them. I'm absolutely positive."

"That was not nearly as reassuring as I wanted it to be," Rodimus says, flatly.

Vivere shrugs. "The Creation Matrix was always intended to be a link, between the core and the surface. Someone who could walk the spark fields and nurture those forged there, with a quorum of other sparks within to consult and guide them. Vector Sigma's crust-level sensors were simply too distant and scattered for us to know all that went on above, and we did not want to leave you all alone."

That's -

Well. That's new. So much for the Matrix of Leadership schtick. Vivere's acted dismissive about the concept of a Matrix bearer before - slag, the story of how she slapped down Optimus spread like wildfire - but it's another thing entirely to have it laid bare like that.

The Matrix, not some magic crystal prison of Solomus, or a part of the Star Saber, or some sacred relic of the Knights of Cybertron, intended to mark a true leader.

It feels like ripping off a patch. It stings, but after a few seconds of processing, Rodimus feels - weird. Not a bad weird.

A Creation Matrix, huh.

Rodimus sits down hard in one of Censere's high-backed rolley chairs. He scrapes the sole of his foot against the floor. "Why not?"

"It was still new, to all of us." Vivere leans her hip on the edge of a desk, half-lit by sunlight falling through a hole in the roof. "Being free. Living without preprogrammed orders. Building a civilization, when we were only ever meant to make armies. You do not know how significant a change it was, to consider ourselves separate, autonomous entities. We of the core were too far away, and the oldest Titans needed to rest, though they took citymodes to do so." She watches Rodimus's foot for a moment as he swings it like a pendulum. "No. Kore volunteered. Because they had the capacity, and the will." Then, abruptly, she changes the subject. "Do you hear something under the floor?"

Rodimus freezes mid-swing. He glances around without moving his head, unnerved. "Uh, no," he says, eyeing the floor warily. Please don't let there be something in the basement. Again. There shouldn't even be a basement space underneath this section of the building - it's all back under the atrium. As far as Rodimus is aware, the only thing under their feet right now is dirt.

"Mm." Vivere is still staring at the floor like it fascinates her.

Rodimus rubs the back of his neck. "Anyway. Uh. Why me? It's not like I'm the only person on the planet who's shown sign of Matrix affinity. Why not pick someone like Thunderclash? He'd be perfect for it." It burns just to say it.

The Muse stands up, brow furrowed. "I have not met this Thunderclash. But I'm not interested in perfection," she says, flipping her hand dismissively. "I am interested in potential. And you have a trait that reminds me of myself. Now, where is that…"

She trails off, staring absently down at the floor as she starts to walk back in forth in a grid search pattern.

Rodimus plants his hand on his face. "Where did I go wrong in life?" he asks the universe at large. Sighing - he's not sure Vivere's gonna be any less cryptic today than she was yesterday - he stands up and goes to leave.

Vivere snaps a finger out at him. "Stop."

Rodimus stops. He only really has one foot on the ground at the moment, so he wobbles. "Come again?" he says, weakly.

A smile transforms Vivere's face into something practically incandescent. "Oh, yes. I think you'll do quite nicely," she says, striding over and motioning for him to hop aside with her hand. Rodimus obliges, feeling ridiculous.

In the floor under his feet, the metal buckles upward. He didn't even notice it, but it was not like that when he sat down. Vivere peels the floor back - peels back layers of wires and power cords - another layer of metal -

A pale blue spark pulses quietly in the scorched, blackened earth.

"Hello there," Vivere says, tapping it with a finger. A filament of charge crackles between her hand and the spark's corona.

Rodimus hunkers down in a crouch. "It's a spark. What, are they just going to pop up out of the floor now?" he says, fascinated.

Vivere uses about as much ceremony harvesting a spark as Brainstorm - which is to say somewhere out there Perceptor is probably having a spark attack, and Cyclonus is mortally offended on principle. If there's an equation for how much sentio metallico to harvest, Rodimus doesn't think it matters; there's nothing here but the spark and organic soil. "Impossible. The template mold is not designed to be permeable for sparks, and we should be several hundreds of thousands of years off from viability. That's the only reason I thought it was safe to leave the core," Vivere says, scooping the spark out like iced energon from a carton to cup in her hands. She holds it up to her optic for inspection, pleased. "Unless - oh, clever mech! You learn from example."

And now she's…talking to the spark. Apparently. Rodimus holds up a hand. "I've lost the plot here."

The Muse's smile is full of wonder. "He followed me up. But I believe he recognizes you," she says. Then she holds it out to him. "Hold this."

That sounds like a terrible idea. Rodimus holds up his other hand to make a T for time out.

Vivere just keeps holding it out to him expectantly.

He takes the spark. Immediately his right hand decides to start shaking, which is fun. Awesome. He is so cut out for this, and not at all in over his head.

Rodimus grimaces, and tries not to think about the fact that he's holding a very fragile, disembodied person. Slag, that happens a lot, now that he thinks about it. "Look, I didn't follow Perceptor's whole spiel about sancrosancting sparks and harvesting them at all when he lectured Brainstorm about it, and it's been like. Four or five years since then. Can you give me a hint on what am I supposed to do with this?"

(He's like 80% sure it was Perceptor who said that. Probably.)

"Hold onto him," Vivere says. She seems distracted by the hole in the floor. "I'm going to need both hands for this."

…Wow, does he have a bad feeling about this. Rodimus starts to shuffle away from the Muse, still crouched low. His hands are starting to tingle, which is probably a bad sign. "I think I hear Ultra Magnus calling me," he says, cupping one hand beside his audial. "I really have to g- oooOOOOH-!"

With a grin that reminds him way too much of certain faceless people like Whirl or Brainstorm, Vivere gestures, and the earth parts under their feet.

The crust under the Necrobot's place is thin. Nightbeat and Rung climbed down to the metal layers easily.

Except now there's several bajillion tons of molten metal down there.

Vivere grabs Rodimus by the collar, and dives right on in.

Chapter Text

---

In fact, I think it would be for the best if I commandeered the narrative completely for a while. I trust you won't mind.

- Killmaster of the High-ceilinged Manifold, source unknown

---

Scorponok wakes up with the taste of fried synapse circuits burning in the back of his throat.

Rarely a good sign. He's experienced the sensation twice before. Frowning, he sits upright to take stock of his status. Interestingly, he's intact - aside from the processor damage. Nothing he hasn't repaired before. The memory of pain is there, if he wanted to peruse it. Irrelevant, now; he has more pressing matters than wallowing.

Neo-Cybertron, the dirtball that a bunch of NAILs and Autobots and fools have chosen to squat on and scavenge. An armed party infiltrating the flagship too easily.

Emissary Bellica, waiting in her palanquin on the bridge, winding the leashes ever tighter as Starscream approached them. Yanking hard when Scorponok saw his daughter on the security feed.

Scorponok's jaw tightens. A set-up. If the Grand Architect truly intended for Scorponok and his mechs to take Neo-Cybertron, he would've directed the rest of the Worldsweeper fleet to rendezvous with them. No. He sent the Emissary alone for a reason. The moment Scorponok tried to slip her iron-clad control, she dropped everyone on the bridge.

An excuse to get Bellica close, in a ship obviously of Decepticon make, rather than one of the Quintessons' distinctive vessels or the immense naval behemoths of the Galactic Council's front. The Quintessons founded and funded the Galactic Council after the Shattering of the Stentarians - a protection racket millions of years in the making. But the Council's majority shareholders aren't public knowledge; most of those idiot organics actually think that the Council and its police force are operated for the people, by the people, while the Quintessons pit them against each other for profit.

So. What did they gain by moving the pieces that they did? And how much shanix is Scorponok willing to bet that his crew were written off as expendable?

Well. They are expendable. He's more preoccupied with losing the specialists like Flame who were heavily involved in both the Infinite and Firstborn projects. He can recreate their work from memory, naturally, but Flame was a decent investment, and would have been useful as head of a secure facility to continue the Firstborn project away from Quintesson eyes.

No matter. The one thing Scorponok has always had is time. Now, there's just the small matter of finding out what they've done with Sari. His daughter is the opposite of expendable.

The holding cell is empty apart from Scorponok himself, unfortunately. Bare, metal - not near the Grand Architect's inner sanctum, then. The closer one goes to the center of Quintessa, the more…overgrown the halls become. Scorponok rises.

And twitches.

Outside the cell, silent, stands Killmaster.

Of all of those Scorponok might consider colleagues, Killmaster was always…mediocre. Forgettable, really. Intelligent - but in a particularly dull field of study, and not inclined towards collaborative work. Large, resilient - but there were plenty of Decepticons still more imposing. Brutally efficient when called upon - but not truly feared. Not like Overlord, or Shockwave, or Thunderwing. He lacked the requisite brilliance and madness. Blowing up moons can only get one so far in terms of notoriety, and after Killmaster made the Warriors Elite, he faded into the background before vanishing altogether. Scorponok can acknowledge ambition and innovation. Killmaster is sorely lacking in both.

But he's on one side of the bars, and Scorponok is on the other.

Scorponok inclines his head in a curt nod. "Killmaster."

Killmaster inspects Scorponok like an offending flake of rust. At least the feeling is mutual. "Scorponok of Kaon."

As though the old world matters anymore. Such things have long been immaterial. Scorponok allows himself a faint, derisive twitch of a smile. "Still toting the wand, I see. But who's holding your leash?"

Killmaster fails to rise to the bait. "I have never required one," he says. "I allowed them to attempt it. Once."

They failed.

Scorponok's jaw clenches. He knows that Overlord himself is the Galactic Council's lapdog, these days. And yet somehow dull, long-absent Killmaster has succeeded where Scorponok failed to screen his mind from the Quintessons. "You put me here," Scorponok says, cold, dropping any pretense at civility. The trouble with dismissing Killmaster as one of the forgettable masses all these millennia - Scorponok doesn't know what the mech wants. What makes him tick.

How long has Killmaster been an agent of the Galactic Council? If everyone knows that their geobombs are based on Killmaster's leaked moon gun schematics, then everyone is wrong. If everyone believes that Cybertronian technology is no longer cutting-edge, that the Council and the Consortia surpassed them in their arms race long ago…then everyone is so very wrong.

A deliberate smokescreen.

If he's not careful, Scorponok's going to be impressed.

Killmaster's jagged mess of an intake remains expressionless. "As requested."

"Well, well, well..."

The footsteps rattle the floor. Scorponok can feel a true processor ache coming on. Overlord's drawl is a terrible thing to be familiar with. Most people don't survive it, but Scorponok had other matters to attend to during Garrus-9. "Not you again," he sighs.

Overlord delicately presses a hand to his chest as he strides toward them. The hallway's dimensions can barely contain him; Killmaster is probably heavier, but his purple and yellow frame curls and bristles, while Overlord towers high enough that the prongs of his helm scrape the ceiling. "You wound me, Scorponok," he says, with a cruel smile. "Killmaster."

Killmaster looks as unimpressed by Overlord as he does by Scorponok, which says something deeply horrifying about his self-preservation instinct. "Overlord."

Overlord's smile deepens. "Charmed, I'm sure," he drawls, sailing past Killmaster with ground-eating strides. The two are not quite of a height; for a split second Killmaster disappears behind Overlord, and Scorponok is almost surprised when the moment passes and Killmaster flickers back into view, unscathed. Overlord continues on his way, humming.

Scorponok waits until he's out of sensor range. "He's in a cheerful mood. We should probably run," he comments.

"Irrelevant," Killmaster says, shuffling large plates of armor with an indifferent shrug. Then he arranges his teeth in a smile too large for his mouth. "You should be far more concerned about your progeny."

Scorponok hits the bars. They ring like a harsh, discordant bell, the sound shooting right through his helm. The places where his armor grazes the bars shrill with unpleasant sensation, like claws on stone. It's not enough to stop him. "You little -!"

"Emissary," Killmaster says, his gaze never leaving Scorponok.

It isn't Emissary Bellica who phases through the wall opposite. A pool of red blossoms beside Killmaster, rippling. The palanquin is deep red; tentacles of a paler shade wrap around the pillars, flitting in and out of the panels of forcefields between them and the horror within. "Killmaster. You forget your place," Emissary Dolus drones. It isn't even that he sounds bored; Scorponok has never heard the second of the Grand Architect's emissaries speak in anything but a monotone. Carefully, he draws back from the bars - nothing to see here.

Killmaster stirs at last. The wand in his hands shrinks so that he can turn it slowly between massive fingers. "You misapprehend the nature of my work for the Architect. I have delivered what was promised."

"And lost us a prototype." Dolus's click of disdain sounds hollow. "But no matter. The Grand Architect will see you now."

The bars of Scorponok's cage rotate as they retract into the floor. Emissary Dolus doesn't resort to the leash - he merely sails on. The consequences of disobedience are probably meant to be self-evident.

Clenching his jaw, Scorponok stalks after the palanquin.

Killmaster, oddly, does not follow.

-

Once they have gone, Killmaster reaches into his subspace, and checks the time.

Then, snapping the watch shut, he walks the other way.

---

Send my love to your new lover

Treat her better

We've gotta let go of all of our ghosts

We both know we ain't kids no more

Rosanna of Devisiun, <<send my love>>

---

Prowl always has a plan.

The problem is figuring out whether his plans are actually, y'know, kosher. The mech's got an unfortunate talent for making everything sound logical, even when he's skating on logic that's more slosh than ice.

The other problem is persuading Prowl to not do the thing once he's got his mind set on it. Wheeljack used to think that it was like gently tapping the brakes - Prowl analyzed the odds and suggested the most viable courses of action, even the morally reprehensible ones, and Optimus and the command team would use those numbers and casualty estimates to find something they could all live with. The best of the bad choices.

(And it was always bad choices, in the worst of the war. They couldn't win for losing.)

Except lately, it's more like slamming on the brakes, fishtailing wildly as Prowl jerks the wheel back out from under your hands, and slamming into the middle of a ten-car pileup. Upside down. On fire.

The plan right now is to get the frag out of Dodge, though. Hard to argue with that one. That is some flawless logic that Wheeljack can one hundred percent get behind. The city feels familiar - except that it doesn't match the layout of any of Cybertron's old cities, and everything's paved with pale, ivory metal, and when Wheeljack inspects one row of buildings for too long, he realizes that they're starting to repeat. But the repetition seems so natural that it barely registers as wrong.

"Want to talk about it?" Wheeljack asks, as they cruise out of the city. Nobody tries to stop them. Wheeljack suspects, a cold, sinking sensation in his chest, that there's no one to stop them. Not right now. Prowl estimates that he's been awake for a day and a half, and he spent most of that time scouting the empty city until he found Wheeljack.

Two of them, in a city that size. Them, and whatever Starscream was. Whoever Prowl saw, it scared the pit out of him.

Prowl sounds terse. The highway under their wheels is unnaturally pristine, and he insists on driving in a two-mech formation, like he expects someone to shoot at them. "What is there to discuss? We're both aware of the situation."

Well, if he wants to make it awkward… "I meant more - how have you been? Haven't seen you in a while." Wheeljack's grateful for alt modes - his optics are tucked safely away so he doesn't have to worry about maintaining eye contact. External sensors all the way.

"It's none of your concern."

Oh, slag no. Wheeljack lets himself drift out of formation to move closer. "I'm not allowed to be concerned about how one of my oldest friends is doing?" His voice is all wrong - he swallows the sharp hurt. "I get why you cut contact with Cybertron, but even before that -"

Prowl's engine growls as he forcefully veers away, keeping exactly two cars' lengths between them. "Is that what we are? Friends? I shot you in the head."

Huh. So that's the kinda stupid he's dealing with. Too bad for Prowl - Wheeljack is the undisputed king of handling stuff like this. That's barely a two on the sliding Starscream scale of silliness. "Bombshell pulled the trigger," he points out, because it's true.

Prowl's voice turns waspish. "Don't make excuses for it. I can't afford excuses anymore." Then, abruptly, voice hardening - "Or is that why you're here?"

They're coming up on an eerily empty stack interchange, now. Their highway passes under the layers of ramps; the upper road is a massive blind spot that stretches to either side as far as sensors can detect. Wheeljack's on edge enough that he tenses as they pass underneath. "What now?" he says, not getting the question.

Prowl's uneven field rakes him with agitation. Suspicion. "You could still be one of them," he says, to himself. "You -"

Uh-oh.

Wheeljack gets a two second warning - tires screeching, and an engine roaring, as proximity alerts flare red - before Prowl jackknifes around and rams him right off the road.

-

They're both ground alts. The instincts are the exact inverse of a flier's - if you start falling, get the slag out of alt mode and grab something to slow you down.

It's not too bad of a drop, but Wheeljack transforms automatically. Prowl's front bumper whacks him in the chest, but he's in root mode too by the time they hit the ground. "Prowl! What the f-" Wheeljack manages, before Prowl presses a hand to his throat and jabs his thumb in, hard. Wheeljack's vocalizer forcibly resets.

PR: Quiet.

The light of the giant Matrix overhead isn't strong enough to cast more than a diffuse shadow under the ramp. Wheeljack fights back the urge to hack up static, swallowing hard. Prowl keeps him pinned down; he scans the sky, optics burning, and Wheeljack has to reach up and tap his wrist before Prowl lets go.

A heavy, armored jet cruises through the sky. Low.

Blue and dull purple, with Decepticon insignia.

Wheeljack goes very, very still. His spark feels like it's pulsing too loudly in his chest. Mutely, he and Prowl watch as the jet passes over the wide spaces between the overlapping highways.

It does not turn around.

WJ: Please tell me that wasn't who I think it was.

Slag, he hopes they're out of sensor range. Comm traffic can be monitored, no matter how encrypted.

Prowl eases himself off Wheeljack, mouth a grim line as he helps Wheeljack back up.

PR: Overlord.

-

Real or not real, Overlord is a problem. Starscream was solid enough for Wheeljack to feel. Overlord might be solid enough to rip them to shreds.

"He should have seen us," Prowl says, grimly. He stands at the edge of the overpass, scuffed up, scanning the sky in the direction Overlord headed. The direction the two of them were headed.

Wheeljack's seen footage of the slag that went down at Garrus-9 - one of the last great horrors of the war - and his hands are shaky as he messes with the scanner. "Remind me why you and 'Bee decided to rebuild him and stick him on Rodimus's ship, again? Because there is no world in which that was not an awful plan," he says, his voice a little too high to hit that casual note.

Prowl rests a fist on the underside of the ramp, his laugh sharp. "Bumblebee thought we had a 'moral obligation' not to leave a POW a living skeleton. Which was completely idiotic of him, you are absolutely correct. I thought it would encourage Overlord to talk. He was stuck in a fugue state; we believed we could extract information on Phase Sixers from him. With the slow cell's design, they should have been able to jettison him into deep space before he could become a threat to anyone on board."

In a way, it's the problem that Starscream has - that Optimus has. Wanting Phase Sixers, wanting combiners, wanting Titans, wanting colonies on their side. Not knowing how to that mindset let go. Optimus just had a righteous cause to paint on top of it.

It's not like Wheeljack's immune to that, either. There's still a part of his processor that automatically catalogues who's who in the government - that gets uneasy when a Decepticon, ex- or otherwise, winds up in charge of something critical. He's not politically savvy enough to catch half of what happens under the table: personal favors, deals, power struggles, all of it somehow kept on-mission by Windvoice.

Prowl draws back from the edge and crouches with Wheeljack under the ramp, rubbing his left temple. "But he didn't care about getting his body back. He just wanted us to kill him," he finishes. "And the slow cell wasn't enough. The main road isn't safe."

Wheeljack whacks the side of the scanner one last time before giving up. It pinged him with short updates while they were driving, but he's almost glad they stopped. None of this makes any sense. "You got any better ideas? Because my scanner is busted."

Prowl narrows his eyes, folding his hands in front of his face as he stares at the horizon. "What does it say? Give me something to work with."

With a sigh, Wheeljack throws up the scanner's latest results as a holo projection in the air in front of them. It splits into two screens - one with two blue marks clustered together and a green blip receding into the distance, and another that looks more like a set of concentric, dotted circles around a bright white core. "Apparently, we're hiding underneath a highway," he says, tapping the two blue stars with a hand, "aaand we're also in a room with five hundred or so other people."

And he really doesn't like the look of that second map. If every dot is a Cybertronian life signature - which it should be, since that's what he programmed the scanner to do - then they're all arranged very deliberately to form that circular pattern. No way that's an accident.

Prowl frames the second map with his fingers. "Consistent with a mental trap," he mutters. Then he curses. "Except that it's not. Slag. These aren't our real bodies. You're imagining that scanner."

Ah.

Wheeljack…didn't even think about that. He glances down at the scanner, so familiar in his hands - and feels very cold again.

Because it's one thing to suspect that this whole place is a trap. It's another to realize that he overlooked something so fundamentally off. He reached for his scanner, automatically trusted that the data it feeds him is real. Now, suddenly, he could think himself into circles trying to figure out whether the scanner's results are real or something he's imagining. If he can trust what he's imagining to be viable, or if this place was just trying to lead him around like it did with Starscream. The abrupt unreality of it -

Wheeljack cycles a steadying vent, and forces himself to think it through. "I mean, you've got me there. But it's all we have to work with," he says, with a helpless shrug. He gestures with his fingers and the projection of circles expands out around and through them, the blue motes of spark energy reflected off Prowl's optics as Wheeljack layers the two images over each other, so that the white core at the center lines up with the anomalous readings in the distance. "And no matter how you look at it, it still says there's a massive anomaly over that way," he says, pointing.

The way Overlord went.

Prowl cycles a long, drawn-out vent. "Convenient," he says, dryly. "What about the city we just left?"

It's probably a bad sign, Wheeljack thinks, that the city almost completely slipped his mind the moment it was out of sight. He gives his head a little shake, and adjusts the scanner's focus once more. The screen goes blank, and the holos snap off as the scanner processes the request.

It loads nothing.

Then, in the second it takes Wheeljack to reset his optics, the screen displays the grey outline of the buildings they just left.

"That's - spooky." He clears his vocalizer when it threatens to glitch. "For a second, there was nothing at all."

-

The conversation resumes as they get back on the road, on foot. Prowl's not happy about it - hell, Wheeljack's not happy about it either - but it needs to happen. There aren't any landmarks to guide them, and no cover other than the road itself if Overlord doubles back.

Prowl's not happy about the conversation, either.

"You know, getting yanked around like a puppet isn't an excuse, it's a legitimate reason. Would you have covered up for Megatron, lured us all into a trap, and shot me if Bombshell hadn't been in control?" Wheeljack says it all fast, before Prowl can interrupt. When all it earns him is a stiff, offended silence, Wheeljack nods. "There you go. I don't blame you."

"And yet you're angry," Prowl fires back. The sarcasm gets a lot more acidic when he's ticked off. "Promising."

Wheeljack throws his hands up. His scanner beeps in feeble protest at the flailing. "I'm hacked off because you shot me and then didn't speak to me for years!" he replies, exasperated. "But I didn't exactly try to talk to you, either. So I guess we're both obtuse afts."

In the disgruntled silence that follows, Wheeljack scrapes the bottom of his foot along the immaculate road. It should leave a skid mark, or a smudge of paint, or something, from the force he applies. It doesn't. The road is troublingly unfazed.

Prowl doesn't look at him. "By the time they got me up after Devastator, you were already - gone. We were driven out of the city, and no one knew where your body went. The fact that Starscream was able to stash your frame and conceal you during the recovery process without anyone noticing…"

He trails off, kinda like he expects Wheeljack to shed some light on Starscream's methods. Pffft. Like Wheeljack would know. Starscream isn't exactly forthcoming at the best of times; he just hand-waved how he got Wheeljack out and into a CR chamber. Wheeljack's had more important things to pry out of Starscream since then. Getting him to talk about feelings alone, in private, behind three layers of security and privacy shields, is like pulling dentae. "Yeah, well, Starscream's good at that kind of thing."

Prowl shakes off the sulk just to eyeball Wheeljack, unamused. "It was still sloppy work on our part." A moment's hesitation. "The war's over."

The way Prowl says it is weird. Like he's testing the waters, or he wants Wheeljack to contradict him. Wheeljack keeps his voice studiously neutral. "Yup. Been that way for a while now," he agrees, mildly. "Hoping that this time it sticks."

"You don't know what kind of effort it takes to even say that, let alone believe it. Here." Prowl taps his head with a bitter twist of his mouth. "How many times I circumvented Red Alert's filters to tap into Cybertron's news and feed the obsessive need to know. I had ten plans to leverage segments of the population against each other and force Autobot/Decepticon conflict back to the surface before midday, every day, because anything had to be better than a false peace. The Decepticons were lying, and we needed to seize the initiative." He shakes his head. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Slagging hell. The only hopeful part of that little speech was that Prowl used the past tense - and Wheeljack thinks even that much took actual, physical effort on Prowl's part. "Because I'm still your friend?" he suggests.

Prowl snorts. "I don't deserve it. Maybe this place thinks this would be cathartic."

He sounds light and speculative, probably on purpose; the look he shoots Wheeljack through the corner of his optics lands square in suspicion territory.

Wheeljack really doesn't want to find out whether getting shot in a dream counts in the real world. That's always dumb, and debating the questionable science of it would be as unproductive as the early discussion about his imaginary scanner results. Assume the worst, but have realistic expectations. "At some point, you gotta stop thinking about 'deserve.' You just have to try to do better, and then keep on trying. Even if people don't forgive you. Before you know it, you and Starscream will both be halfway-decent people." He shrugs as Prowl's face contorts into utter horror; the nice thing about not having a mouth of his own is that he doesn't need to hide a smile. Sure, Jazz can still see right through his built-in poker mask, but that's Jazz. "So what stopped you? From coming back and ruining everything?" he adds, while Prowl's still spluttering.

Prowl throws up his hands in defeat. "I tried. Before I wound up on Luna-1, I came back intending to take advantage of the situation with Menasor and Superion on Caminus to counter Starscream's power grab with the colony worlds. Optimus knocked me down before it went anywhere. I looked up and saw one of my 'oldest friends' ready to execute me. But in the shock, I also realized that I was..."

He trails off. When he resumes, after several minutes of silence, he sounds controlled. All emotion locked out of his voice. "The plans that I was so sure I needed to put into motion had allowed for no unknown variables or extenuating factors outside my own scope. I saw one overarching threat - Starscream ruling a new empire, while everyone blindly let him manipulate them - and only one path to solve it. It wasn't even the most efficient path - it was just the one my processor fixated on, excluding anything else. Even when major changes like new combiners arrived, I wasn't really processing how that complicated things or affected my potential options. My prioritization subprocessor produced complete garbage. It cycled back around and dumped a mass of urgent priority flags into my deductive reasoning sector, causing continuous agitation. Everything was a crisis, always, and no one else could see it the way I did." He stares at his hands. "Starscream was a menace. Optimus wasn't right. But neither was I. I was not thinking rationally. I never was."

Not that they didn't realize that something was wrong with Prowl. It's just interesting to hear his perspective on it. To have Prowl admit that there needs to be a perspective at all. What he describes sounds less like him going off on a rampage, and more like him having a mental breakdown in slow motion. How long ago could they have seen it? A glitch that catastrophic should've been picked up on processor scans centuries ago -

And Prowl ran special operations almost without oversight for millions of years. Any oversight he had, he probably circumvented.

Frag them sideways.

(Wheeljack is suddenly, unpleasantly reminded of that one time Optimus popped himself into an omniglobe, and tried to absorb every single report from every single mech on every single one of the thousands of battlefields across the galaxy - in real time. Boosted by thousands of microprocessors, his neural capacity stretched so far that he couldn't speak to the command team when they came to offer their advice and consult.

Literally the only good that came out of that one was that Megatron did the same thing, and they were both unconscious for the next two centuries while their overheated brain modules cooled off.

(Worse - he's reminded of when he heard, third-hand, years after the fact, that Red Alert tried to kill himself.))

There's no easy way to ask someone if they skipped or faked their CMO-mandated processor scans and backups due to paranoia ravaging their mind, so Wheeljack hooks his thumb in a hip and sighs. "Some kind of long-running glitch, you think? Or a virus? Bombshell's last laugh, maybe?"

Prowl looks kinda the way Wheeljack feels, but with an extra, acerbic edge to his smile. "Glitch or no, I have reason to believe that Chromedome inflicted unintended vulnerabilities in my processor, which gave Bombshell all the foothold he needed. My metadata records show that the defragmentation of my personality core after being forced into Devastator encountered several irreconcilable errors. But it's - more than all that. It's more than just a catastrophic glitch, or even several in a cascade."

Prowl sways a little, and catches his weight on one foot when he almost loses his balance. But he talks like he can't stop, no matter how much he wants to. Like someone drilled a hole through the underside of his mouth, and the words won't stop gushing out. "It's me. Numerous times, I've reacted with severe emotional bias, while operating under the blind assumption that I'm the only rational one in the room. And I cannot afford to overlook that - not when it's crippling my ability not just to plan and reason with coherent, moral limits, but to perform even the most basic functions."

By the end, Prowl is spitting the words. A rattling sound grinds out of his vent openings, jagged. Prowl's not the type to broadcast his EM field to all and sundry, but Wheeljack registers a corrosive edge of revulsion.

Wincing, Wheeljack steps toward Prowl and waves one hand in front of Prowl's face. He waits until Prowl focuses on him, his eyes hollow pits in his face, before resting it on his shoulder. "Hey. Prowl. That's - that's a lot," he says. Understatement of the century.

Prowl stares at him, muted, for another hyperventilation cycle. Wheeljack wonders just how long he's been sitting on this confession. If Rung ever even heard it by proxy, through Red Alert, or if Prowl kept it locked up like he does everything else.

Wonders how the world got so twisted around that Prowl has less of his slag together than Starscream, these days.

"I have to second guess and dissect my every decision. Strip away every automatic assumption and false pattern-recognition flag that tries to abrogate a line of logic code. Rewrite every glitched thought process." Prowl looks past Wheeljack; then, optics set, he nudges Wheeljack's hand away so he can start down the road again. "Do better."

-

Prowl currently puts the odds of Wheeljack being real at around 55.76%.

Wheeljack knows this, because Prowl keeps him updated on his status at random intervals. 55% is halfway decent, all things considered.

But the random intervals is what makes Wheeljack realize, with another spike of unease, that he has no idea what time it is. How long they've been travelling. Anything like that. When he pings his internal chronometer, the digits he receives sound fuzzy in his own head. Like his internal clock only decided on a time right that second. When he tries asking Prowl, Prowl freezes - and then looks ill.

After that, he sets up a clock and a timer on his scanner. It's not perfect, but if they can't rely on their chronometers - on their own minds - to automatically keep them up to speed, then it's all they've got. The Matrix in the sky never moves, its wide aperture always pointed directly down at some point in the distance.

Wheeljack wonders if there's anything beyond the horizon, or if the world only exists when they're looking at it. Panels of imaginary metal unfolding under their feet, while the city winks out behind them.

They've been walking for a few hours, give or take that shaky period of time where neither of them were keeping track, when the highway splits and weaves around a small city. Still unfamiliar, all of it a single, uniform blue metal, but with an architectural style that reminds Wheeljack of old Tetrahex: the base of the city thrusting directly out of the earth, seamless, the upper strata few and far between compared to the layers a metropolis like Iacon would boast.

Wheeljack and Prowl glance at each other, communicating without comms. Prowl draws a weapon, and heads in first.

They're still in Overlord's wake, after all. Can't be too careful.

A wide fountain greets them in a round, open air plaza. Prowl shifts to use it as a shield, head ducked so that the arching petals block him from the line of sight of the spiral towers overhead. Keeping his distance, Wheeljack covers the other side, scanner at the ready. He stops to frown and set a hand on the outermost curve of the fountain, though - because it's almost identical to the fountains in the other city. A lotus flower.

One of those weird ones. Wheeljack's no astrobotanist or xenolinguist, but he's dabbled in most things. In Neo-Cybex, [lotus] referred to a single, specific variant of metal vine, with silver circuitstems and white, pink-edged flowers, usually found with roots in mercury ponds. Probably super extinct after getting eaten by Unicron, if the war didn't finish them off first. The only reason the word stands out is because humans use the exact same mouth sounds for a few similar plants on Earth.

Earth is just kinda wacky like that. The translation programs always had a hell of a time with Latin.

But lotus plants were never a big deal on Cybertron. 'Specially not with what Functionism did to architecture and art. It's been a few long, fraught millennia, but Wheeljack can't think of a single fountain shaped like a lotus flower in any of the crystal gardens or parks that got ploughed under by his place. Not functional enough.

So why the frag are they all over the place now? If this dream is a deliberate trap, designed to lull them into thinking they're home…why throw in a background element as random as this?

Prowl takes cover by the corner of a building, shoulder up against the wall as he peers down the main thoroughfare. Now that Wheeljack knows to look for it, the buildings in the distance are disturbingly blurry. "I cannot trust myself. Red Alert was - helping. Well. My stay on Luna-1 was conditional on my promise to report to him," he says, apropos of nothing. Wheeljack hastily snatches his hand away from the fountain and goes back to scanning their surroundings. No sign of Overlord's tentative spark signature - yet.

"And now we're in a place where you can't trust what you're seeing, let alone what you're thinking," Wheeljack says. He ditches the fountain and jogs over to crouch by the wall across from Prowl, helm tilted so his audials don't hit the corner as he peers around. "Good times. Let me know if I can help."

Prowls mutters under his breath. When Wheeljack glances at him, Prowl snorts. "Looking for another project, since Starscream is unavailable?" he says, dryly.

It hurt a lot more when Starscream accused him of it, half a year ago, outside the Aerialbots' medbay. Slag - it hurt more when Optimus slapped him across the face with it last week. When Optimus comes down on you with the full, sanctimonious force of his disappointment, it always feels a little like the world is ending. No matter how Wheeljack tried to explain, the words came out clumsy. Inadequate. Justifications, instead of explanations.

Starscream called him friend first, and somehow, impossibly, meant it. How could anyone not hold something as incredible as that close, and love him for it?

Words aren't gonna work here, either. Prowl likes his quantifiable numbers too much, which Wheeljack can respect. Plus, he's probably fishing for intel about Starscream in general, and nothing good'll come of enabling Prowl with his current issues. "Starscream isn't a project. Just been missing a lot of my old friends, lately. This place is driving me nuts, too."

Prowl screws up his face, but raises and lowers his brow in a shrug, conceding the point. "Not a project?" he says, delicately.

Nope. Not today. With a deep, exaggerated sigh, Wheeljack crouch-walks over to Prowl. Prowl looks appalled at his sloppy safety protocols. Once he's there, Wheeljack smacks Prowl's arm with the back of his hand. "I do know what you look like when you're calculating, you know. Look, when we get back, maybe you and Starscream will get thrown together in a dramatic adventure. You'll have to combine your powers to save the day and maybe - just maybe - become vitriolic best buds along the way. Then you will see."

Prowl stares at him with abject horror, which slowly morphs into a serene resignation. "So, this really is hell," he says to himself, like Wheeljack's not there. "I'm not sure which of the war crimes led to me deserving this. I'm sure I can work up a list as part of my Sisyphean torture."

Wheeljack smacks him on the arm again. "Anyway. We're headed the right direction. I think. There's still a whole mess of weird readings coming from the far side of the city," he says, careful not to dismiss the clock overlay as he flicks through the scanner's radar. The dimensions of the city itself are - uh, wonky is a polite word for it - but the anomaly hovers on the far side, obscuring any other energy signatures past that point. "Unfortunately, there's only so much I can do with a hand-held scanner with an existential crisis, even one as souped-up as mine -"

Wheeljack stares at the screen.

The dark, roiling star of red and black down the street stares back.

He drops into comms before Prowl can speak. [We've got company.]

Prowl is a perfect statue; when he shifts, the barest fraction of an adjustment, Wheeljack only detects it as twinge of his proximity sensors. [Mark.]

Wheeljack sends the unknown entity's position as an encrypted burst. Prowl adjusts again, the sensors of his doorwings flared down. [Abnormal spark signature. Not Overlord.] He's only seen a few spark signatures frazzle his scanner like this. Jazz and Arcee, with their advanced stealth mods. Killmaster, who keeps a weapon of mass destruction in a dimensional pocket under his spark chamber, for some unfathomable reason. This one seems -

The marker advances toward them.

"Freeze," Prowl says, in a dead, cold monotone that carries. "No sudden moves."

Protocol says Wheeljack should get back, so that any shot that might take out Prowl won't catch him with shrapnel. But it's a bit late for that. "You're a little outnumbered," he calls, kindly, as he refocuses the scanner to get a better read. That's the nice thing about Prowl - everyone else is the good cop by default. "But we don't want to shoot you, probably! Who's there?"

The stranger says nothing.

Wheeljack's about to whack the side of the scanner and try to see if the marker glitched out, when they finally answer.

"I rather suspect that answering that question won't help matters," Megatron says. "My apologies."

---

So you do have a spark. One just as unremarkable as any other.

- Vigilem of Cybertron

---

Windvoice has the Lathe active, obscuring part of her face with the pink panel of the holovisor. "I'm not trading you in for anyone. You're irreplaceable," she says, solemnly, and almost manages to keep a straight face.

He glares at Arcee next, but he can barely muster enough heat to make it worthwhile. Yes, he asked her to extract Liege Maximo in the event they needed leverage during Onyx Prime's power play. No, she didn't need to slaughter everything that got in between her and the cell, leaving none of Onyx's people alive to interrogate.

Honestly, he's not sure what he expected. Arcee is nothing if not consistent.

"I don't work for any of you," Arcee points out.

Starscream wishes he had the energy to make a scene; on some level, he's still spoiling for a fight. But this isn't Decepticon high command. He's hyper aware of Liege Maximo sitting across from Windvoice, posture arranged just so - back relaxed, one leg folded over the other, hands folded elegantly in his lap.

Liege doesn't bother feigning disinterest. He studies Starscream with assessing optics and a wry, not quite smile. Starscream dislikes being on the other end of that kind of look.

The mech nearly twisted Starscream's arm out of its socket. His heavily reinforced, war armored socket. And if they're dealing with Liege Maximo here, they're dealing with Vigilem by proxy. A Vigilem who's currently on the ground, with more mobility than Metroplex and Caminus combined.

Arcee lounges menacingly against the wall - even a casual Arcee is menacing - while Chromia stands at Windvoice's side like she owns the place, and the only other chair is too close to Liege's for his liking, so he stalks over to the window to glare at the mid-afternoon sky and the Aerialbot patrolling outside. "I suppose you'll want immunity, then," he says, irritated. He hasn't had a chance to assess the Carcerans' behavior in Elita-1's absence, but he has little doubt that if they see the opportunity to be a pain in his aft, they'll take it.

Meanwhile, he comms Arcee. He can multitask.

SS: Find Airachnid. Dead, preferably.
RC: Oh?

"We hadn't gotten that far yet. I didn't want to have this conversation without you," Windvoice says. Behind her visor, she has the gall to look concerned, brow furrowed. Starscream jerks his head fractionally at Liege Maximo, and her expression blanks. Too late.

SS: We can't surveil everyone in the city - loath as I am to admit it - and our only semi-reliable on-call mnemosurgeon is missing. Anything she does, we can't undo, short of blowing heads off.
SS: Do the math.

Arcee hums, drumming her fingers. This probably means that Starscream's demise is imminent. In the translucent room reflected in the window, Liege Maximo's shoulders tense. Well, as long as they all share a healthy fear of Arcee, they should get along just swimmingly.

(Chromia, naturally, had no issue with Arcee lurking behind Windvoice's back. This is because Chromia is a shining example of a Camien bodyguard - good for flailing an energy-ax at things, and otherwise mediocre.)

"Well then," Starscream says aloud. He pivots on a heel and arches a brow at Liege as the nauseating sensation of a stealth mode activating prickles on his sensors. Arcee can't vanish in plain sight with people staring right at her - thank slag, that takes a special kind of outlier - but looking directly at her makes his optics sting until she vanishes into the ceiling and the rest of his sensors give it up as a bad job. "Anything you care to share?"

Liege remains perfectly still, his casual poise shifted slightly in anticipation of a possible sword in his back. "Onyx came in with bad intelligence. He will not make that mistake again," he says. "He is one of the most dangerously intelligent mecha that I know."

Chromia snorts. "Could use a few less of those running around," she mutters - and ugh. Exile with Arcee hasn't hammered an ounce of subtlety into her. And now that she's succeeded in bringing Liege Maximo back, Starscream can't exactly re-exile her without sufficient public support.

RC: Luckily for you, Prowl's away. Should be interesting.
RC: Don't leave her alone with him.

"You know," Liege says to Windvoice. His expression is suddenly sober, on the edge of bleak, and for a confused moment Starscream feels as though he's missed a step on stairs, trying to place the context.

SS: What do you think I am, some sort of amateur?

Windvoice doesn't relax in response. The glossy light of her visor dances with pink glyphs as incomprehensibly layered as a Titan's mind, scrolling so fast that it makes Starscream's processor chug. "I know what we've put together. I don't know that it's true, or accurate, or unbiased. I know that much of it rests on Vigilem's testimony, and that won't hold up for everyone. Elita-1 left Strika-1 in command, and she is not convinced," she says, neutrally.

RC: I didn't think I was.

The comm connection cuts out as Arcee blocks him.

And on that promising note, they get down to business.

-

Dealing with Liege Maximo proves less difficult than dealing with everyone else in the room. He's reserved, pleasantly polite, and meets Starscream's narrowed eyes with polished, reassuring poise.

He's good. Alarmingly good. And Starscream is reminded, quite forcefully, that no one knows what happened to Rattrap except for the Titan it happened in. In a contest for Vigilem's discretion, between him, Liege, and Windvoice, the one who most emphatically loses is Starscream.

To her credit, Windvoice doesn't fall for it completely - she's smarter than that, most days. But she's susceptible to Titans. If Starscream so much as hints that Vigilem could be lying, she gets tetchy. He has room to maneuver against Liege Maximo; unless Vigilem starts rampaging through Metroplex's streets, the Titan's untouchable - and even then Windvoice might insist on attempting to talk him down first.

Right now, far too much of the current ceasefire rides on Vigilem's good will and Liege Maximo's cooperation. They've spun her a pretty line about misunderstandings and a grand conspiracy, and Starscream can't help but notice that it's perfectly designed to entice not just Windvoice but also Metroplex and Caminus into Vigilem's waiting arms. It lets Windvoice have her cozy little mindmeld shtick with Vigilem without her feeling like she's betrayed the other two. It neatly pins the blame for everything Liege was charged with on conveniently dead people. It leaves just enough open to interpretation that it doesn't ping Windvoice as too good to be true.

Starscream can admire the simple elegance of it, even as it ties his hands.

Not to mention the fact that Liege Maximo is a walking PR nightmare. The Carcerans might be persuadable, now that they've cracked once; the other colonists, particularly the Camiens, are still behind on the times. They all still think of Liege Maximo as a traitor and a liar, bent on Cybertron's destruction.

In the end, the settlement they hash out is a deceptively simple. Liege Maximo will continue to enjoy Neo-Cybertron's hospitality - 'chaperoned' by Ironhide's sharpest eyes and shots - and make himself available for a hearing by the Council of Worlds to determine his legal status and whether they need to hold a full retrial. Liege Maximo is perfectly amenable to the security detail, and makes no outright demands of his own, the very picture of a supportive, accommodating diplomat. Instead he offers, pretty as one pleases, to assist in the matter of Onyx Prime with all the insight he can render Speaker Windvoice. A consultation.

Far more subtle than Onyx Prime stomping in and declaring himself and Optimus the only two people on the planet worthy of ruling it by fiat. If Starscream's not careful, Liege Maximo really will insinuate himself as Windvoice's counsel. Better to have the ear of a popular, charismatic leader than to try and fail to depose her.

It almost worked for Rattrap. It worked with Megatron, for a while.

But really. There's only room for one potentially-treasonous lieutenant in Windvoice's life, and the slot's already filled.

Starscream broods on this until Windvoice and Liege Maximo wrap up their little chitchat with guarded pleasantries and Liege Maximo is shown the door. He bit his tongue and kept interjections to a minimum during most of the negotiations - though he wasn't able to suppress every sharp comment - to better analyze Liege Maximo's technique. The suppressed irritation seems to linger in his mouth like fragments of something sharp, and he feels distinctly cranky. He can recognize the signs of the stimulants winding down, the lethargy and agitation making his frame feel tight and ill-fitting. It's well past evening now, but there's too much left for him to deal with before he can recharge -

"Chromia, could you give us a minute?" Windvoice says, in an undertone that sets off all of Starscream's alerts. He whips around, the bottom of the chair that he claimed midway through the meeting thumping against the floor. Chromia looks absolutely appalled, but shoots her glare at Starscream instead of Windvoice as she opens her mouth to argue.

Windvoice reaches out and clasps Chromia's elbow. "Please," she says. Her voice brooks no argument. "Chromia. I'll see you tomorrow."

Chromia's mouth snaps shut, and hurt flickers across her face. It's an implicit dismissal - sending Chromia away entirely for the night rather than asking her to wait outside the door. Starscream leans his face on a fist to watch the interplay. The two of them used to put up a good front of solidarity, but they've never been the same since Chromia decided to blow people up and kill everyone not completely inside Metroplex to save Windblade.

With one final, suspicious look for Starscream, Chromia drops her head in a jerky nod, and walks out with stiff, shuffling steps. Transmutate and Silverbolt peer in through the door curiously before it shuts once more.

As soon as she's gone, Windvoice presses the side of the Lathe embedded in her helm to turn it off, and turns to Starscream with an almost absent expression. It's a decent approximation of inscrutability; he would applaud if his helm didn't feel so heavy. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he drawls, gesturing grandly with one hand.

"How are you holding up?" Windvoice asks. She watches him - measures him - and the concern in her eyes is balanced by the sardonic twist of her mouth when Starscream screws up his face in disdain. "Don't give me that look. You've been out of the hospital for less than a day, and Velocity did not sign you out. You look -"

"Scintillating," he finishes for her. Spare him the pity of Autobots.

"Fatigued," she says, relentless. She paces back to the near side of her desk and sits on the edge of it facing him, her blue optics bright as she stares him down. "And like you were using something to cover for it. You know those drugs are illegal on Velocitron for a reason, right?"

If she's trying to threaten him, it's a sad attempt. He could do better in his sleep. "Tish-tosh," Starscream says, with a dismissive wave. The homebrew distillation of Ore-13 hit harder than this. Velocitronians might be pioneers in the field of alternative energy sources and stimulants, but Starscream has a dozen different backup systems. Transmutate could be actively trying to poison him and the worst it would do is get shunted into a lead-lined tank. Then, to move on to actually important concerns - "You know Vigilem will choose his Liege over you, right?"

Windvoice's stubborn mouth tugs downward. "That only happens if we make him choose." While Starscream's mid-scoff, Windvoice leans in. "You only jumped into that discussion at random, Starscream. Erratically. Your attention was drifting. This isn't helping you the way you think it is."

That's a more personal insult. "My personal business is none of your concern," he snaps, offended. He pushes up from the chair, knees locked to prevent him from swaying. "Are we quite done here? If you're going to make friends with Liege Maximo, I have PR work to do." Laying the groundwork to prevent a public outcry when people realize Liege is roaming the government headquarters will take a decent chunk of the night, if he wants to pull the right strings in Censere's Decepticon community. They need to be primed to riot if Liege makes a bid for power, but retain their reluctant trust in Windvoice's competence.

A hand on his chest stops him. Starscream stares down at it, momentarily stumped by the audacity of it, as Windvoice meets his eyes. "Starscream. We will find him."

Something raw and caustic boils in his throat. Starscream forces the lid back down on it, ruthless, and rips away from her with a sneer. "Don't make me laugh," he snaps, but the voice is all wrong. Cracking, with something horrible underneath.

Windvoice's gaze sharpens as she takes that in, her optics widening fractionally. "You think he's dead. You think they're all dead? That's -"

She breaks off, apparently at a loss for words, and stares into space as Starscream lurches for the door. "Realistic. Or did you forget Killmaster's name already?" Starscream says. He waves over his shoulder. "Feel free to send an assassin to smother me during my pre-scheduled recharge hours; I relish the break in the monotony. Just don't distract Arcee while she's -"

He must be off. When she snags his arm, he somehow fails to dodge it. He blinks at the offending hand. "Don't," she says. "Please."

His snarl sounds pathetic. "Get your hands off of me," he says, wearily yanking his arm out of her grip.

Windvoice smacks her hand against the door instead, her arm cutting him off from the windows of the far wall. Which is ridiculous, because the door slides open, and yet here they are. Starscream glowers, but she starts talking in a low, urgent voice. She's always at her worst when she's sincere. "I need you, Starscream. Here. And I need you not relying on Transmutate's judgement as far as dosing yourself with illegal Velocitronian stimulants, because she will not tell you no. Not the way you need her to." She stops, her gaze digging into him with damnable intent. "You're setting yourself up for a crash."

The hideous shadow of tomorrow looms in the back of his mind; just the thought of slogging through it makes him tired. "Is that an order?" he says, through gritted teeth. He stares at the nearest metal panel - anywhere but at Windvoice. Not that he doesn't have millions of years of practice subverting orders.

She waits. If it's some sort of power play to see how long until he cracks and looks her in the eye, it's a trifling one. Starscream presses his mouth together in a sullen line.

Instead, she touches his arm again. "We'll find him. One way or another," Windvoice promises. Then, briskly, she completely changes the subject. "My place or yours?"

Squinting, Starscream opens his mouth, and then shuts it.

While he tries and fails to process this, Windvoice strides back to her desk and gathers her datapads, her expression blandly open and earnest as she stows them in her subspace and rejoins him at the door.

Is he. Is he being propositioned. His processor stutters and returns a vintage blue screen. "This took a turn," he says, dazed, as Windvoice guides him out the door by the elbow and nods to Vortex, Silverbolt, and Transmutate.

"Are you going to be able to sleep tonight if you're alone? Really?" Windvoice asks, with a roll of her eyes.

Vortex emits a high pitched squeak and falls back against the wall, clutching his chest with first one hand and then both. Which means he's going to be useless for the rest of the evening. Transmutate starts tapping furiously on her datapad, her red optics alight.

Starscream scowls. "I don't need you," he protests, while Windvoice easily guides his traitorous frame down the hall to the aerial exit. Silverbolt waves Fireflight out of his carefree patrol loops as they step out onto the balcony.

Windvoice sighs, and lets her hand drop. "Let me help," she says, quiet.

-

Starscream wakes up groggy and at a complete loss for where he is. He can't remember downing several gallons of engex and passing out on an unfamiliar couch, but he can't rule anything out when he onlines to a ceiling that doesn't belong in his own quarters. He lets his helm loll to the side with a groan, and quells the urge to comm Skywarp and bicker until he brings him a hangover chip.

Then Windvoice walks up to the back of the sofa and looks down at him expectantly, hands on her hips.

Starscream groans again. "I can't believe I've been taken advantage of. By you, of all people," he says, mournfully, as Windvoice sets a cube of coolant and a cube of energon on his cockpit with an artist's optic.

"You slept in the guest room," she informs him. "And then you had some kind of nightmare, shot a vase - that was a gift, by the way - announced that you were now leader of the Decepticons, then lurched out and fell back asleep on the couch. No one's taken advantage of you."

Starscream raises his head, adjusts himself, and lets it fall back over the arm of the sofa. "Uggghhhrhrhhh."

She drops a packet of mineral supplements on his forehelm and claps her hands together with a firm clk. "Come on, up. Shower. Airazor pinged me a half-hour ago," she says, pinning the Lathe into the side of her forehead with a deft twist.

Slag him. She really is a morning person.

"I hate you," Starscream mumbles. "You've stolen my virtue."

"I have it on the best authority that you have none of those," Windvoice says, primly, as she takes a sip of energon.

-

Swindle is absolutely distraught. By the time Starscream reaches his swamped office, his tanks feeling too full after Windvoice presses another cube on him, he's been bombarded by no less than three comms in all caps that he takes to mean that Transmutate has completely upended the underground betting pool. Transmutate looks perfectly innocent, like Ravage with a sound clip, her mouth pursed in a satisfied smile.

Starscream's not touching that one with a ten meter pole.

And there are no drugs waiting on his desk, which he takes to mean that Windvoice got to her first.

The ache behinds his optics fades a little after he stops pressing his fingers into the sockets and becomes absorbed in the tedious amounts of documentation and reports involved in cataloging a mass disappearance. Ironhide, with some more prodding, has initiated full ultraviolet protocols around the government building, and thus far no one has turned up with microscopic holes in their necks. Problematic, since they still have a bomber at large, if Airachnid didn't do the deed herself. One of the cityspeaker apprentices Windvoice stole from Caminus is in his inbox, somehow, timidly informing him that with Lightbright missing they might need to appeal to the Mistress of Incaendium for someone fully trained to manage the day-to-day upkeep of Metroplex. The Devisen delegates clamor at him, requesting information on the next Council meeting, since for some reason Windvoice is too busy being sequestered with the Eukarians in her office to tell them to frag off and read the public itinerary. An ominous ping in dark fuchsia that blinks with red alerts waits in his HUD - Vigilem, waiting patiently. Not a conversation he trusts to hold even in private channels.

And Soundwave's outside his door.

Chagrined, Starscream chucks an empty box at said door. Soundwave, familiar with his ways, steps inside after a moment's pause. Buzzsaw bates on his right shoulder, yellow wings shuffling as he squints irritably at Starscream, which means Laserbeak is probably lurking in a tree on the street below.

"Soundwave," he says, modulating his instinctive glare. Of the two upper-level Decepticons on Neo-Cybertron, Soundwave is marginally less of a headache to deal with. Shockwave hasn't been the same since his vacation in a black hole; he acts more like the Senator of old with his emotions returned, and Starscream doesn't know quite how to deal with him now that he's an openly smug bastard. Let him be Ratchet's problem for a while.

Soundwave, on the other hand, has spent the past few years cozying up to Optimus Prime on Earth. Tasteless. But he seems to have his head back in the game now that Orion's retreated to Earth in disgrace. With some grease, Starscream thinks they can solidify ties with Soundwave and his little commune and unyoke them from their unfortunate ties to Earth. Soundwave is currently under the impression that Optimus concealed Onyx Prime's presence from him, and there has been no love lost between them since.

But that means Starscream needs to maneuver Soundwave with a light hand. This is far too delicate an operation to trust to anyone else.

"Starscream," Soundwave says, in his studious monotone. He doesn't take a seat, so Starscream kicks his seat back and relaxes. Comfortable, casual. Whatever myriad differences they've had in the past - Starscream lost count after the first few betrayals - they know each other. "Discussion - required."

A faint huff escapes his vents. Starscream gestures for him to go on. "You have my attention."

Interestingly, Soundwave pauses. "Your impressions of Speaker Windvoice?" he says at last, a clipped query.

When Soundwave omits words, it's because he's trying to be circumspect about getting you to fill in the gaps. Give away more than you intend to. It works too well on unsuspecting victims. Starscream rolls his eyes extravagantly. "She's a pain in my aft." Then he scowls at Soundwave's inscrutable visor. "Oh, get your mind out of the gutter."

The sarcasm goes over like a lead balloon. "She is difficult to read," Soundwave notes. Still clipped, still hedging his words with care.

Which is even more interesting. 'Difficult to read' could mean slagging anything, but from Soundwave it's a massive admission. Starscream's processor stirs with interest, despite himself. "Fascinating," he says, archly. He pretends to inspect his wrist, inspecting the fresh seam where he reinstalled an ultraviolet torch. "No offense, but you've spent the past few years being all chummy with Orion. Forgive me if I don't have the highest opinion of your standards, these days."

Soundwave can't grimace. "Orion was an - unfortunate necessity."

Starscream can read between the lines. He smiles and presses a hand to his cheek, coy. "Oh? What did he have on you?" The only problem with getting into a blackmail war with Soundwave is that he almost always wins.

Soundwave continues not to grimace with a palpable force. "I also realized that the organics of Earth were…significant." He hesitates again; Buzzsaw chatters in some new encryption that seems to settle the carrier. "How many millennia spent dismissing the sapience of others as irrelevant, because we did not recognize the signs? Human minds operate on both electric and electrochemical impulses. Their EM fields are constrained, but detectable with sensors."

Never mind. Starscream revises just how squishy Soundwave's gone - this might really be as bad a case as Thundercracker. Urgh. He has a message from Windvoice now in his inbox, and frankly, that might be more promising than Soundwave's little fleshy monologue. He throws up his hands, discreetly reading Windvoice's message while he talks. "How trite. Look, Soundwave, humans are just freaks of nature. They're weird! Not worth having a midlife crisis over -"

He stops dead for a solid klik as the contents of Windvoice's message scroll through his HUD again.

Then he holds up a finger. "One moment."

Buzzsaw mutters an insult about Starscream's thaw job under his breath. In a solved encryption that Starscream has the key for, which means he's meant to hear it. Little aft.

SS: What the slag do you mean, you're going to Eukaris?!
WV: Airazor and Tigatron have invited me, on behalf of the Fateweavers. There is something they wish to consult me on that they say can't wait.

"She was not, before," Soundwave says, too quietly. Starscream's busy dealing with the fact that their head of state wants to joyride off to a colony world for no reason. Leaving him to deal with all of her paperwork, no doubt!

SS: Excuse you. We're in the middle of a crisis, Onyx Prime could descend on us any second, we don't even know what Killmaster's playing at or where Scorponok is - and you want to leave the planet.
WV: It should only take a few hours. If there is more that I can do there, then…it will have to be put on hold.
WV: I know you've been in contact with Vigilem. If you visit him in person, let him know that I'm sorry the past few days have been so hectic. I need to meet with the Trypticon delegation later today, but I should be able to check in with him tomorrow.

Which would all be cause to roll his optics, except that she still hasn't admitted what she's doing. 'Something' and 'it' are nothing words. Filler.

She's avoiding the subject. And the one thing that gets Windvoice well and stupidly stubborn is -

SS: You idiot.
SS: This is about that giant yellow birdbrain, isn't it.
SS: That's the only reason you would try to fob me off with such weak excuses!
WV: Starscream -
SS: Oh, no, this is wonderful! This will be just fine!
SS: I SAY, BEFORE YOU GO GALLAVANTING OFF TO GET YOURSELF EATEN BY A RACIST BIRD!

Across the desk, Soundwave winces and presses a hand to his audial. Well, too bad. He should know better than to eavesdrop.

WV: I'm not sure that counts as ra-
SS: I DON'T CARE!

Buzzsaw starts impugning the quality control of Starscream' factory assembly line in normal, unencrypted binary, while Soundwave looks up to the ceiling as though beseeching Windvoice in her office up above. From the way she's talking, Starscream expected her to be halfway through the space bridge.

WV: Yes. They've asked that I check on Chela's status.
WV: They have kept his spark stable in the absence of his processor, in the hopes that he can be resuscitated.
WV: We owe them a debt for that. Chela deserv-
SS: It's like you're ACTIVELY trying to give me an aneurysm. There are easier ways to assassinate someone, you know!
WV: Starscream, please. Calm down.
SS: I AM CALM!
WV: I'm sorry. Chromia will be with me, and Chela…is in no state to move. I'll be fine.
SS: Oh, naturally.
WV: I trust you. Hold things down here until I get back.

Ugh. The T-word. He hates it - hates the way it defuses something inside him when she says it. It's cheating.

SS: Obviously. We'll paint Transmutate's face and have her give that rousing speech you neglected to make in the wake of utter disaster. No one will notice the difference.
WV: I did address everyone. You were just unconscious.
SS: …
WV: It will be alright. I promise.

Starscream mashes his face into his hands with a groan. Through his fingers, he sees Soundwave pop his carrier deck open. Buzzsaw transforms in without prompting, muttering sourly all the way.

Soundwave's always listening, always probing. Starscream dislikes the look of his visor.

SS: Just. Please. Don't bring it back with you. That's exactly what we need, to hand Onyx his Titan on a silver platter.
WV: As tempting as that sounds, I'll somehow restrain myself.
SS: You have my undying gratitude.
WV: You're welcome.

"Fascinating," Soundwave says, as Starscream closes comms and starts methodically applying his forehead to the desk. "Starscream - committed."

Slag, and look where it gets him. "Use all the words," Starscream snaps, because when Soundwave talks like that, it's less a descriptor and more a part of his name. [Starscream_[committed]].

What garbage.

With a haughty sniff, he rises from his desk. "If that's all, I need my office back."

-

In the end, he, Transmutate, and Bumblebee wind up in one of the atrium rooms. It has too many windows for Starscream's liking - some of this is confidential, some of it not fit to leak to the media without some polish - but Bumblebee announces flatly that there's not enough space in either Starscream's or Transmutate's rooms for him to think, let alone help with everything that gets forwarded from Windvoice's desk, along with Starscream's own work, and that he reserves the right to climb out a ground-floor window if Starscream starts screeching at someone.

Transmutate serves as the primary filter; she tags datapads and reports and messages by topic and priority, and then sorts them further into those that Bumblebee can deal with without government clearance; those that she can respond to by rote, occasionally with a passable imitation of Windvoice's message signature; and those that Starscream needs to actually hammer out an official response for.

Not that he's overly concerned about Bumblebee's security clearance. He already knows far too much.

Bumblebee is unimpressed, but that doesn't stop him from helping. If it gives him an opening to moralize at Starscream, he's physically incapable of passing it up. "You're seriously pretending that Windvoice is still on planet?" he says, skeptically, as he dangles a datapad in front of his face. "Starscream, remember how sometimes I told you you're needlessly convoluted, and that the truth would cause you fewer problems in the long run?"

Starscream silently mouths 'needlessly convoluted' to himself, mockingly, behind the cover of his own screen. "I have not yet begun to convolute," he retorts, as he signs off on Ironhide's suggestion that they comb through the wreckage of Scorpnok's ships for intel on the things he was working for. Worldsweepers were notorious for many things, including the complete absence of a memory core self-destruct mechanism. "You absolute plebeian."

"Good," Bumblebee says, in a voice quiet enough that Starscream can ignore him. He has never needed Bumblebee's approval. Let alone over something as simple as covering for their world leader playing hooky. No one needs to know that Windvoice is gone unless it's an emergency.

A message from Rewind, informing him that now Rodimus is missing. Starscream considers this excellent news, and flicks it into junk mail with a flourish. Nothing from Arcee - but then, he doesn't expect anything from her short of an explosion and/or a dead body. The continuous stream of green reports from the ultraviolet team goes on the backburner. He's only interested if they find someone compromised or braindead.

Shockwave is attempting to comm him. Ugh.

SW: Starscream. A word.
SS: Seriously? Soundwave hasn't fought you for that tag yet?
SW: He has never succeeded before. He recognizes a futile endeavor when he sees one.
SW: o)
SS: I'm blocking you. It's a form of self-care, you understand -
SW: One of these medics just expressed his surprise that none of Killmaster's targets were 'splinched.'
SW: I cannot work in these conditions. I require my lab.

Wheeljack's lab.

Starscream blocks the comm before the sharp jolt in his chest finishes rocking through him. Of course Bumblebee notices - of course - but Starscream jerks his head away and refuses to look up from his screens until the too-familiar weight of Bumblebee's gaze fades.

(If Wheeljack weren't dead, he'd probably be buried in his lab, trying to solve all this from a different angle. Starscream would have a convenient excuse to leave off for an hour, and drag him outside.

He stops thinking about it.

About anything.)

Without warning, Transmutate's right audial starts emitting a music jingle. She resets her optics, helm cocked to the side, and then perks up. "I have to take this call real quick, sir. Is that okay?" she asks, cheerily, even as the silver frame of her audial unfolds to extend a microphone alongside her mouth.

He could not care less. Taking his grunt as an affirmative, Transmutate darts to the door and steps out for a moment. "Ave-ave, Rose - !" she chatters, her voice suddenly an octave higher, before the door muffles the sound.

Another comm alert on his personal line, when Transmutate skips back in a few minutes later. With an exasperated huff, Starscream tosses his next datapad to Transmutate like a disc - she snatches it out of the air without looking, arm a blur - and stands. "What," he mutters, as he strides to the window.

Nothing but static.

Odd. Starscream replays it, glaring at an offensively bright yellow flower outside - Metroplex is absolutely infested - but can detect no distortion or encryption. Some idiot without a tag handle sent him a burst of white noise. He would call it Jazz's idea of a joke, usually as a prelude to a raid, but he's among the missing. So far as they know, anyway.

He's put off Ultra Magnus's latest census. For obvious reasons.

Namely, Ultra Magnus is insufferably boring. Ironhide's not much better, but he doesn't complain about your punctuation when you reply to him. Starscream's not sure how the Autobots didn't die of boredom en masse when they were dealing with this.

Bumblebee is eyeballing him again. Starscream grimaces and pushes back from the window, downloading the full report as he glares past Bumblebee and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" Bumblebee calls, as Starscream exits. "I'm not doing all your paperwork for you, you know! This is a favor as a friend, not -"

"You can last five minutes without me holding your hand," Starscream says, with a roll of his optics. Then he heads out into the corridor, and waits for the door to slide smoothly shut behind him before walking a few paces down the hall.

The hall's empty on purpose; Starscream couldn't do much about the windows, but he could have security redirect any traffic to other sectors of the government building. The atriums and courtyards tend to attract Camiens and other colonists, but they're quiet now. Starscream can hear the faint sound of wind stirring down the hall, where it leads outside.

He leans his helm back against the wall, pinches his brow, and sets a keyword blacklist for Wheeljack's name. The act of doing it basically negates the point.

Then he runs through the updated report, processor throbbing slightly as he matches names to old dossiers.

Ultra Magnus is meticulous about the math. He has exact percentages for the missing, categorized by faction, ex- or otherwise. Nautica gets a percentage to herself as a Camien member of the Lost Light. Killmaster didn't discriminate - there are almost as many Decepticons missing as there are Autobots. The neutrals took enough of a hit that they'll probably be up in arms complaining about getting caught in the crossfire again, but they haven't been as militantly organized since -

Well. With Metalhawk gone, Starscream and Windvoice's respective efforts have largely neutered them. Something to keep tabs on, regardless.

Then Starscream frowns. There's another comm in his inbox, with the same static where the tag should be.

More importantly, Ultra Magnus missed the actual point. They all did. Killmaster ended the Siege of Chi-2 by teleporting all Autobots officers in the system into a pocket dimension, followed by the heavy hitters. No one ever actually located the victims of Thollion after they disappeared. On the surface, what he's done to Neo-Cybertron looks random. Sloppy. He grabbed whoever he could reach, and jumbled the rest.

But if Killmaster wanted to weaken them, he knows precisely how. Of all Windvoice's seconds, only Lightbright and Wheeljack are gone. Lightbright is loyal, but replaceable. All he's really done is cripple the scientific arm - and even then, he left one of the most dangerous minds on the planet untouched.

The dangerous mind he freed from the singularity in the first place; the dangerous mind he helped build a signal booster that finished drawing Unicron down to Cybertron.

Shockwave claimed to have deduced the same thing that Windvoice did - that Cybertron deliberately sent out an energy transmission to summon Unicron in its slow death. Killmaster just…helped, because there's a disturbing solidarity between Decepticon scientists when the opportunity to kill a planet in a brand new way lies before them. Wheeljack kept the two of them on a leash, but never got more than that out of them.

"I find you tedious," Killmaster said. "I never look back."

This is giving Starscream a migraine. He prides himself on his ability to ferret out schemes and decipher the motives of others, but this is ridiculous. He shoves away from the wall and stalks away from the door, toward the open air columns. A flight might help, maybe. The cold, sharp air could help him focus. Or - there's something odd about flying in deep space now, with his shuttle frame. Meditative, he'd say, but that's a horribly Windvoice-esque thought.

He doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He wants -

- a wall in front of his face.

Starscream stops dead, his frame mere centimeters from slamming into a wall that blocks off the hallway.

After a moment of thorough consideration, he says, "What."

When the wall doesn't move, Starscream resets his optics, then turns around. The stretch of hallway he just came down looks exactly the way he left it.

But there's a door directly to his right, the security panel bright beside it. An unoccupied meeting room, if Ironhide's security did their job.

[Star-scream,] the security panel says, hopefully. Another burst of static pings him when Metroplex notices him looking in the right direction.

Oh, slag no. "Do not even start that with me," he snaps, glaring at the corners to try to find a camera. This is the kind of nonsense he expects on a trip to Vigilem, not in the overgrown Autobot that houses the government. "What, is there no one else around here you can babble at?!"

The security panel is slow to respond. For a moment the screen glitches and almost crashes with the mess of glyphs Metroplex tries to push through it. Starscream reaches the limits of his patience after giving it a solid klik, and rolls his eyes as he walks away.

Another wall folds out and boxes him off. [STAR-SCREAM,] the security panel blares, in a cloud of disapproval.

…Windvoice isn't here. Blowing up one little wall won't hurt, surely. Starscream eyes the rearranged hall, and surreptitiously onlines the gun in his forearm. "Remember the Battle of Li Lia?" he asks, casual as one pleases. "The Huoxi Front? Socroria V?" He knows there were other battles where the Decepticons successfully infiltrated Metroplex, when he was the Autobot's mobile fortress, but those are the ones he recalls participating in off the top of his head.

Metroplex doesn't yield. [Luna¹ speaks,] the security panel insists.

Ah. So this is deliberate. Starscream should've known that Metroplex still held a grudge. "Can you seriously not inflict this trauma on someone else?" he says, pained.

The security panel burns white hot as Metroplex floods it again. Starscream can detect the distinct aroma of circuits frying in the wall as the Titan tries to piece together a coherent sentence. He half-expects Bumblebee to come knocking at his new living quarters any minute now.

[Pending message from [inquisitive] Tempo,] Metroplex manages at last. The glyphs glitch and fragment on the screen; his tenses are a travesty.

The name glyphs ring a bell. A very vague bell. A bell he doesn't care about right now. Starscream starts pacing the diagonal of his walled up prison, kicking Metroplex on every other pass. "Fine! Whatever! I don't care. Look at me not caring. Was that all?" he demands, smacking his palm against the door.

[Chela stirs.]

[where now the sky-rider?]

And again, that blast of static. Which Starscream supposes is preferable to having Metroplex dump utter nonsense on him, but -

He slams a fist against the wall without feeling it, and leans in over the security panel. "A name. Give me the name," he hisses through his teeth. Good thing he's cut off, actually - the last thing he needs is for someone to witness him talking to a wall. Again.

Bright blue lines sketch out a map on the tiny screen - Metroplex from above, then Censere next door. It zooms out further, the lines multiplying to mark out Caminus by the river, Vigilem a dark spot beside it. Given the trouble that Lightbright claimed to have with Metroplex's long range sensors, this must strain what the great oaf is capable of. Then, when the security panel is a maze of tight lines, too packed to interpret - Metroplex sends the static again.

[Onyx^[Prime],] the Titan insists. [Where now?]

-

The wall sinks into the floor before Starscream can shoot through it.

SS: Where is Onyx.
IH: What? Starscream, what're you -

Too slow, too slow.

Starscream exits the nearest window mid-transformation, shattering glass all over the mossy garden, thrusters screaming.

He could run a scan of his own. He's not going to find anything. Idiot! Onyx Prime's optic craft may not have a space bridge, but it blinked Chromia and Arcee back with Liege Maximo in hand in no time at all.

And of all people, Onyx Prime wouldn't need a Titan to return to Eukaris.

A jet intercepts him halfway to the space bridge. Slipstream tries to be clever and slip underneath him, her sharp, gritty teal wings drawn in tight, but Trypticon's ilk are barely a year old and overeager. Starscream's sensors pick up on the other one on the roofs below in her unnervingly Dinobot-like mode, the feathered spines of her tail lashing as she leaps from one building to the next in pursuit.

Oh, for slag's sake. Windvoice missed her meeting.

Slipstream lunges for his right rear thruster, transforming to haul him down. No finesse. Starscream rolls out of the way - he does not have time for this - and ignores her flailing as she tumbles and then transforms to chase after him.

SS: Where is Speaker Windvoice! She is late!
SS: Wha- oh for - change your tag!
SS: No! Is that a challenge?!
SS: Oh, don't be stupid. This is stupid!

Too many tight corridors between him and the open space of the space bridge chamber; he lands hard in root mode and takes off running into the depths of Metroplex. Slash drops down from the roof, the sharp-toothed mask of her alt mode sliding back - you can barely call it a transformation when she straightens - and darts after him.

Slipstream comes howling after them on the wing, and nearly crashes at the first turn. Except - no - Starscream's busy trying to run, here, but Slipstream hits the wall with predatory precision, already in root mode, her knees and foot thrusters adjusting in a neat pivot to launch her down the next hall.

Oh, fantastic. She's better in close quarters.

"Where is Speaker Windvoice?" Slash says, her voice low but carrying over Starscream's loud steps. She moves almost silently, agile. Not as quick-tempered or proud as Slipstream, either, and most certainly the one to watch out of Trypticon's new Council members. Her tapered optics sharpen. "You smell of anguish."

"I smell perfectly fresh!" Starscream shrieks, equal parts horrified and offended.

"I will fight you for this name if I must!" Slipstream bellows back, sounding almost gleeful about it.

He does not need a cultural faux pas on top of an imminent, spontaneous invasion of another Council world. He's pinged all of Ironhide's forces that he can, as well as his two sad Badgeless, but by the time he hits the space bridge chamber he's discarded that plan. Technically, he and Windvoice both visited Eukaris as ambassadors the first time; he can spin that if need be. Any escort can and probably will be taken as a show of force, and Neo-Cybertron has an unfortunate, totally unjustified reputation in the Council of Worlds for bursting in unannounced.

Slash's scent sensors flare, sharper than her optics. "She is in danger," Slash says, like it's already an established fact. "We will assist."

Metroplex's space bridge is already active, crackling blue and humming. Behind the terminal, the apprentice Apocrypha looks up from her controls with a look of abject terror. Said terror deepens to the point of panic when she sees Starscream and two Tryptichs barreling down on her. "I don't know why it activated! Speaker Windvoice hasn't sent word that she's coming back!" she says.

Metroplex better know how to aim.

"Fine!" Starscream yells as Slash. This might as well happen.

"None of this! Is proper space bridge procedure!" Apocrypha shouts after them, as they shoot through the gate.

---

our mouths are wounds

that speak in tongues of

healing.

[…]

our lips are

red for a reason.

- Kaiein of Caminus, <<bloodsport>>

---

Prowl is gone.

Funny. Even after watching him deteriorate - even knowing that Prowl was in no state to help anyone, especially not himself - Arcee wonders where he ended up. She went looking for him on Earth, years ago now, and it burnt something out in her. Like hell is she going after him again.

Still. She wonders.

At least Starscream keeps things interesting, these days. When he's not a menace. He's ditched the secret police and gone downright domestic under Windvoice. She could claim that she hangs around solely to keep tabs on him, but that would be a lie. With Prowl out of the game, and Arcee unable to look Optimus in the optic, Starscream offers something priceless - the opportunity for violence, sanctioned or otherwise. She needs a distraction, in the wake of Galvatron's death and all the things she doesn't think about, and Starscream provides.

Though she could do without him and Windvoice dredging up all the old drama. Arcee is aware that she doesn't process the same way that other Cybertronians do - never has, even before Jhiaxus dug into her spark and started cutting - but the Thirteen were done. A cold lump of millennia-old slag: irrelevant, inert, and tiring to think about.

Then Windvoice goes and cracks the outer shell, and all the boiling metal inside comes surging out. Liege Maximo. Onyx Prime.

Solus.

Arcee doesn't put stock in an afterlife. But somewhere, Galvatron is laughing at her.

(As though he was ever one to talk. Sometimes, she thinks Megatronus's death broke Galvatron as much as Solus's did Arcee. By all the standards of the time, Galvatron came out more well-adjusted - he channeled his rage into an uprising and slaughtered Nexus Prime by his own hand - but in the long run, where did any of it get him?

The Dead Universe altered him irrevocably. She dropped a ship on his head from orbit, and it barely made a dent. By the time they met again, on Earth, there was so very little left of him. Every time she spoke to him, he seemed to be burning - a fever of the mind, of the spark that the Dead Universe hollowed out. The shell of her twin barely remembered their old bitterness.)

"Hey, Arcee!"

Enough.

Anyone with a sense of self-preservation gives Arcee a wide berth for fear of sudden death, so there's room on the street for someone to ignore mixed air/ground traffic precautions. Arcee doesn't pause as the vermillion and white spaceplane scoots in beside her and transforms. She's learned to take Aileron in stride. The short, round Camien immediately starts jogging to keep up.

Apparently, recent events have soured Aileron enough on humans - and on Optimus - to the point that Arcee's company is preferable. Which is really saying something. Optimus's entire operation is in shambles since the Matrix was destroyed, and only the real diehards are backing him as Earth once again pushes for its rights as a sovereign planet. Their latest line is that the Matrix doesn't make a true Prime - which Arcee could care less about. It sounds hokier every time they say it. The rest have defected to either Jupiter or Neo-Cybertron; Cosmos is in regular communication with Soundwave from the far side of the space gate.

Arcee doesn't care anymore. If Orion wants to keep smothering his pet project, and Alpha Trion wants to keep backing him, that's their business. She and Galvatron both should've known better than to fall in with people calling themselves Prime. And a disillusioned Aileron is marginally better company than the Aileron who kept trying and failing to reconcile Optimus's vision with her amica's death.

"Aileron," she says, with a curt nod. They're on top of the maintenance hatch already; Aileron keeps walking for a few paces when Arcee stops to pry the panel open.

The Camien's smile looks drained. Wobbly. "Need backup?" she asks.

Sounds like she expects the 'no.' "I don't need anything," Arcee says. For the record. Skipping the ladder, she drops into the dark. There's a trick to landing silently that only partly involves stealth mods and shock absorbers.

Then she glances back up at Aileron. "Come on, then."

Aileron's namesakes flap with glee as she hops down, her yellow optics bright. Her smile still looks weak, but Arcee's not much of a judge.

"You left," Aileron says, after a minute or so of navigating the maintenance tunnels.

Arcee grunts. She suspects that they'll be filtration system-deep before this is over.

Aileron laughs, quietly. The sound echoes in the confined space; Arcee sighs, detecting a tight junction ahead, and changes her planned route to accommodate Aileron. "Your business, I know. Just wish you'd said - something. Sideswipe was all, 'that's just Arcee,' and Cosmos said, 'she's like a really sharp leaf in the wind that could kill you really dead when she soars,' and that wasn't exactly helpful when you just vanished without telling anyone." She says all of it in the space of one vent cycle, illustrating Cosmos's point with hand motions, then throws her hands out to either side.

It's probably intended to be demonstrative. Arcee waits for her to get to the point. There's usually a point to these things, though people can be irritatingly indirect about spitting it out.

Finally, Aileron sighs. "What are we doing here, Arcee?"

"Spider hunting."

Aileron's face looks peaky as she squeezes in between two humming pipes. "I meant more generally. But now that you mention it - why are we hunting spiders?"

Because the spider in question in a mnemosurgeon, and Arcee viscerally dislikes those who would alter someone else's fundamental being. Because Starscream asked, and it's something to do to avoid the resurgent Prime drama. Because Tarantulus made a bad first impression, and Arcee expects this Airachnid to be equally insufferable. All of the above. She darts into a vent to bypass a secure door, and swings back down on the far side to hit the release mechanism. "Call Sideswipe if you want. If Optimus is still moping, he might as well come make himself useful."

Aileron stands in the doorway, fists on her hips, when Arcee shoots the lock open. "Are you trying to rid of me?" she demands. "If I'm annoying you, just say so."

"If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here," Arcee says. But Aileron's redundant questions can wait; her sensors pick up the vibrations through the floor long before the muffled sound of voices reaches her. Working with Prowl had its perks. But -

Her glower is reflexive. One of the voices is irrelevant. The other is familiar. "Speaking of annoying," she mutters, to Aileron's confused frown, before plunging a sword through the wall and kicking through it like tissue paper.

It's not really necessary. But Cyclonus needs to remember his damn place.

The minibot with him has terrible instincts - hops off his hover board and tries to throw punches first and ask questions later. Fortunately for him, Cyclonus hauls him back, eyeing Arcee like he wants to chuck his sword through her chest, smash her upside the head with a recharge terminal, and book it so that there's enough distance between them that he and his minibot might survive the ensuing rampage.

It's a remarkably detailed look. There are times when Cyclonus is easier to read than the remaining 99% of the Cybertronian population, and times when he's just annoying.

"Cyclonus," Arcee says, stowing her energy sword. Behind her, Aileron gapes at the shredded wall, mouth ajar.

Cyclonus has his temper, but he's always known when he's outmatched. Warily, he sets the minibot down behind him - as if she couldn't go through him, easy - and rises from his crouch. She can't pretend not to recognize his posture: he never let go of the old courtesies. The ones she never cared about, the ones that are supposed to keep people from ripping each other's heads off. Dull.

The minibot sticks his head out from behind Cyclonus. "Are we not fighting?" he asks, visor lit skeptically as he looks up.

Cyclonus grimaces, looking vaguely ill. His default expression. "Absolutely not, Tailgate."

Tailgate still looks skeptical. But he shrugs, peering at Aileron. "Okay. It's like everyone's down here, these days! Don't know why. I've been underground enough for like. Twelve lifetimes."

Aileron finally gets over the wall's untimely end and waves a hand at them. "Who the heck are you people?" she demands, with that aggressive edge of authority she doesn't technically have. Not on Cybertron, anyway.

"Who the heck are you?" Tailgate jabs a finger at her.

"Well, I'll third that," a Decepticon says, leaning out into the junction. "Who the heck are any of us, reall- oh slag it's Arcee."

He flings himself bodily out of the line of fire - and knocks into two other people around the corner with an resounding crash.

Oh, for slag's sake. The place is infested. With this many people traipsing through the under city, tracking Airachnid is going to be a hassle. Arcee rolls her optics and scans the hall for her next move. The whole city's crawling with 'Cons, and these ones appear to be functionally incompetent.

"I'm Aileron," Aileron says, distractedly. She and Tailgate stare, fascinated, at the corner, where the three Decepticons are freaking out in loud whispers. "…Are they alright?"

"No," Arcee says, bluntly, and strides past all of them.

The three come out with their hands up. They completely fail to notice Arcee walking by as they step into the main hallway. "Uh. Misfire, Spinister, and Crankcase! We come in peace! Please don't kill us!" the first one announces, while the other two look resigned to their impending demise.

Then he does a double take. "Wait, where the slag did she -"

"Tailgate and Cyclonus," Tailgate replies. "Yeah, you just missed her."

Arcee keeps walking. Cyclonus can enjoy whatever inane nonsense just got unloaded on him; she has a job to do. "Arcee? Wait up!" Aileron calls, jogging after her.

The voices follow despite Arcee's best efforts to tune them out. "Anyway. Since we're not dead…Either of you seen a dinosaur around here?"

Tailgate sounds dubious. "No. We're looking for someone, too. I guess we're searching in that direction now?"

Walking faster.

Aileron shoots cagey glances over her shoulder until they find a maintenance shaft down to the next level of Metroplex. Eventually, the voices recede in the distance.

It's not quiet down here. Not like the dark, dead underside of Cybertron that was. Metroplex is a living infrastructure, his internals never silent. More of the deep passages are lit than before - dim blue and purple and yellow strips of light that pulse in time with a distant sparkbeat. The place is in better shape than it used to be.

Aileron doesn't complain again. With Chromia, silence tended to be brooding. Arcee can't spare the focus from the hunt to try to interpret Aileron's expression right now.

Airachnid is good. Arcee is better.

But the signs she picks up first - the barely perceptible scratch marks on the floor, the faint electro-pheromonal trail registering on her chemoreceptors - don't belong to an arachnid alt. Arthropoda, definitely. Someone's been squatting down here in the sublevel between the filtration system's energon clarifying tanks and the plumbing system for a few days, at least. They're trying to be subtle, but failing miserably.

They panic.

To be fair, this is a typical response to Arcee's arrival in most inhabited star systems.

The yellowish-green insect bolts, his wings buzzing frantically as he skims out of an open pipe and dives down into the clarifier pool with a gurgling splash. Arcee wonders if the energon is supposed to be a deterrent. She swings back the grate and drops through the sharp, tangy air, and lands hard. Deliberately. When she rises, energon streaming down her face, she smiles.

The wasp wails, and instantly transforms out of alt mode to prostrate himself at her feet, sobbing. "Waspinator is so sorry!"

"For what?" Aileron calls from the grate above. Despite the fact that she can fly, she seems averse to landing in the tank. "Arcee, that's not an arachnid alt. I think."

"Please don't hurt Waspinator," Waspinator continues. His violet, faceted optics stream sparks down his segmented face; they fizzle in the half-charged energon of the tank, turning the dull purple an energized pink. "Waspinator just wanted to go. Won't get in the way of the dangerous ones anymore! Waspinator didn't know about the webs!"

Something about the speech pattern nudges at the back of Arcee's mind. The overuse of a designation, in place of a personal pronoun glyph. An old memory - old enough to be fogged by time.

Hm.

She's more interested in [webs].

Still smiling, Arcee narrows her eyes. "Talk."

Chapter Text

---

Exes and the oh, oh, ohs they haunt me

Like ghosts they want me to make 'em all

They won't let go

- Rosanna of Devisiun, <<exes and ohs>>

---

At one point, Wheeljack slapped together a quick and dirty algorithm for handling Megatron encounters. If in a group of twenty or less, then run like hell; alternatively, if Optimus is around, assist at long range, and try to work around them. When in doubt, still run like hell, particularly if you're supposed to be an inoffensive scientist and your weapon loadout mainly consists of experimental, technically unauthorized bomb-shaped objects.

It worked for about a century or five and got a lot of mileage on the Autobot 'net; then Megatron got reformatted from a gun back into a tank, and Wheeljack gave it up as a bad job.

Prowl freezes for approximately half a second before trying to whip around and shoot him.

Wheeljack reacts without thinking, yanking Prowl back around in a moment of pure, appalled panic. "Prowl, no. Holy slag, no," he hisses.

Prowl just shoots him a flat look. "Can you really say that to me. Really," he says, deadpan, jiggling his arm to try to free it.

Wheeljack clamps down on his wrist with a death grip. Time to break the bad news, because Prowl's logic processor is a hot fragging mess. "I'm 90% sure that gun is just in your imagination," he says, grimly. "And if you can't take him out in one shot, you won't get another."

Prowl opens his mouth - looks down at the gun in his hand - then, slowly, his mouth morphing into a silent 'oh' of appalled outrage, looks back at Wheeljack.

Point - made. Wheeljack pats him gingerly on the arm and rises from his crouch. "I'll take point," he says, cheerfully, and then rounds the corner before either Prowl or his own no-good logic processor can tell him otherwise.

Ratchet used to have a good line about pain, for the poor slaggers who manually switched off their pain sensors or got hooked on neurocircuit killers. Something about pain letting the brain know that something was wrong. Wheeljack wondered whether Ratchet picked up the phrase from Rung, or vice versa, 'cause Rung said something similar for fear. The Wreckers attracted people who had issues with both.

The sight of Megatron standing just a few paces away doesn't fill him with fear. Muted alarm, yeah, and apprehension. Not fear. There's something fundamentally weird about seeing a red badge on his chest instead of purple.

A year on the Lost Light, with a few months reportedly of pacifism, versus millions of years of the Slagmaker.

Hoo boy.

At least he's ditched the fusion cannon. He's got a mining drill on one arm and a medical kit on the other, marked by a red emblem. If Megatron's acting, it's a good act - his face is creased in a cautious frown, his hands raised palms up to show that they're empty, as Wheeljack approaches. No terrifyingly cruel smile, no brutal, sadistic calculation in his field. Only a glimmer of recognition and a faint cant of his chin as he identifies Wheeljack. If it weren't for the terrifyingly familiar silhouette, he'd almost seem like a normal mech.

"Megatron," Wheeljack says, to kick things off again. He's aiming for light and congenial, but his vocalizer glitches a little. Keep it cool. Casual.

Megatron nods, his deep voice perfectly cordial yet still careful, like he's used to the weird, out of character politeness going down like a ton of bricks. "Wheeljack. Prowl." He glances over Wheeljack's head toward the street corner, but Prowl's not moving an inch. "It was not my intention to conceal myself from you. Nor do I have anything to do with our current…predicament. Someone flew overhead, and it seemed prudent to take cover."

Fair. Wheeljack hooks a thumb on his hip, forcing his body language to relax a notch. "Overlord. Yeah, we saw. He here for you?" he asks, only halfway joking. Overlord's obsession with Megatron is definitely a capital-t Thing. If Overlord's roving around on the hunt for Megatron, odds are he'll still smite any Autobots he sees as target practice, but Prowl can probably work with that.

Megatron grimaces. "Most likely. There are - extenuating circumstances. But I wouldn't rely on them to apply here."

What do you know? Wheeljack's exchanged more than five civil words with Megatron, and he hasn't tried to kill him. Might be a new record. (No one in Rodimus's crew counts, honestly.)

"By all means, explain," Prowl calls around the corner, unamused.

Was that a flicker of irritation? Or just resignation? Megatron's temper is violent, not subtle. "A year or so ago, Overlord struck at myself, Rodimus, and the crew of the Lost Light in an alliance with Deathsaurus and the Justice Division," Megatron says, his neutral tone glancing right over everything implied by the DJD. "But he withdrew from the final confrontation, claiming that he no longer needed me. That I was no longer worth his time or his focus. Unless he's revised his stance on that, I may not be his target."

"We'll take that under advisement." Gun still in hand, Prowl scowls as he stalks toward them. There's a bitter edge in his mouth.

Hastily, Wheeljack steps in. After a year of managing a lab populated by Shockwave, Killmaster, Brainstorm, and Nautica, he's pretty used to running interference and mediating between volatile, sometimes hilariously incongruent personalities - and Prowl is the definition of volatile. Come to think of it, Megatron is, too. Or was. He's not gonna trust to Megatron's newfound pacifism to prevent an incident. "Anyway, I doubt either of us would see you if you were one of the illusions running around the place," he chatters, checking his scanner to mark the spatial anomaly down as Megatron. He kind of wishes he had Ratchet's stethoscope to borrow and take a listen with, because he doesn't even know what's going on in Megatron's chest right now. "So you're probably real, too."

Megatron's mouth quirks. "Not necessarily the best news, I imagine," he says, and Primus. Just the concept of Megatron having a droll, self-deprecating sense of humor? Mind-blowing. "You've seen them too, then."

Prowl shifts his weight, and a comm slides in on a frequency Wheeljack can barely read.

PR: This is a joke.
WJ: Play it cool. Please.

"I know you have no reason to work with me, and a thousand reasons not to. But given the nature of this place, I'm not sure we can afford to give up the advantage of numbers." Megatron's optics tighten. When he gestures to the nearest building, Prowl twitches. Wheeljack steers him out of the way with an iron grip and an utterly benign smile as he follows Megatron. "Tell me what you see here."

Wheeljack looks. "Uh, a door." It's pretty normal, as doors go - apart from the fact that, until Wheeljack turns his attention to it, his scanner is pretty sure there's nothing on the other side but a void. The wall above the door sports another engraving, but that's about it. Something in Old Cybertronian; the glyphs blur when he tries to focus on them. Standard recharge feedback scrap.

Megatron scrutinizes the same door. "Are you sure?"

Still not dead, so hey. "I mean, none of this is real, so - no," he admits, scratching the back of his helm. He raises his scanner to snap a picture of the inscription, to be polite. "It looks like the Spectralist Afterspark, but that doesn't mean much."

Megatron shakes his head, stroking his chin as he frowns at the door. "No. This isn't an afterlife."

"Says the notorious atheist," Prowl mutters.

"Says the other notorious atheist," Megatron replies, mildly.

Prowl's field sours further. He tugs away and directs his glare down the street, jaw twitching.

Wheeljack shrugs. "Eh."

Diplomatically ignoring Prowl's hostility, Megatron traces his fingers over the engravings - he's tall enough to do it without reaching. He frowns, and Wheeljack sees him mouth something before withdrawing his hand. "I suspect we're caught in one of Killmaster's pocket dimensions," he says, aloud. The firm, blunt confidence in his voice makes Wheeljack shudder - it's a watered-down version of the voice that broke worlds, but still. It hits just the right note to make Wheeljack cringe internally. "I know that he has several. There was a flash of green before loss of consciousness set in; the sensation is distinctive."

Prowl whips around, his grip white-knuckled on the gun, so fast that Wheeljack flinches again. Too tense - you could string him on a sitar and play. "You have a way out," Prowl breathes.

Unfazed, Megatron waggles his hand in a so-so gesture. "If this is one of Killmaster's traps, then yes. Theoretically. I familiarized myself with all of the Warriors Elite's methods, to ensure that I could counter them. But not a reliable one. Not one that I would trust others to."

Yeah. Megatron having an easy way out? Too good to be true. From the haunted look in Prowl's eye, he'd prefer to shoot first and pry the secret out of Megatron's dead body. Wheeljack sighs. "Can't rule Unicron out yet, either," he adds, since that's still on the table. Killmaster could've dumped them in a pocket dimension or the hungry planet - the mech had options.

A long moment of silence. "Unicron," Megatron repeats, voice flat.

Wheeljack would sympathize with being out of the loop for a year, 'cept the reason he was out of the loop for a year was because Megatron had him shot in the head. Whoops. "Let's just say that stuff happened while you've been away," he says, tactfully.

"A bit of an understatement, Wheeljack," a familiar voice rumbles, full of warm, quiet humor.

Wheeljack's tanks drop out from under him. He feels like he's falling as he turns, and meets Optimus's fond eyes.

-

It's a balmy, sunny day. Water splashes and gurgles in the fountain, the fine clear spray refracting the light in a rainbow. The walls are a pale, washed blue, with crystal gardens shining on the flat rooftops in cultivated shades of white and pink; the shining, chrome-plated roads slope down gently in scenic curves along the beaches of tumbled corundum. Not Tetrahex, his mind supplies - Ithakos, on the shore of the Mare Ingenii. No sea contained water on old Cybertron or its moon, but the place used to be a hotspot for people who could afford to take vacations. Senators, mostly, and the upper echelons with the wealth and social credit to laugh off any fines the Functionist Council might try to levy on them.

Someone kicks the water in the fountain, their laughter oddly muted in Wheeljack's audials. He gets the impression of a thronging, colorful crowd in the square, sightseers gossiping with the local venders, but he can't seem to look away from Optimus. He gleams in the sun, glossy with fresh paint, the corners of his optics crinkled in a genuine smile, his shoulders straight but loose, relaxed. No need to stand at attention anymore; no standard to set for the sake of morale.

Here, they can rest.

Wheeljack's throat feels dry and tight. "Optimus, I -"

"See, see?" Starscream raps his knuckles against Optimus's arm, preening as he beams with smug satisfaction. Optimus quirks a brow, bemusedly resigned to the mech-handling as Starscream nudges him. "Did I not tell you I'd find him, Wheeljack?"

He can't stop stuttering. The surprise is too much. A breeze winds through the street, cool against the tense armor plates of his back. "I - don't -"

Starscream's easy smile is full of mischief as he hooks his arm through Wheeljack's, swinging it between them. No guns integrated in his forearms. He hums against Wheeljack's audial as Optimus rests a hand on Wheeljack's free shoulder.

He can't feel the weight of expectation or disappointment. Just welcome. Optimus's regard feels as refreshing as the breeze off the sea. His voice is deep, but not grave. "Wheeljack. It is good to see you again. It means more than I can say, to have everyone whole again, and safe." He crinkles his optics further. "You look happy together. I'm glad."

He's still falling. But the warm, sunny day cushions him, amid the bustle and noise of a city that had a mobile fortress dropped on it out of orbit three million years ago. Starscream fusses and fidgets for a moment before leaning comfortably against Wheeljack's arm, and there's no humming tension of targeting systems and old grudges in the air. When he thinks about it, Wheeljack's…not sure he has a targeting system. If he accesses it, his HUD usually just feeds him info about the weather, the public IDs pinging around him, blurbs from the science 'zines he's subscribed to.

"See? I told you, didn't I?" Starscream says, smugly. That's the trick with him - seeing past the coaxing smile to genuine emotion underneath. "I knew he would approve of me. You worry too much."

It's a balm that eases something Wheeljack could barely admit to himself was a wound. His own voice rings hollow, in the face of Optimus's easy stance, of the bright sky and the salty-sweet sting of the sea. "No. That's - You two hate each other." That's not right, either. It was something more than personal. Optimus is already ambling away, nodding to the passersby who wave at him in dizzy excitement. "The war. Neither of you trusts the other."

"War? Piffle. You really do worry too much, dear Wheeljack," Starscream says, shading his violet optics with a hand as he glances distractedly down the road, back toward the fountain. He tugs on Wheeljack's arm with a roll of his eyes. "The oil taffy here is to die for. Shall we?"

"I - sure. Sounds good." When Starscream sniffs in mock-offense, Wheeljack smiles. He's not falling anymore; he knows the rhythm now. "Sounds great."

As he moves to walk with Starscream toward the fountain, he glances back. Just the once, to see where Optimus has gone.

And sees Prowl on his knees at Optimus's feet, staring up at him with a feverish smile, raising the gun to blow his own brains out.

Wheeljack bolts. Starscream's grip on his arm slides away, dreamlike, and the bustling square smears into a blur as Wheeljack crosses those five paces that might as well be kilometers. Then he dives and tackles Prowl, the only thing that stays solid when he knocks the gun away from his temple.

They hit the road unevenly. Prowl catches himself on an elbow; Wheeljack tumbles over him and rolls once before digging his heels in to stop himself. His frame can't stop shivering as he stares at the unnaturally smooth street, mere centimeters from his face; it only gets worse as reality sinks in. His hands and legs shake so hard he crumples a little, unable to support his own weight.

"That got stronger," Megatron says at last, after they've all taken a moment to recover. Wheeljack can't even look to see where Megatron wound up in the course of the hallucination.

It felt solid. Real. The empty, sterile facsimile of a city around them now feels subtly falser, and he thinks that might be another aspect of the trap.

He wants it to have been real. That sunshine promise of a world where they didn't ruin themselves.

A long delay, before Prowl replies, hoarse. "There is definitely a mesmerism effect. Two of them at once seems to amplify the impact."

Wheeljack lets his helm hit the ground. He doesn't recognize the ragged sound of his own voice. "Stop it."

The quiet's awkward. To be fair, the combination of Prowl and Megatron is inherently awkward, when no one's trying to kill each other. But Wheeljack wants neither of them to have seen that. He especially doesn't want Megatron to see it.

If Starscream were really here, he wouldn't be happy, smiling, and relaxed. Not with Megatron mere meters away.

Prowl's hand gingerly reaches out to touch his shoulder. "Neither of them was real, Wheeljack. Calm down," he says.

Wheeljack flinches away. He shoves himself upright in a rush, dizzy, because that is and isn't the problem, and Prowl doesn't understand. "I know that!" he says, too loud. He scrubs at his face, fingers dragging over his maskplate as he looks anywhere but at the two of them. "I know."

He needs to be calm. Stable. If he's not, how long until this spirals out of control? Of all the people in the world he could be stuck with, it's the two who can sound perfectly fragging reasonable and level-headed right up until they escalate to the point that a planet full of sentients is acceptable collateral damage.

"That's not why he's upset," Megatron says, low, and something inside Wheeljack shudders in visceral revulsion.

"Just give me a reason," Prowl snaps.

When Wheeljack pries himself out of his internal loop, he sees Megatron's face is perfectly composed. The composure does nothing to mitigate the fact that this is Megatron, taller and broader than Prowl and Wheeljack combined; Megatron, who trampled on so many lives for the sake of a cause he forgot along the way. He raises both hands again, though Prowl hasn't pointed the gun at him yet. "I am not your enemy anymore, Prowl."

"Persuasive," Prowl says, dripping with sarcasm.

"I can't persuade you. But we can recognize that the three of us share a common goal."

Now the gun comes up with a sharp clack. "There is no 'we.'"

"There's safety in numbers. That illusion almost had all three of us. If this place attempts to overwhelm both of you at once -"

Wheeljack feels almost too woozy to concentrate. Prowl's arm snaps out across his front like an iron bar, pushing Wheeljack along as Prowl backs away from Megatron. "We're leaving," he says, and Wheeljack can't tell whether the harsh, unyielding command in his voice is for Megatron's benefit, Wheeljack's, or for Prowl's own.

But slag. Wheeljack pulls himself together. The effort it takes to force his mind back on track almost exhausts him. "No," he says, his voice still rough, like he screamed through the whole dreamlike illusion. "We need to keep him."

Prowl stills. "Wheeljack. Not now," he mutters under his breath, without taking his eyes off Megatron.

Calm. Stable. Reasonable. As much as Wheeljack hates to admit it, right now Megatron's reason is - sound. But there's other things to consider, too. "In layman's terms, his chest is an interdimensional vortex of terror. I might need it," he says, resignedly. His traitorous scanner, real or not, is very clear on that front when he checks the screen.

Megatron waits, his body language convincingly patient and open.

"…Alive?" Prowl says, plaintively.

Once upon a time, Megatron persuaded Optimus that he was open to negotiations. They met on neutral ground, at Castamere, to discuss terms. Megatron played his part flawlessly: the brusque leader of a righteous cause, suspicious and hardened, but open to reason. The choice of venue was pointed - Castamere was home to slave-mines, before the ancient covenant of Primes.

The reference might've sunk in better if Megatron hadn't tried to shoot Optimus square in the spark when he bent to sign the peace treaty.

Wheeljack sighs. "Yeah, probably."

After a long moment side eyeing Wheeljack, Prowl lets his arms drop. He goes through the motions of a cursory check of the gun's power cell, making sure it's all in one piece on autopilot. "You're right. We need more tactical options," he says.

(And Wheeljack wants to ask what the slag Optimus said, that Prowl's hallucination brought him to that point. But the shadows under Prowl's optics are already black smears, darker than they were just hours ago, and he doesn't think knowing the answer would help.)

Megatron inclines his head to Wheeljack. "I appreciate it."

He's worked with questionable people before. He can do this. Wheeljack bites back the worst of what he wants to say, but it still comes out clipped. "I'm not doing this for you. I literally might need your personal black hole to get us out of here, since I don't have the equipment to generate one of my own. You're just - convenient." He steps away from Prowl, scanning the empty road against to give himself a distraction. He takes a single step, but Prowl holds him in place until Megatron quirks a brow and starts walking, half a pace ahead and out of arm's reach. Only then does Prowl let them go, their steps weirdly loud in the silent city.

After a moment, Megatron says. "…Starscream?"

Wheeljack can't. He just can't. "Prowl, give me your gun."

Prowl tucks the gun close to his chest, disgruntled. "No one gets the gun but me."

-

Crossing the city is a tense affair. On the one hand, Prowl's distrust of Wheeljack's existence appears to be much less of an issue. There're less suspicious, probing jabs trying to suss out whether Wheeljack's real or an elaborate ruse; his paranoia has a much more obvious outlet now. Prowl falls further into combat protocols instead, his EM field tweaking against Wheeljack's almost constantly so that they're in better sync. Wheeljack is in exactly the kind of mood to oblige now; he keeps up a running commentary on his scanner's latest readings for everyone's benefit, but he's ready to dive for cover at a moment's notice.

On the other hand - Megatron.

…That about sums it up.

But when Megatron does nothing interesting for an hour, Prowl starts to eye the sky. "Something's wrong," he says. "No sign of Overlord?"

Wheeljack shakes his head.

Megatron touches the drill on his arm with a reluctant nod. "Agreed. He should have located us by now."

"Never agree with me again," Prowl orders, flatly. Then - "He should have located us by now. Not enough cover. His sensors should be better than this."

"Hang on. Let me expand the range." It means sacrificing detail - which is dangerous, considering how things tend to disappear when you're not paying attention to 'em, here - but Wheeljack makes the adjustments. He ducks into the arch of a walkway over the main road, and finally locates the green blip of Overlord's signature: almost a kilometer outside of town, according to the mapped area that matches what they see. On the map that has them all arranged in tight, concentric circles, Overlord is halfway around the curve of the circle.

Megatron does a double-take at the two projections when Wheeljack shows them. "That is not a normal search pattern."

"No." Prowl's too busy frowning at the projection to notice he agreed with Megatron, however absentmindedly. Neither of them pays attention to the map of the fake city; it's the circles that arrest their attention. "He's barely moving. He's walking."

That's a little generous. Wheeljack thinks it looks more like Overlord's stumbling and weaving, blind drunk. It seems like it's taking him immense concentration to move from one spark signature to the next in the circle. Which - hey! Might not be the worst news! If Overlord can't hold his engex, maybe he'll shoot up a wall instead of everyone in a five-kilometer radius.

When Wheeljack says as much out loud, Megatron shakes his head. "Overlord doesn't overcharge; he gorges himself on other vices. You're sure of these scans?"

"As sure as I can be." In fact, the situation's better than it was an hour ago; now, Wheeljack has a point of reference. He taps the writhing dot of red and black, and the whole map recenters on that marker. "Megatron, you're now a fixed point on both maps. In the relation to you, in the circles, neither me nor Prowl are moving. This is all in our heads; our bodies haven't moved. Overlord...it's supposed to look like he's flying overhead in here, but all my readings indicate that outside he's moving one step at a time."

"He's moving. We're not," Prowl summarizes, succinct. "He's not immobilized in the real world."

Wheeljack nods. "More evidence that all of this is fake. On a sliding scale from phobia shield to Noisemaze, I'd say we're smack in the middle. Guess we can kill the Unicron theory - I doubt even Overlord could survive walking around in that thing intact."

Megatron pinches the bridge of his nose, resting his other hand on his hip. "Unicron theory?" he repeats, sounding strained.

Seriously. Wheeljack's not gonna be the one to explain. He extends another antenna on the scanner and tucks it away as they head back out onto the street. "Don't worry about it. It'll probably never be relevant again. You're out of the loop."

Was that a flicker of regret? Who can tell what's genuine and what's not, with Megatron. "Not by choice. Though I'm sure that to Rodimus, that would've appeared to be the case," he says, in a decent impersonation of remorse.

Prowl snorts. "There's always a justification with you, isn't there."

Megatron glances over more of the identical doors as they walk. As far as Wheeljack can tell, the inscriptions aren't changing, but Megatron is tall enough to pause occasionally and still keep up by widening his stride. "Terminus lied. He spoke with Roller - and relayed the coordinates for the wrong teleporter. By the time I realized what I thought was my own mistake, I'd missed the jump back to our universe by mere moments." He cycles a vent. When he speaks again, his voice is weirdly tight. "For a time, I thought they had left me there deliberately. But I soon realized that Terminus didn't understand…accountability. He wanted me to be unimpeded and expressed frustration when I limited myself to an advisory role in the Functionist universe. I'm not sure he fully understood what I had become, in his absence. He never experienced the war. When his influence shifted to encouraging me to return to bad habits, I restricted contact."

"Lotta past tense in there," Wheeljack observes.

When Megatron shrugs, it's a small earthquake. Seriously, who needs shoulders that wide? "He is still among the Underside resistance, but I cannot afford to indulge him. Not if I want to be - who I want to be."

PR: Don't humor him. He's giving you a line to hang yourself with.
WJ: Probably, yeah.

-

Trouble hits when they finally get out of town. They're coming up hard on the big anomaly Wheeljack's scanner picked up on earlier, as well as Overlord's signal. Not ideal, but the anomaly is the only real landmark in the dream apart from cities of questionable authenticity. If the scanner is leading them astray, Wheeljack'll just have to mourn it and chuck it into the nearest dumpster before they fight their way out of the next illusion.

But despite his concerns, it's not Megatron who breaks ranks. It's Prowl.

Wheeljack doesn't realize what they're looking at, at first. Nothing about the landscape past the city looks ominous or anomaly-ish. Something obvious, like an ominous monolith or a warp portal, might've been a bit more helpful in narrowing down what they're dealing with. Instead, when he looks over the guard rail of the highway, there's a figure sitting in the middle of the empty metal plain, bent over something. "Heads up," he calls, drawing Prowl's attention to them. He expects him to survey the scene and make a call on whether to get up close or not.

Instead, Prowl exhales sharply. "That's Chromedome," he says - and hops the guard rail, picking up the pace as he slides down the sloping incline.

Which leaves Wheeljack alone with Megatron. Like hell are they splitting the party when the party is one-third Megatron. "Prowl, wait!" Wheeljack says, alarmed, and boosts himself over the railing with one hand. He hears the clanking thud of Megatron stepping over, but he focuses on following at Prowl's heels.

It's not just Chromedome, though. As they close in, Wheeljack does recognize Chromedome's slumped form, his yellow visor dark - but someone else is holding him, their pale hands cradling either side of his helm as they bend over him. For a sec, they look more imposing than they are: when Wheeljack skids to a stop a safe distance away, however, he realizes that what looked like heavy wings from a distance are actually long, slim panels of fern green armor that hang from the mech's arms and around their waist in an angular skirt. Their torso and upper legs are a pale cream, and the rest in shades of jade and darker, blue-tinged green, darkening to black at their shoulders and knees. Their helm and shoulders are swathed in a thin magnetic memory-core weave.

When they look up, their optics are camera lens. Not eyes.

"Tumbler!" Prowl shouts. Wheeljack knows the cop voice when he hears it. When Chromedome doesn't respond, Prowl jogs to a stop and raises his weapon. "Put him down."

The stranger - she - peers at them for a long moment. The cameras are flush with her face like normal optics, but Wheeljack can't read any emotion in them. Her mouth parts, just barely, before she looks back down. "He remembers too much, and too little," she says, framing Chromedome's temples with spread fingers. "How curious."

Prowl's glare deepens. "Step away from him."

"Easy," Wheeljack mutters. He can't tell if Prowl hears him.

The stranger continues to ignore Prowl's barked orders. Her running commentary never rises above a murmur; she's talking more to herself than for their benefit. "There is significant deterioration in the neurocircuitry of the hands and arms. Memory encoding and consolidation centers heavily lesioned. Multiple puncture wounds. Significant processing delays due to foreign memory caches, as well as improperly deleted and corrupted files. Acute and chronic alterations in functionality due to trauma. Most of the processor has already compensated with alternate pathways. But something remains."

She raises her hands from Chromedome's head, and snaps both sets of fingers.

Three static-riddled, grey figures bloom in the space around her.

"Ghosts," she finishes.

Wheeljack reacts before he fully registers the tremor in Prowl's arm. He clamps down on his forearm. "Don't. If she's in his head, who knows what shooting her will do," he says, pitching his voice low and steady. There's something horribly, fascinatingly familiar about the three figures arranged around Chromedome and the stranger - Wheeljack only ever knew Chromedome as a distant associate, but he can make an educated guess.

These are people Chromedome tried to erase.

Megatron edges into view, hands up as he angles his heavy grey frame between the two groups. Wheeljack would tell him that that's not gonna discourage Prowl from shooting with extreme prejudice, but…well…if Megatron can't figure that out on his own, Wheeljack isn't gonna spell it out for him. "You're trying to heal him," Megatron says, concern etched in his face as he watches the stranger frame Chromedome's helm, audials and chin. Soothing sounds fragging bizarre when it comes from Megatron.

The static ghosts flicker and spasm as the stranger sketches green hologlyphs over Chromedome's forehelm with a finger. A lattice of light starts to form, full of fuzzy, corrupted symbols, intersecting with his head in a worrying way, but the mech has no fear of Prowl, Megatron, or presumably Primus; she disregards all of them equally. "So much pain." Then she cocks her head to the side, one camera lens flickering as she assesses them. Her blank gaze fixates on Megatron, and then Prowl. "But you. Selective but widespread damage to the personality and dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. Old. And you - recent evidence of puncture wounds and subsequent corruption of memory files. Remote hijacking of the lateral frontal cortex."

Prowl clamps his jaws shut and speaks through gritted teeth. "And we're done here. Put him down. Slowly. I won't ask again."

Peacetime must be getting to him. With a wince, Wheeljack steps in front of Prowl's gun. When Prowl glares at him and jerks the weapon, indicating for him to get out of the way, Wheeljack shakes his head. Slag, any day he takes a page out of Megatron's book is a bad day - but they can't just shoot someone who seems more zoned out than menacing. He takes a few more hesitant steps closer to the stranger, one hand out behind him to ward Prowl off, the other slowly reaching out as he nears Chromedome. He keeps a careful eye on the three ghosts, but they don't seem to be moving. "Hey, hey," he says, with his friendliest voice. The one for scared humans who didn't ask for any of this to happen to them. "What's your name?"

The stranger looks up. Her mouth parts again, momentarily puzzled. "I?" she says, almost taken aback.

Then she holds her palms up facing each other over Chromedome's head, two rings of green light between them, and claps them together. The ghosts snap into sudden focus as the fuzzy static around Chromedome's head crystallizes into perfect clarity. "I am Mnemosyne."

Sirens shriek in Wheeljack's brain for two very different reasons.

One, he recognizes all of the ghosts arrayed around Chromedome - all Autobots, all deceased. Yet here, they look as worryingly, eerily real as that thing that isn't Starscream. Pivot and Scattergun just ping him with Autobot IDs, but that's enough. Mach - slag, he knew Mach; one of Cosmos's oldest friends, forged with an almost identical blue-and-white frame type - smiles back at him, his blue visor bright as he recognizes Wheeljack in turn, and the world starts to blur.

Two - with a dull boom - Overlord slams into the ground behind Mnemosyne and Chromedome, knee-first.

And he smiles.

"Ah. There you are," Overlord says, conversationally. "You do make it difficult to approach."

-

The best part about Overlord landing is that Wheeljack's too damn scared to get sucked into the illusion. Part of his processor theorizes that the reason Chromedome was unconscious was probably because the hallucinations here glitched out when they ran face first into Chromedome's mnemosurgically corrupted memories.

But also. Overlord is here. So they're all probably going to die anyway.

Mnemosyne tilts her head all the way back to stare up at Overlord's looming, horrifyingly charming smile, the memory cord of her veil clinking quietly against her back. "Four prior mnemonic triggers. One hijacking leash extant. Evidence of severe pre-protoform spark mutilation," she says, gravely. "I cannot help you with that. You require my sister."

Overlord purses his lips, and reaches down to crush her head between two fingers.

Except - he doesn't. Plucking Mnemosyne up by the back of her neck, Overlord lifts her up and sets her aside. The care he takes doing it makes Wheeljack's brain stutter. Prowl looks equally appalled.

"I require no one," Overlord says, dismissively, as he reaches for Chromedome next. The three ghosts ripple like disrupted footage, scattering as Overlord picks Chromedome up. "Run along, little Muse. The Lotus Machine isn't my concern. Do you not have work to do?"

Mnemosyne's face goes utterly still.

"Overlord," Megatron says. His expression is grim as he steps forward. Surely if he had a concealed weapon, he'd have pulled it by now. Which means, to Wheeljack's jumbled horror, Megatron might actually be serious about that pacifism schtick.

Which would be great, except Overlord.

"The Lotus Machine?" Mnemosyne repeats, to herself. She raises her hands, not quite touching her own temples as she stares, at a loss. "Where am I? I can't…"

Overlord looks Megatron up and down. Then he smirks, turning away. "Irrelevant."

Chromedome lolls over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and Wheeljack's panic spikes in his chest. Frag, frag -

"Typical. You really can't win, can you?" Prowl says, loudly. Obnoxious, on purpose. Wheeljack whips around to stare at him in horror. Megatron's look is sharper; he backs out of the way of Prowl's line of fire, but Prowl doesn't take the shot.

Mostly because, Wheeljack thinks, that gun's still not real. He checks his scanner twice before the blur of lights registers. There's Overlord, further along the circle, his spark signature right next to Chromedome's in the real world.

He found what he was looking for.

"What is it?" Prowl continues, taking half a step forward. "Another killswitch? Or just something to make sure you follow orders? Why else would you need him."

Overlord's lip curls. Beyond him, the world is fracturing like a broken pane of glass, from the Matrix in the sky to the endless highway stretching into the distance - but Overlord himself is unaffected. "As I said. None of you are relevant. Perhaps, when I've finished with the Council, I'll come back to put you all out of your misery. Consider it my thanks for making me who I am today." He lays a sardonic hand against his chest. "Unrivaled. Peerless."

The Council could refer to the Galactic Council…or the Council of Worlds. Slag, slag, slag.

Megatron bursts forward, uncaring of Prowl at his back as he spreads his arms out. "Put him down. Please. You win, Overlord."

Overlord glances back over his shoulder, raises his brow, and smiles wider.

Megatron lets his arms fall, sighing. "Well. It was worth a shot."

Laughing, Overlord starts to transform. "At last, you recognize your inferiority. Shockwave removed your killswitch and your Achilles virus. Once Chromedome has removed the Council's final leash, I think I'll keep him around. Nostalgia. The rest of you -" A set of clamps snap out, pinning Chromedome's body to the back of his aerial mode. "- enjoy your stay."

Megatron lunges, trying to grab Overlord's rear thruster. Prowl starts shooting, and he's aiming for Chromedome out of some twisted mercy.

Wheeljack just lets his hands fall, and watches mutely as Overlord rockets away into the sky. His scanner hangs loose by his side, because he knows what he'll see when he looks at it.

It wouldn't have mattered if Megatron caught him, or Prowl shot him. Overlord has the only advantage that matters: he's the only one free to really move. The rest of this is just them…screaming internally.

Prowl throws the gun at the floor, and it shatters into shards of color instead of its component parts. He rounds on Mnemosyne, jabbing a finger. "You. What is the Lotus Machine?" There's absolutely no emotion in his voice, and that's scarier than him yelling would be.

Mnemosyne doesn't respond. The ground cracks under her feet. "How can I not…remember?" she says, staring at her hands.

A notification ping flashes in the corner of Wheeljack's vision. He opens it, half-dazed, to see that the map has updated itself on the scanner.

The cracks keep spreading, carving up the metal ground into tessellations.

Things are coming together just as fast as they're falling apart.

"She's at the center," he says, blankly. "Of all of it. We're scattered around the room, but she's the core." She is -

And before any of them can react, Mnemosyne buries her face in her hands, and the ground finishes fragmenting. "I - I need to -"

The world shatters.

-

Underneath, there's nothing at all.

-

Wheeljack jerks awake.

He's sitting at a bar by a sea of liquid nitrogen. Night has fallen; there's a glass wall between them and the drop to the beach, lit from beneath by bioluminescent jellyfish and lit from above by the neon, pulsing lights of the bar's transparent dance floor. Harp scuttlers crawl sideways along the tumbled sand. Starscream hums beside him, dueling with Windvoice with a pair of tiny plastic swords.

Prowl's on his other side, staring at his martini glass. His is shaped like a lotus, full of bubbly gold Praxian solar engex; Wheeljack's is a novelty beaker that he used to keep in his subspace for parties, drained to the dregs.

Jazz leans in from behind, slinging an arm around Prowl from behind with a lopsided smile. "Hey, Prowler. Come on, let's go home." Meanwhile, Prowl frowns at his drink like he thinks someone poisoned it on him.

There's something significant about Prowl. He can't lose track of him.

The mech serving drinks at the end of the row doesn't have a face.

Something is wrong, but Wheeljack can't remember what. He woke with a jolt of cold, pure panic in his spark - but it already feels half-faded, distant. Maybe he had a nightmare? "Prowl, hold up -" he starts to say, grabbing Prowl's elbow before Jazz can tug him away.

"Finally!" Starscream says, loudly, as he successfully flicks Windvoice's plastic sword spinning over the bartender's head. "Is it really a vacation if your itinerary includes a panel at the Intergalactic Multidisciplinary Astroconference? To each their own. You'll have to explain the science to me, Wheeljack."

He shouldn't be this confused. Not unless he drank a pit of a lot more than he ever has. Jazz looks at him expectantly, his head bobbing faintly to the beat as he waits good-naturedly for Wheeljack to give up his hold on Prowl.

A light buzz is fun and fine, but Wheeljack doesn't like not being able to think straight like this. It muddles him, and he can't solve anything harder than differential equations without stalling out, vaguely distraught and unsure why. Sweeping the bar fast, he catches sight of Megatron between Optimus and Ultra Magnus along the far wall, the three of them arguing over something on a datapad. Poetry, knowing them. Megatron has a faint, bemused smile on his face.

That's normal, right? So why does Wheeljack's gaze catch on it, arrested, like it's something abnormal?

An oddly familiar mech is crying in the center of the dance floor, her face buried in her hands. Sparks stream between the lines of her fingers.

"You need to sleep it off, dear. Trust me," Starscream says, gently drawing Wheeljack away from the bar with a courteous hand. He starts to tow him away from the counter, pausing only to playfully point at his own optics, then jab his fingers back at Windvoice as she rolls her eyes and toasts them.

"Wait," Wheeljack protests, belatedly.

It's not that the bartender has an empuratee's [not-face] - it's that his face is a smudge. Everyone Wheeljack can't name is a blur.

Starscream frowns. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asks, hands on his hips.

"This isn't right." Wheeljack lost his grip on Prowl. Spark thudding in his chest, he whips around, scanning for Prowl. None of this is right; he can't see the black-and-white of Prowl and Jazz's frames anywhere, in the crowd. Someone's striding across the dance floor, though, disrupting the mechanical movements of the literally faceless dancers.

There. A dash of red - Prowl's chevron, barely visible above someone's shoulder. Wheeljack pushes through the crowd, but it barely feels like he's making any progress. He might as well be slogging through mud. "Prowl? Wake up!" he yells. Dread curdles in his tanks when he realizes he can't see Prowl over the crowd, anymore -

Whirl punts a faceless mech with the flat of his foot.

Then he whips around and clocks Wheeljack upside the face. "Wam, bam -!"

-

"- in the van!" Whirl crows, delighted, as he kicks his foot back in a flawless arabesque to nail Megatron in the groin.

Wheeljack stumbles back, jaw throbbing. He claps a hand to his mask plate, momentarily speechless. Megatron just resets his optics, his brows almost achieving orbit as he glances down.

They're back outside the city. The ground is perfectly intact.

There's no sign of Mnemosyne, or Chromedome or Overlord.

In their place, Springer reaches down to help Prowl to his feet, his face full of impassive determination. Someone a hell of a lot more poetically minded than Wheeljack once said Springer had a chest big enough to accommodate ten Matrixes and shoulders that would put Metroplex to shame. His entire upper body a bold, visual testament to the power of unchecked width. If he were a human, his abs would be infamous.

The fact is, apart from the Metroplex bit, that is an entirely accurate description of the way Springer makes everyone feel. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. It's like how literally everyone has a crush on Thunderclash - Springer's reputation is just a smidge more rugged, dangerous, and thrilling. It survived even the disillusionment with the Wreckers as a unit: the ugly realizations, the declassified hints at worse things.

Prowl can't seem to look Springer in the eye. When Springer huffs a sigh and exasperatedly waggles his hand, Prowl finally takes it, face bleak as Springer hauls him bodily upright.

"Why," Megatron asks, flatly. Remarkably, he doesn't look homicidal; just resigned to the quintessential Whirlness of the situation.

"My methods are flawless," Whirl says, clacking his claw at Megatron's face. "Rodimus would be proud of me."

Megatron sighs. "Your methods are - certainly something."

As reality sinks in, Wheeljack shivers at how close that came to beating them. "Whirl. Springer," he says, waving a hand in weak greeting as he rests his hands on his knees. Whirl ignores him; Springer nods, turning away from Prowl.

Then Wheeljack frowns. There's something on Springer's shoulder. Someone. "What is that?"

Springer's optics slant toward the spider on his shoulder. "He's not real," he says, briskly, as he strides up the slope to reach the road.

The spider transforms. Not a normal transformation, Wheeljack notes - he just straightens upright. Nothing folded away, no activation of transformation seams. Not even beast modes like the Eukarians work like that. Still tiny, the mech dips a bow. "Don't mind me. Just pretend I'm a particularly small, bristly gargoyle," he says, a smile in his voice. Which is great, cause the sideways mandibles he's got going on don't allow for much in the way of facial expressions.

Prowl looks up, and his face flickers through at least three different expressions before freezing in a mask. "Mesothulas."

The designation's not familiar. The mech shrugs all eight arms, still amused. "Oh, not really. No need to fret."

"The illusion's persistent, but he's keeping his mouth shut," Springer says, without looking back. He's the kind of person where when you see him marching, you get the urge to follow - so Wheeljack does. He stops beside Prowl a second. But Prowl shakes it off, looking spooked as they follow in Springer's wake. "It looked like you three were getting overwhelmed. Thought we would intervene."

"Appreciate it," Wheeljack says, and means it.

Mesothulas sits facing backward on Springer's shoulder. His legs swing from side to side as his nonstandard arrangement of visor and optics fixes on Prowl. When he catches Wheeljack looking, the spider mimes drawing a zipper up over his mouth.

Yikes.

Behind them, Whirl continues to hassle Megatron. Primus help them all. "Well, well, well. Look who's come crawling back," Whirl drawls.

"I did not remain in the Functionist universe by choi-"

"Aaand I'm over it." Without warning, Whirl catches up to Wheeljack and Prowl and slings an arm around both of their shoulders with a jostling clang. The blades of his fans come dangerously close to Wheeljack's audials as he mechhandles them with good cheer. "So. Are we in the good place, or the bad place? Not sure what you did to deserve it, Jacky boy, but I'm dying of curiosity," he chatters, his optic narrowed in an empuratee smile.

Well, by the narrowest criteria Wheeljack knows (the Allspark pacifist-purists) they're all pretty hooped. "We've all killed people," he says. He pretends to fiddle with his scanner, surreptitiously directing it at Mesothulas.

"We're not dead," Megatron says, with the quiet despair of someone who had to live with Whirl under his command for the better part of two years. "But I don't think this is one of Killmaster's traps. Not anymore."

Prowl is trying to subtly twist out from Whirl's grip. "Well, duh. Obviously it isn't," Whirl retorts, with a haughty flick of a claw.

The scan of Mesothulas is coming up with…a big fat nothing. If there's a spark signature, he's not picking up on it. Creepy. "Obviously?"

Whirl releases Wheeljack to gesticulate better. "Killmaster is my nemesis. I've seen it all. Been there, done that. Last time I checked, he didn't go for crappy, two-bit actors and cheap special effects."

Springer appears to be pretending that they don't exist as he surveys the road ahead of them. Wheeljack really can't blame him. Even for someone who used to lead a group as violent and eclectic as the Wreckers, their current cohort is - just ridiculous. Even worse, he's abruptly reminded that Whirl and Megatron are both Lost Light crew members.

They're doomed.

"Anyway, what's the game plan? If we don't get to punch a god, I'm out. I have very high standards for quests, these days," Whirl finishes.

Wheeljack shrugs. "Shut this thing down. Get back home. Give Killmaster a stern talking to." He considers it for a moment. "If there is something claiming to be a god, then we'll probably wind up punching it, yes."

Prowl finally wrestles his way free. Whirl slots his claws together, his EM field radiating glee. "You're meeting all of my standards. I'm in."

---

We suffer from a disquieting knack, Megatron and I, of refusing to do just that. All "death" does is make us a little meaner, and a little crankier.

- Starscream of Kaon, to Bludgeon of Kalis

---

In Starscream's defense, what he understands about Titan anatomy could fit inside a thimble. Megatron craved a Titan at his side for the prestige, and the mobility inherent in a space bridge that made Metroplex so formidable.

The fact that the space bridge was inextricably enmeshed with a Titan's supermassive spark - well, that little tidbit came later. If he'd known that Titans had ancillary processors to help support their spark in the event of main processor trauma, he would've aimed a little lower.

In hindsight, Starscream should've realized something was off the first time they visited Eukaris, and Chela's space bridge was completely separate from his body.

-

They emerge in the middle of Eukaris's night. Closer to morning, really, but the system's main star and its eclipsing companion remain below the horizon. The humidity in the air feels thick enough to drink; he can detect condensation gathering on his armor already.

Starscream's blown up a few cities in his time, but the memory of the first visit to Eukaris is still recent, if not fresh. Chela erupting from the mountainside rather upended the scenic view, but he recalls the terrain: stark, cloudless sky; the flooded ruins of an amphitheatre carved out of a crater, the upper tiers buried in organic foliage and the lower drowned; the mountain itself hideously out of place, isolated from the actual mountain range ringing the area, the raw rock a sharp contrast compared to the half-rusted metal of the overgrown village; the smooth wall that held out the jungle beyond, parting only where Chela's entombed frame formed a barrier. When Chela collapsed, it smashed through the wall, leaving the shell of the hollow mountain to crumble in its wake.

The space bridge is no longer raised on a metal plateau, adjacent to the great wall. Instead, Starscream steps thruster first into soft, squelching dirt that sinks under his feet. Absolutely disgusting, sensation-wise, and it's probably infested with mucky, crawling things. Spotting a gap in the thick foliage overhead, he grimaces and raises a foot to clear the mud.

Slipstream tackles him from behind. "My name!" she declares, hotly, as she barrels him into the nearest tree. It shudders on impact, but the thick, knotted roots hold.

Slag, she hits like a tank. Starscream makes a mental note that Tryptichs are inexperienced but not lightweights, and then kicks her off with a thruster burst. "Quiet," he hisses, as he glares around the clearing. "This isn't right."

Slash darts in front of Slipstream when the flier rolls to her feet, wings bristling. "Settle this later," she orders.

"No, now!" Slipstream snarls. A mask snaps over her face.

In one sharp, cutting motion, Slash knocks her back. Her jaws snap shut just short of Slipstream's throat - her serrated toe already rests on the heavy fuel line. "Enough," she says, with a low, ominous clicking sound under her raspy voice.

Slipstream vibrates with tension, rigid, as the two stare each other down. But she breaks eye contact first, her engine whining as she looks down and away. The crest along Slash's back slowly smooths back into place.

Politics aside, Starscream still has no idea where they are. Eukaris is oppressively organic - the Eukarians adapted to the climate instead of cyberforming the place - and he had no intention of tromping around the planet ever again, if he could help it. But this clearly isn't the one location he was familiar with, and the organic haze around him is a sensory nightmare. "I'm getting a better vantage," he says, and takes off without waiting for Trypticon's representatives to confirm. Letting them come is most likely a mistake, but arguing with them would've been a waste of time. His initial ping to Windvoice goes unanswered - which could mean anything. Long-range connection networks might be non-existent on Eukaris; he's not picking up much of anything.

He breaks tree cover and hovers low in root mode, scanning the landscape. Promisingly, they're still within a familiar ring of mountains; perhaps twenty kilometers distant, Starscream spies the familiar wall, a band of metal rising up from the green rim of raised earth in the center.

Onyx Prime's optic craft hangs over it, the branching veins of the ship pulsing against the dark sky. The iris flares wide, bulging down at the flooded ruins like a sentinel, and Starscream detects trails of smoke rising into the air.

Great. Fantastic. He loves it when he's right. Windvoice, he's already decided, is never going to hear the end of this. He wonders how many times they can play the 'we invaded for their own good' card before it gets a little too Prime-ish.

Whatever. Ideally, he'll find Windvoice and her useless bodyguard and drag them home with no one the wiser. Then they can act surprised in front of the Council of Worlds and a few other reliable witnesses when Airazor and Tigatron call them up and inform them that Eukaris is in danger, and all will be well. This plan is foolproof.

(Though that never seems to translate to Autobot-proof.)

"Tch." Starscream runs one final sweep, noting the patrolling mecha in the night sky. Long, twisting, with jagged wings - more of Onyx Prime's as-yet unnamed army. They're concentrated over the wreckage where Chela -

- isn't.

Starscream straightens with a jerk.

There is no sign of Chela where it fell. Just the crumpled remains of that section of the wall.

Also, someone is arrowing down at Starscream on a nearly vertical attack vector. At that velocity and angle, with Starscream barely above ground-level, that's a suicidal dive-bomb - no one short of Skywarp could even attempt it -

Onyx Prime tries to ram him anyway.

Starscream rips out of the way, unevenly - it strains welds he forgot he had, his frame screeching in protest at the reminder that he crashed just a few days ago and got impaled shortly before that. It's an amateurish twist, but it does the job.

Onyx Prime banks so hard the air slaps Starscream sideways, sweeping over the trees in a wide circle that barely skims the uppermost branches. The interlacing web of his wingspan casts a faint, stippled shadow in the twilight. For someone approximately Alpha Trion's age, Onyx Prime carves through the night sky with liquid grace, almost silent, both sets of red optics hungry. Hunting.

Oh, for frag's sake. Sometimes shooting people is clearly the answer. Starscream raises his arm and fires, letting the violet targeting HUD cover his vision.

Onyx weaves in between energy bursts, pivoting and dodging on a dime. He surges forward with only a microsecond's warning, and Starscream's forced to burn hard on a diagonal, lunging out of the scything path of the Prime's claws. Combat subroutines urge Starscream to transform and punch up higher, seize the aerial advantage - but another instinct pings him with a frantic warning against letting himself be chased. He's been down that road before - with Megatron - Vigilem - and it ended with him on his knees, his face battered into a slagged pulp, hollower and sicker than when he started - the memory so visceral that he wrenches himself out of it only in a sharp rush of panic -

Venting hard, Starscream brings another firearm up and manages to clip Onyx's right wing as the Prime rolls on his longitudinal axis for another deceptively sudden sweep. Starscream dives out of the way again with a snarl, whipping his arm back and relying on proximity sensors rather than optics to aim and fire a shot directly into Onyx's back. Still not a clean shot -

A hooved leg transforms out from Onyx's folded lower body and clocks Starscream's right arm. Crush damage alerts flare, and Starscream curses and concentrates fire with the other armament as his self-assessment rerolls the odds. The arm's neurocircuits feel numb; the gun's inoperable. If it comes down to attrition, Starscream won't last.

Slipstream bursts out of the tree cover and slams into Onyx Prime from below, the blades of her wing slicing into his underbelly. Another pair of hooves shoot out and knock her away, energon streaming wildly through the air - but a smaller form launches off Slipstream's cockpit, and Slash lands on Onyx's streamlined neck, her jaws crunching down between the spikes behind his helm. She clings to him, claws hooked into the seams of his plate and tearing ruthlessly as Onyx rolls to try to shake her off.

Then Onyx dives straight at the ground, pulling his wings in tight. Cursing, Starscream aims for the wings - but Slash is in the way, and shooting her would be a pain, with Trypticon's attitude, and if she thinks Onyx is going to pull up at the last minute she's wrong.

Onyx rips through the trees and slams into the ground back first, gouging a deep line out of the earth and uprooting entire trees. Anyone who dives like he does must be confident his frame can take that kind of impact. Slash - probably can't. Sure enough, when Onyx flares his wings and beats free of the forest canopy once more, there's no sign of the minibot on his back.

Exactly what he wanted to deal with - Trypticon throwing a fit. So nice to have something to look forward to when they get home. "You know I'm going have to clean up this mess after you're done, right?" he snaps, irritated, punctuating each word with a shot as Onyx dodges a squalling Slipstream. "Why can't you all be decrepit like Alpha Trion?!"

Onyx Prime pulls up hard and fans his wings out, hovering. One set of his optics is a darker red than the other. "Where is Solus?" he says, idly. Like it's not really a question.

Starscream shoots him in the face, since he has the decency to sit still for a moment. "Dead! Incredibly dead!" he says, rolling his eyes.

Smoke curls away from Onyx's face. The shot damaged the left side of his face, sparks spitting from exposed circuits, but the curve of his beak shielded his optics. He waves it away with a claw, his expression almost amused as he watches Starscream. It's the sort of look that feels like it strips you down to the bolts, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Starscream shoots again just to make it go away on principle. This time Onyx tips his head to the side and the burst passes over his shoulder. He hums, the sound on a register that sets Starscream's teeth on edge.

"I'm sure," he says, cryptically.

Then Onyx arcs away. Starscream peppers him with fire, but instead of pressing his advantage, Onyx Prime arrows into the dark, the deep blue of his wings vanishing in the distance. Starscream follows him on sensors as far as he can - but the Prime doesn't turn back.

Dissatisfied, Starscream hangs in the air for a moment, still wired. But when the break stretches, he huffs and drops to the ground, knocking vines and branches out of his way as he heads for the deep groove left by Onyx's dive.

To his mild relief, Slash isn't a smear on the ground. She's unsteady on her feet as Slipstream helps her out of the crater, and she snaps her jaws experimentally a few times, the struts of her mouth making a horrendous noise before she transforms into root mode with a grimace. The hit scraped most of the paint off her armor, but she appears to be intact. "We have a problem," she says, before spitting out a gob of energon and splintered metal.

Really? He wouldn't have guessed. "Evidently."

Slash bares her teeth at him in a not-smile. "Turn around. Tell me what you don't see, consul."

He's starting to pick up the theme here. He doesn't like it. Starscream turns, optics screwed up so he doesn't have to see the empty space where the space bridge used to be.

-

The Eukarians take their sweet slagging time finding them - and Slash does half the work anyway.

This isn't some piddly Earth jungle; they can't just stomp through the undergrowth when the trees are the height of decent Cybertronian buildings and the flowers emit vent-choking clouds of pollen when you step on them. It's oppressively muggy as the suns' light begins to creep through the green filter of the canopy. With Onyx patrolling above, they have to travel on foot or risk another confrontation.

Slash's attempt to track the vagabond space bridge's location leads them through the wilderness and almost over the edge of a precipice. There's virtually no warning: the branches stretch over the gorge, unbroken, but the ground drops out at a ninety-degree angle. Slipstream crouches by the edge, optics narrowed, while Slash continues to apply her sensors to the problem. Starscream's about to applaud them on leading them to a giant hole when his own scan finishes.

The entire gorge is made of metal.

On Cybertron, that would mean nothing - most of the planet was metal in one form or another, warped and layered by mechanized tectonic forces. But Eukaris isn't Cybertron, or even Neo-Cybertron with its artificial layer of dirt - it's a bog-standard telluric, only a little richer in metal ore than a backwater like Earth.

A structure, then. With a sniff of disdain, Starscream plants a hand on his hip as he scans the bottom of the gorge. "Well, what do we have here?" he murmurs.

Slash snatches her helm back. "This metal lives," she says, scraping her foot through the dirt. It only takes a single sweep for her to expose the solid metal buried under the surface.

Starscream quirks a brow. "Vague, but I'll take your word for it."

"Could you people act any more suspicious?" a familiar voice hisses from the undergrowth.

Only the fact that Tigatron is a known element saves him from Starscream's reflexive urge to fire. "You're the one skulking!" he hisses back, as the teal and grey mech slips out of his hiding place. "And you stole our leader!"

"Your leader," Slipstream corrects, stiffly.

Tigatron arches a brow as his alt mode's head retracts. "Our apologies. It was not intentional. Things - escalated. Chromia is here as well, though." He inclines his head to Slash and Slipstream. "Representatives."

Starscream snorts. "You can keep her. And yes, Onyx beat you to the punch on the welcoming party."

Tigatron glances up and grimaces at the dawning light. "We weren't expecting him to return so soon," he says, voice low. Then he nods to the precipice. "Come. We need to get under better cover. It isn't wise to explain where Onyx may have ears."

-

The gorge isn't perfectly sheer. Overlapping steps jut out of the sides, barely wide enough for Tigatron and Slash to follow to a cave entrance halfway down. After measuring the steps against his feet and finding them lacking, Starscream flies.

Airazor waits on the threshold, her dark crest flared before she identifies them. If her expression is more grimace than relief when Starscream alights on the lip of the cavern - that is an entirely sensible reaction. He's not in a good mood, and as far as he's concerned, this unpleasantly moist trip is at least 45% their fault.

Slash takes two steps - and then draws her feet back, almost dancing back off the edge. "This is a Titan," she says, alarmed.

Oh, he is going to have words with Windvoice before this is over.

But once he looks for it - the cavern is carved out of solid metal. Not straight, boxy walls, like Metroplex's, but curving down into the earth with clean, strong lines. No gold, but Starscream doubts that there's another Titan just faffing around on Eukaris. The outer metal wall of the gorge looked completely unpainted. He'd applaud the ingenuity of whoever shifted Chela underground, but a) it raises so many questions about how they simulated the ancient jungle above on short notice, and b) it probably involved Windvoice playing grand theft Titan. Again. He's trying to discourage that until they finish running the numbers on how many Titans Neo-Cybertron can support before resources become scarce.

Tigatron doesn't look stunned by Slash's realization - but he doesn't look enthused, either. Interesting. "We believe so, yes," he says. He and Airazor lead the way down the winding tunnel. "But the situation is complicated. Windvoice, you have company."

Starscream pauses to knock a knuckle against the wall.

After a long moment, orange circuits pulse between the seams, the circuits flashing hot.

Well then.

He folds his hands behind his back, and saunters after them.

The passage opens through a perfectly round doorway onto a great hall. It comes so close to being impressive: a long, rectangular pool stretches the length of the kilometer-long hall, but either Chela is leaking, or the liquid never gets circulated - it has a dark green, dank tinge to it that probably means that it is water infested with organic matter. More oddly, a wiry purple-green moss covers the elaborately carved pillars holding up the shallow roof, and ferns curl at the base of the pool, almost as tall as Starscream's hip. A thick, coiling mat of vines covers the entire wall at the far end of the hall.

It's been - what, a few years now since they made first contact with Eukaris? Starscream doesn't know and/or care enough about organic plantlife to try to figure out if the Titan's insides should be this…overgrown, in so short a span of time.

But - wonder of wonders - Windvoice hasn't gotten her fool helm shoot off her shoulders yet. Chromia screws up her face with a groan of disgust as Windvoice strides toward them, expression incredulous. "Starscream! You - idiot! What are you doing here?"

Starscream snorts. "Typical. We're here to rescue you. If you hadn't noticed, Onyx is flapping around outside and you missed a meeting," he says, silkily; then, with a sweepingly sarcastic bow, he gestures to Slash and Slipstream. Slipstream's mask is back up, presumably to hide her burning face as Windvoice's gaze lands on them.

Guilt twinges in her face - they need to work on that - but her response is at least diplomatic as she laces her hands together. "I'm sorry. I should have informed you both that I would be off-planet. Onyx arrived almost as soon as we did, and the space bridge has been...difficult to pin down."

Slash shrugs. "You face an enemy," she says, with that Tryptich straightforwardness that Starscream can appreciate when it works in their favor. "This Prime is aggravating, and should be dealt with."

See? Refreshingly simple. "Hear, hear." Starscream claps once; it echoes, disrupting the faint plink of water dripping from Chela's insides. "And on the subject of the space bridge: we noticed. Care to explain?"

Airazor and Tigatron exchange looks. Which concerns Starscream, when it involves one of their only ways to get off-planet. Airazor's face looks drawn; she sports a fresh set of deep scratches along her sides, rather like an Onyx Prime-shaped object got a hold of her. Starscream isn't surprised - she mouthed off to Onyx Prime at the last ill-fated Council meeting; she doesn't lack for nerve. "We came here in the hopes of finding those answers," Airazor says, at last. "Blackarachnia gave us the coordinates for this place, but we were separated from her in the chaos."

If she thinks she's being subtle about what she's hiding, she's wrong. The caginess is unmistakable. It's not a question of if the Eukarian delegates are concealing something, but when they started doing it. He can trace some of it back to the week before Scorponok's attack, when the Eukarians first start acting funny, but Onyx Prime's arrival drove it into the open. "Oh, do go on," he says, dry as engex, rapping his fingers against his arm and glancing sidelong at Windvoice.

She meets his optics, her grimace reluctant and tired, but present. So long as they're on the same page. "There's been some kind of schism, hasn't there," she says. "How long?"

Airazor folds her hands together, and looks away.

-

Blackarachnia appointed Eukaris's delegates.

Appointed two infamous, outcast nobodies to join the Council of Worlds. Neither of them with any political clout except that which their Council status granted.

Ugh.

The two of them did a decent job of covering for the hot mess that is Eukaris's internal politics, but it was probably doomed to implode from the start. Once Starscream would've embraced the advantage presented by a weaker Council world; now, naturally, it's blown up in their faces. While their people squabbled on their homeworld, Airazor and Tigatron consulted more with the Fateweavers than with the indecisive, ever-bickering leaders of the tribes, and made their own judgment calls.

Then, when Onyx Prime made himself known on Neo-Cybertron, the Fateweavers themselves split down the middle. And the tribes, given half an excuse, boiled over.

The Scale Walkers under Dinobot - good slagging Primus, the Dinobots can never know about this - never fans of the Council alliance in the first place, chafed by what they perceived as a council of standardformers dictating to them, threw right in with Onyx Prime when he announced himself above the ruins of Bīj. The Fur and Cloud Walkers, interestingly, refused. But Onyx's reprisal hit hard - Sonar and what remains of the fliers panicked and bent the knee to save their own wings, while Cheetor has gone to ground. The Wave Walkers, generally ambivalent and isolationist, refuse to surface.

"And the Fateweavers are...riven. It's like half of them have gone mad," Airazor explains. Her pale green optics loom like headlamps in the half-light. "Blackarachnia's word led us this far - we're supposed to rendezvous with her here. I don't think we can trust any of the others. The arachnida have always been reclusive, but we trusted their wisdom. Now…there are so many secrets. So many."

"Don't say it," Windvoice says, without so much as glancing at Starscream.

That's simply unfair. "But they have been deceived," Starscream retorts, petulantly. The corner of Windvoice's mouth quirks, before smoothing back into a tight, strained frown.

Wit aside, he doesn't like what he's hearing, either. Schisms are one thing - a Decepticon's bread and butter. When phrases like 'have gone mad,' start flying around, at a critical pivot point - that's when the back of Starscream's neck starts to itch.

"Reclusive, and allowed to be so," Tigatron says, his voice a rumble. He keeps pacing along the rim of the pool, his tail lashing. "Because there were so few of them, and their wisdom and foresight was known and respected by all. Now, Atorcop and Aranea stand by Onyx's side, and Weaver and Widow have vanished. Silkcate is dead. Blackarachnia promised she would meet us here and bring us answers about Chela, but it has been hours. We have to accept that she may not have escaped the Prime."

"I leave you alone for five minutes," Starscream mutters.

Windvoice shoots him an unimpressed look. "One time I fell unconscious, and you became Onyx Prime's best friend."

"Well, I had to pass the time somehow."

"Could you two hate-flirt later? Somewhere not in front of me - or better yet, not at all?" Chromia snaps. She's pacing out of sync with Tigatron, by the entrance to the great hall. If she eyes Starscream's back with that ax lit up one more time, he refuses to be held accountable for his sarcasm. "We need to pin down the space bridge and get you out of here, Windvoice. It's my job to get you home in one piece, and -"

Windvoice's wings stiffen. "No," she says, and the frost in her voice could freeze a spark. With her optics in shadow, the flare of anger is bright enough to make Slipstream jolt. Chromia flinches, her expression lost and hurt as she whips around to stare at Windvoice's back.

Second mistake, same as the first. Chromia couldn't have phrased it worse if she tried. It takes everything in Starscream not to smirk at Chromia and rile her up more, to see if he can edge her a little further out of Windvoice's good graces.

Well. A little smirk.

Airazor cycles a vent, and then refolds her wings with a bleak expression. "We'll tell you what we know, though it isn't much. It has only been this past year that Blackarachnia began to hint at some deeper secret. Something as old as Eukaris itself. I thought that maybe she intended for us to meet someone else here - someone whose name is not spoken where others might hear -" It's probably not a coincidence that her anxious glance darts to Starscream as she cuts herself off.

"It is so."

Blackarachnia descends - not from the passage they took, but from a panel in the ceiling, a thin cord of silk anchoring her as she drops down in alt mode. Three of her eight limbs are missing, the matte-black stumps weeping energon, which explains the unnecessarily dramatic entrance; when she transforms and straightens, her third and fourth set of optics glittering from her chest, her entire right arm is also severed. "They will regrow," she says, amused, when Airazor exclaims at the sight. As she limps toward them, Starscream marks the seam she slipped through for further scrutiny. No need for someone else to sneak up on them the same way.

Slash cocks her head to the side, crouching on the edge of the pool. "A useful trick," she says, eyeing Blackarachnia's injuries with a canny eye.

"I have not had need of it in a long time." Blackarachnia doesn't stop until she reaches Windvoice - a move that makes Starscream tense - and reaches out with her remaining hand. Windvoice meets her midway, clasping it in greeting, and Blackarachnia smiles. "But the future is here. The time has come."

And -

"It has," someone else says, as the hall begins to shudder.

-

Chromia lunges forward with an aborted cry. Slash and Slipstream bristle, snarling, while Airazor and Tigatron fall to their knees. But Blackarachnia draws Windvoice beside her in a smooth turn, the golden tips of her remaining limbs curled over Windvoice's wings, and inclines her head to the mass of vines as it flows away from the wall and winds toward them. Starscream nearly loses his balance, stumbling to stay upright, even as he forces his way to stand beside them on the choppy ground.

The moss hums with a violet bioluminescence. The vines course with green, mottled circuits. They've been surrounded the whole time.

Blackarachnia dips deeper as the vines split, and a slim mech blooms out of the center in a fluid transformation. "Botanica."

And Botanica smiles, as her vines set her down. She lacks differentiated legs in root mode - a literal, rooted mode, pale pink and yellow and green - but those vines span the entire hall, the green armor plate shifting with an unnatural smoothness. Her head bobs, too heavy on a neck that's too sinuous, and her eyes are an iridescent, faceted blue-green. If it weren't for the haze of an EM field, it would slam every alien button in Starscream's head.

(And he's not ruling it out yet.)

"You are the one called Windvoice," Botanica says. Her arms seem to grow instead of moving forward, the armor plates as smooth as skin, and when Blackarachnia transfers Windvoice's hand to Botanica's Starscream can't suppress a shudder. "Blackarachnia believes that you may be able to help us with Chela."

Windvoice's eyes are wide with surprise still, but her expression intensifies, grave. "I'll do anything I can to help," she promises, without thought. Then she takes a deep vent, and swallows. "But this is Chela's true body. So please tell me - what exactly came out of the mountain?"

For a klick, Starscream doesn't follow. The rough timeline seemed simple enough to work out: Chela concealed in the mountain, only for the Titan's body to be shifted sometime between first contact with Cybertron and the return of Onyx Prime. The little oddities - the fact that the space bridge is apparently mobile - just more of that patented weird Titan slag Windvoice specializes in.

Then the pink of Botanica's crowning finials fades like a Spectralist's optics, and Blackarachnia's expression turns bleak, and he realizes nothing was ever that easy.

"The Chela that attacked you that day - the Titan that emerged from Talon's Height - was a hollow shell." Botanica reaches out with a branching hand and rests a palm against the nearest pillar. "If you had delved deeper into his frame than the processor chamber, you would have found nothing. The bare minimum necessary to let him move and sustain the processor, so that he could carry out Onyx Prime's final command - and nothing more."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. The ferns rustle in a faint draft of wind.

Windvoice stands perfectly still, her face a blank, numb mask. Her EM field betrays nothing at all.

"An automaton," Botanica finishes, "obedient only to the will of Onyx Prime."

Her eyes dart to Starscream - too quick, too wet, pink now instead of blue, and he grits his teeth under the liquid-eyed appraisal.

But it's Blackarachnia who picks up the thread. "There is a prophecy," she says, apropos of nothing. Her red optics burn as she rests a hand on Windvoice's shoulder, and reaches for Starscream's. "We were lied to, Speaker Windvoice."

Yes. That's usually how it starts.

The Fateweaver's smile is full of too many teeth. "When you destroyed Chela's brain module, Starscream, you freed him. When we investigated his fallen body, we knew the truth."

"No," Windvoice says. "No. No."

"Freed Chela?" Slipstream repeats, frowning hard, as though tasting a foreign concept.

Devastation bleeds from Airazor like an open wound, while Tigatron turns away.

"Onyx mutilated Chela's main processor to force an alliance between them." To her credit, Blackarachnia does not flinch. She presses her fingers together in a diamond before her chest, and spreads them again to weave a razor-thin line of webbing between her palms. "After all, he did not require Chela's consent - he merely required a Titan to stand equal with the other Primes. The Fateweavers who walk with him are two of the eldest of our kind. Old enough to recall the voyage to Eukaris. As was Airachnid. We younger weavers thought Airachnid's lethal experimentation with brain modules a new thing - but we no longer believe that to be the case."

Well. That's unpleasant. Sharp acid burns in Starscream's mouth as another piece of Airachnid's puzzle slots into place in his mind, but it's nothing compared to the nausea radiating from Windvoice, unchecked. He invited her in, and he's never going to live that mistake down.

He's known it since he saw her needle-deep in Vigilem's processor; he's known it since he realized that someone carried word of Neo-Cybertron to Onyx Prime.

Eukaris was a mistake.

"And so when Chela defied and denied him," Botanica says, with her husk of a voice, "Onyx ensured that Chela could never do so again. He stripped Chela of his space bridge as well as his freedom, and gave orders that, should anyone investigate it, Chela would destroy his own spark."

Windvoice reaches behind her, already folding. She's meters away from the pool's edge, though. Starscream flinches when Chromia shoulder-checks him to catch her, guiding Windvoice to the edge so she can sit, hard. "That's - obscene." Her voice is choked, her face almost as white as her old paint. "A Titan. He did that to a Titan."

They did it to Vigilem, Starscream thinks, but doesn't say. That's not just horror in Windvoice's field - when he attunes to it, Vigilem's old fury scorches under the surface. Her mouth is tight with rage.

Chromia tries to support her like Windvoice is about to shatter, but Starscream trained over long millennia to properly read a leader's moods. Hypervigilance is his only virtue. Windvoice isn't Megatron. Small favors. But while she works that little paroxysm of rage out of her system, Starscream picks up the slack from a different angle. "And then there's…you," he says, lightly, his stare drilling into Botanica. "Where do you come in?"

When she twists her neck to look at him, Botanica's eyes burn bright orange. Her vines wrap around her immobile form, lifting her up in a coiling mass. "When Onyx colonized this world, he scattered the sparks carried within Chela to the four corners of Eukaris," she says, her voice echoing in the distant reaches of the roof. "He missed one. I awoke beneath the mountain, and craved only one thing: to break free. I dug, and I crawled, and struggled with so many different shapes and limbs - but when I reached the light of day at last, it was not enough. Those forms were too limited. So I remade myself in the image of the roots that cleave through earth and rock, instead."

She spreads her hands wide, fanning out the fluid joints, and Starscream sees cords and wires flowing under the surface of her armor in a way internals should not move. But Botanica studies her own hands with bright fascination, like they're some brand new, state of the art invention, loving crafted.

They're dealing with something worse than a weird, homegrown, half-alien mech - they're dealing with a scientist. Someone perfectly unafraid of reformatting herself into something utter alien in her pursuit of knowledge.

Why are they all like this.

"I have experimented much over the centuries," Botanica continues, raising her palm. It branches, and the vines that wind through Chela's body move with her. "And when I understood what was needed, I returned to the mountain. I took Chela apart, piece by piece, and buried him deep, where his roots could grow without limit. The true Chela spreads far and wide beneath the surface, safe from Onyx's old, secret eyes."

"But you couldn't move the space bridge," Windvoice says, raising her head. "[The time has not come.] That's what Chela said, in his own words. Everything else in his mind was just a loop. 'Destroy the Cybertronian. Destroy the bridge.'" The anger's still there, banked, her jaw tight. "Onyx ordered Chela to kill himself."

Fantastic. And Starscream made a pithy comeback about it.

"Only the part that defied him," Botanica says, almost diffidently. "What did that matter to him, when he already knew Chela was in his grasp?" There are too many seams in her face plates as she smiles.

Blackarachnia continues to weave the web between her fingers. "But now the time has come," she says. "Chela rises. Chela falls. Eukaris is reborn. And Chela will rise again."

She spreads her hands apart, and a silken outline of Chela spreads its wings, rising.

-

The only one controlling Chela's space bridge, at the moment, is Chela himself.

Botanica explains as she leads them out of the hall, her thick, twisting vines clearing out of passages that lead ever downward. "Chela was the wildest of the Titans. But he has not been free." Flowers peels away from the walls and fold into her train as they go. "I was born in the aegis of his shackled will - but I cannot understand Chela's thoughts. We have healed him as much as we can, and reunited him with his outer frame this past year, but the new processor I crafted has been rejected. Now that he has reconnected with his space bridge, his inner turmoil shakes the earth itself, and I believe that he sees the processor as a waiting snare." The frills of her neck bloom, bright, butter yellow, as she revolves to face Windvoice. "But Blackarachnia has true foresight, and has seen that you are uniquely suited to a reconciliation like this, Speaker Windvoice. You are - changed."

[Changed] has connotations Starscream doesn't like. He doubts it's a translation error, either. Chromia wobbles, her tires slewing a little as she fumbles a turn below. If they weren't in alt mode, he'd shoot a hard look at Windvoice. His ominous ping receives only silence in response.

Somehow, she omitted any mention of this when she sent him a data burst of what happened last week. He knows that she spoke to Blackarachnia when the Fateweaver made an unplanned visit - but the memory cut abruptly to Onyx Prime's arrival.

Slag her for a fool. Something else is up. If she's been in cahoots with Blackarachnia and Botanica (without even knowing who Botanica was until a half hour ago), that's something Starscream needed to know as her mostly non-treacherous lieutenant. He pings her again.

She finally responds. [In private. Not now.]

Uggggh.

"If Chela does not truly awaken soon, Onyx will find this place. The trees mark his passage overhead, seeking you. It is only a matter of time." Then Botanica stills, head jerking. Chela's walls judder, hard, as another tremor rocks them. Slash ducks, while Chromia skids a few choppy meters. On the walls, Blackarachnia crawls, completely unfazed by her missing limbs or the shuddering surface. More quietly, Botanica adds, "His throes of anger grow ever wilder. I cannot - will not - hold him much longer, but Chela will be easy prey if he is not whole when he breaks free."

Which means it's not her causing the earthquakes. Chela's fragging pissed.

"I can try to reach him," Windvoice says. Then, firmer - "I can."

And if she can - and Starscream suspects, with some resignation, that she probably can - then there will just be the silly little issue of getting Chela to send them home. Things are looking much more promising on the Onyx front, all things considered. But there are other concerns. If Chela remembers who shot his processor to the Pit and back, they're going to have problems.

By the time they reach the processor chamber, it's clear that Chela has had enough. Botanica hits the ground hard as a section of the hallway abruptly irises shut, neatly slicing through a trailing vine, and when Windvoice, Slipstream, and Starscream land Chromia covers Windvoice with a raised shield as the thunder rolls through Chela and rattles them all. Clods of dirt that have migrated into Chela's frame dance across the floor. By the time it stops Starscream wobbles on his feet, his struts still vibrating in protest, and it takes a few seconds before he can walk straight.

With her mask in place, Slipstream looks less petulant as she gazes around them with fierce admiration; her EM field swells with ferocity. "He knows himself free," she says, her hands wrapped into fists. "As Trypticon also does. No one will ever control them again."

True to form, Windvoice streaks away from Chromia's shield, already pressing her palms to the ground around the base of a new processor in search of a merge cable. The processor itself is plated with deep, burnished gold, covered in connector ports and sockets for stabilizers - but it rolls dangerously in the shallow dish of the base, unsecured and detached from the rest of the chamber. Only a set of green vines strap it down. Starscream's no medic, but he's fairly sure brain modules aren't meant to rattle around like that in one's skull. "I don't intend to control him," Windvoice says, steadily, as she finds what she's looking for and belatedly pulls the Lathe from the port in the side of her helm to free up space. "But this may take time. If Chela breaches the surface and Onyx comes -"

"We'll cover you," Chromia promises.

Grimacing, Starscream shrugs the integrated gun in his arm online, and strides around to find the canal that allows entrance to Chela's processor chamber from the seam of his orbital ridge. Sure enough, though it currently terminates in a wall of solid earth, the outer passage is hanging open. Typical. Once the Titan's up, that'll be the fastest way for someone to strike at them. "Any day now!" he calls back over his shoulder, leaning back against the curve of the wall so he still has a clear view of Windvoice.

Chela makes his move first. The floor heaves, and convulses - and doesn't stop.

Starscream clamps down on the wall with his free hand, magnetizing his feet to the ground with a heavy chnk as the room shakes and surges. The panels of the floor ripple like waves in the sea, and Botanica cries out in alarm. A loop of vines lashes around to reinforce the processor before it can rattle out of its socket; Blackarachnia skitters along them, trailing silk, and furiously works to web the brain module down.

Another massive jolt, slamming Starscream's gritted teeth and shaking the whole world - and then sunlight lances through the lens of his optics, and the rumbling thunder of Chela's buried vocalizer emerges as a piercing cry as the Titan's head rips free of the earth. For a few seconds the room turns, dizzily - Botanica rooted in place, Chromia digging in with her ax as the floor upends - but Starscream forces his sensors outward, as wind rages through the open canal.

Finally, as more and more of Chela tears out of the earth, Windvoice brings the merge cable home, her hand a fist around the plug. She doesn't hesitate these days. Her optics burn the red of a dying star.

(Too much Vigilem, too little Windvoice. Starscream keeps that targeting crosshair trained on the side of her head, because no one else in here will.)

Chela screams his fury to the world again as the processor kicks into gear. Clamps shoot out of the ceiling and floor, scything through the webs and locking the new brain module in place as connectors snap down. Incomprehensible orange glyphs boil in the air around the processor, flickering too fast to read; the holoscreens that online around the room are more useful for ordinary mechs. Starscream can see a diagram of Chela's frame drawn in light, and it's not a pretty sight. Botanica stands stock still behind Windvoice, all of her vines strained to the limit - because she's holding the idiot bird together, inextricably wound through his limbs, while he makes a hash of pulling himself together. Already those long, bladed mecha that accompanied Onyx Prime circle around the trailing ends of Chela's wings, swarming.

A pair of orange-red, angular eyes ignite in front of Windvoice, like optics with the glass peeled away to reveal the circuits and lenses underneath. [Iam me prodere, iam non dubitas fallere, perfide?] Chela thunders, the words ringing through his helm, while red glyphs throng around her.

Windvoice glares back, resolute, unyielding. Chela's processor burns brighter and brighter, orange circuits blazing to life. [Free, without pity,] she says, with a voice too harsh, familiar in the wrong ways. [You already have what you need. I won't offer you more.]

Outside, someone else roars.

Ah. The distinct vintage of a thwarted Prime. Starscream knows it well.

Now, of course, is when things get dicey. When Onyx Prime comes, he does not hesitate: he punches right through Chela's optic. Shame - Botanica probably spent the last year repairing that thing.

He aims for Windvoice. They always do.

Well, it's not like he has anything better to do with his life. Starscream skips the calculations, and flings himself into Onyx's trajectory. They collide with a crash of metal, and the impact knocks Onyx off-course. He snarls in Starscream's audial - no more playful, predatory amusement in his field - and his branching wings spiral as he tries to throw Starscream off and drive him into the nearest wall. Something sharp bites into Starscream's right foot, and he has no idea what; cursing, he focuses on dragging Onyx further away. While he's there, Starscream goes to draw an energy sword - realizes abruptly that the one nearest his hand is missing - and yanks the other sword free from subspace, wrenching back to drive it into Onyx's shoulder as the Prime arrows through the other orbital canal. He retracts the sword before something can knock it out of his grip.

They blast out into the bright blue sky over the center of the valley. The lake beside Bīj glitters under the sun only a few kilometers away. Behind them, Chela's golden outer layers of armor fan over the grey-brown of his exposed internals, green vines writhing out of the way as mechanical lines reconnect. Botanica unravels her work as fast as she can, but for the moment the Titan remains tethered to the jungle.

For a moment, Onyx Prime's reckless momentum is the only thing keeping them aloft, and it feels dangerously similar to a fall Starscream only half remembers. Cursing, Starscream feels those needle-sharp points around his heel walk upward, but he can't swat at the small of his back while he wrestles with Onyx for control of the sudden dive. Ravage, his processor spits back, based on prior experience; then, on further consideration - Slash.

They don't need to kill him, necessarily. But it would be an excellent bonus. One of these days a Prime will stay dead, and Starscream can finally put it on his résumé.

"You are nothing," Onyx says, conversationally. "I have known your ilk before, little parasite."

Starscream jams his fist into the Prime's torso and fires - twice, three times. It still doesn't do nearly as much damage as it should, but Onyx Prime grunts in pain. Slash's long claws dig too deep in between his wings for a moment as they spiral - Starscream bites back the urge to snap at her to hurry up, before Onyx ploughs them into the dirt once more. "You have no idea what I am," he retorts, and shoots him again for good measure. Something large is coming up behind them, hard, and Onyx isn't stopping -

Ah, right. The wall.

They tear through it like paper, and Starscream takes the brunt of the impact. It barely slows them at all before they streak over the ruined city. Unsure of Slash's status, Starscream hikes his leg up, wedges his foot into one of the sparking wounds, and fires his thrusters. Something must hit, because Onyx snarls and dropkicks him in the cockpit with two legs; once he's clear, Starscream transforms and barely manages to brake in time to hit the stands. His landing craters the rock; better than letting Onyx launch him into it at top speed.

Of course, now they're directly under the optic craft, and the bulk of Onyx's army. The native Eukarian fliers stoop and duck out of the way, scrambling for shelter. Starscream doubts any of them have the bearings to jump into the middle of a fight like this, even if they weren't serving Onyx under duress - they'll wait to see which way the wind is blowing before picking a side. Circling around the outer edge of the lake, however, comes a pack of reptilian and dinosaur mecha, led by a familiar face.

"Leader?" Slash demands, right in his audial.

Dinobot is four times her size, and there will probably be repercussions for a Tryptich representative mauling and/or killing a member of another colony world. But slag it. Starscream's filing all of this under self-defense. The Council can thank him later. "Blue-faced, scaly idiot without a nose," he hisses back, as the Scale Walkers draw close and Dinobot transforms, his noseless face disgustingly superior as he saunters ahead of the pack.

He can feel Slash's teeth bare in a smile. "It's enough."

"Lord Onyx," Dinobot calls, with only a cursory nod of respect for the Prime. His mouth curls as he looks at Starscream. "Allow us to deal with this outsider. This is the savage standardformer who struck down great Chela. We failed in our duty to avenge him then, but -"

Slash bounds down and launches herself at Dinobot. "Weakling!" she shouts, catapulting feet-first into his face. "Gutless coward! THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!"

Dinobot reels back, shrieking. "Oh sweet slag not the eyes-!" Then he stumbles and falls, and the Scale Walkers turn as one to encircle the impromptu death match, enthralled, as Slash begins to loudly impugn Dinobot's honor.

Which just leaves Starscream and Onyx Prime.

Onyx punches a fist into the sky, and with a ringing cry two of the snake-like mecha descend from the sky, all blades and armor and layered wings as they hit the ground and prowl at Onyx's side. When they haven't been dismembered by Arcee, they're almost impressive. Every movement looks like it should break their spinal struts; Starscream can't tell if they even have a root mode, or just this. A third lands behind Starscream, its sinuous body winding up and down the rows of the old amphitheatre, its vents kicking up hot dust.

For a moment, Starscream can't tell who to shoot first. Not because he's overwhelmed by his options, here, but simply because his processor - stops. There's a dangerous moment where he's entirely at a loss.

Well. When in doubt, he can always run his mouth. "All this? Just for little old me?" he says, with a simpering smirk, as he pretends to inspect his fingers. Smarter mechs than Onyx have fallen for that taunt.

Onyx smiles broadly, mirthlessly, his upper arms spread wide as one of the draconic mechs curls under his wing to inspect Starscream. "As I said," he says, "I am familiar with your kind. However distantly, I know your war. If one does not like the odds - change them. My draca needed to stretch their wings."

Then the Prime stills, tilting his helm to the side, and pity sharpens his smile. "But I don't think that that's truly necessary, at the moment," he says. He strokes the head of the coiled draca, and then, with a nudge to make the mech shift away, stalks forward. "In a game of Primes, vermin are…insignificant."

Oh, what Starscream would give for a loudspeaker connection, so he could blast that at the Eukarians en masse and rile them up. It wouldn't matter if it was directed for them or not, if it could just sow the seeds of offended outrage. [Vermin] is never a nice word; Ratbat used to have a whole spiel about it.

Starscream snorts, flippant. "Aw, what's the matter? Someone have a little complex because his Titan didn't like him?" he asks, sing-song. He traces a finger down his cheek in a mock tear, and makes sure his voice carries over the stands. "Let me tell you, it never says good things when you have to brainwash someone to make them love you -"

A flurry of movement from the fliers on the rim of the wall. Onyx's upper optics lose their glint of amusement. He isn't stopping, either. With a derisive click, Starscream starts firing, glancing impatiently at the horizon. Windvoice and that birdbrain can hurry up, any day now -

"Vermin," Onyx repeats, without a care. "I did not come here to seek an army. I came to clean house. And you -"

His hand sweeps wide and slaps Starscream's arm aside. Starscream jolts back, startled; he somehow missed the critical moment when Onyx stepped into range. The Prime's armor is covered in scorch marks and gouges, but he…lost focus. Mesmerism, the paranoid reaches of his processor want to say, but that's not right. He snaps back around with a glower, backing away - but Onyx rears back and his sharp hooves kick out and catch Starscream square in the chest, slamming him back against the rock.

He could've dodged that. Why does it feel like he's slogging through mud again? With a growl, he pries himself up out of the Starscream-shaped dent.

Onyx's sharp claw shoots out and slams his head to the side, palm-first. Something crumples sharply in his side vents, and Starscream wheezes through the bright smear of pain. This isn't how he needs to fight an opponent like this. Onyx Prime towers over him, bulldozes through Starscream's rapid burst of return fire, and when Starscream tries to put distance between them, he steps wrong, forced to veer away from the claustrophobic ring of draconic mechs hemming them in, fumbling and freezing and panicking when he needs to be competent.

"You're not even trying," Onyx says, backhanding Starscream once more. "You think I cannot tell? You were resigned to this beating before we began."

He's not fighting Megatron. He just needs to act like it.

Buying time.

Starscream staggers away, his face an ugly, twisted sneer. "You have - no idea!" he says, with a shrill bark of laughter, before Onyx whirls and slams the leading edge of his wing into Starscream's gut.

He tumbles through the air too hard to course-correct, and lands skidding, his right side scraping along the rock before the nearest draca lashes out and smacks him away with a sinuous tail. It clears out of the way as Onyx Prime strides over, his towering frame black against the bright sky. "Such a conflict inside you," the Prime muses, kicking Starscream over with a hoof. "You despair, yet you don't know how to let yourself die. Was this supposed to be punishment?"

This is so not his business. Starscream heaves himself up onto his elbows, spits up energon, and shoots a sour look up at the Prime. "Your banter is bland, and you should feel bad," he says, resting his chin on a hand. "You owe all of Eukaris a refund for your disappointing Primehood."

Onyx picks him up by the neck. This is, as always, dramatic but merely inconvenient, in the grand scheme of things. Starscream puts up a good token struggle as he claws at Onyx's huge hand as he lifts him up to eye level. The optic craft seems to be blocking out more of the suns than it did five kliks ago, which he can work with.

Someone pings him.

"Solus rises," Onyx says. His smile never falters. "You think I do not welcome her?"

Starscream wheezes. "Hgk."

Ordinarily, that tricks idiots into loosening their grip, as though vocalizers are actually impeded by ventilation stutters. Onyx doesn't fall for it; he just waits, like he has all the time in the world for the vermin to get to the point.

With a roll of his optics, Starscream sighs and unloads his armament directly into the underside of Onyx's chin.

Really. What else did he expect?

Like most of Onyx's frame, his throat is armored and, in general, spiky. But the force of the charged shot knocks his helm back sharply, stunning him, and when Starscream feels the claws around his neck flex to tear into the major fuel lines, he slips the energy blade's hilt around in his other hand and activates it right through Onyx's wrist joint. It doesn't come entirely off - Onyx's forearm is wider than the blade's default setting - but Starscream has to catch himself with thrusters in midair as Onyx's nerveless hand dangles by a thin strip of outer armor.

Then Starscream blasts backward, not so much to try to knock Onyx away with thrusters as to just get out of the way.

He catches one last glimpse of Onyx's flashing optics, the lower set dark, the upper an avid, gleaming scarlet, before Chela's shadow splits the sky, and a Titan crushes Onyx beneath its feet.

The SHRCRNCH of Onyx being curbstomped gets mostly lost under Chela's triumphant screech. The Titan beats its wings in a cascade, light pouring through golden blades interspersed with solar panels the size of skyscrapers, rectrices scraping along the lakebed. The empty red socket in the Titan's keel is sealed by the base of the space bridge, slotted back into place.

[No one commands Chela.]

Other Eukarians creep out from under cover - Starscream spies Cheetor across the lake, along with more of his people, probably drawn by the spectacle. "But - but -" Dinobot stutters, voice dying somewhere in the huddle of bodies. "It's not possib-"

Chela stoops and squalls right in their faces, loud enough that Starscream's audials shut down and reboot out of mercy. It's hard to tell who the Titan is yelling at, precisely; Starscream looks around wildly for an escape route, to be safe. But Chela's harsh orange optics sweep over them all, eyeing Starscream with a wild intensity that pins him in place - and then the Titan straightens, spreading its wings once more. The draca on the ground cringe back, roiling over one another in wary turmoil, their eyes never leaving Chela's massive claws as they draw further and further away.

But Chela's eyes are fixed on the stars. Immense wings fan further out as Chela shrieks its fury at the sky again, and the atmosphere seems to reverberate in time with the orange pulse at the center of its chest.

Oh wait.

Starscream staggers upright. "Slag." Then - "Slash! Get in the bird, now!"

Slash's head pops up from the center of the cowering Scale Walkers. Then, without hesitation, she snaps her jaws shut on something horribly crunchy, leaps out of the circle, and bounces off a giant crocodile's back, dashing back toward Starscream so fast her feet scarcely touch the ground. Starscream transforms, and barely waits for the impact of the Tryptich hitting his back before bursting forward. No time to reach the head - Metroplex would take a small eternity to get off the ground, but Chela's another beast entirely, and it's not waiting to transform into shipmode.

[Iam mens praetrepidans avet vagari -]

No time for finesse; Starscream scans frantically, and finds what he's looking for - a shuttered seam in Chela's right leg. He pings Windvoice, but there's no time to waste. The panel is still shut when he and Slash punch through.

The shuttle bay they shoot into is open to vacuum when Chela gates away with its space bridge.

Leaving Eukaris without a means of reaching Neo-Cybertron, and vice versa.

That's certainly a problem for tomorrow's Starscream. Better yet, it's a problem for tomorrow's Windvoice. Starscream's washing his hands of the whole damn colony. Once Slash is securely on the ground, claws digging into the metal, he storms over to the nearest airlock and bangs on it until Chela - probably out of irritation - obliges, letting them into a hall that isn't rapidly depressurizing.

Now, there's just the small problem of figuring out where they've bridged to.

SS: What on earth is this giant turkey doing?!
WV: Funny you should say that.
WV: You're alright down there? Chela was very emphatic about walling me out of his systems - I can't access much.
SS: We're coming up. What a slagging mess. How many VIPs have we kidnapped?
WV: Depends on your definition of VIP. Botanica, Blackarachnia, Airazor, and Slipstream are still with us. And Chela.
SS: Tigatron?
WV: He went to alert Cheetor. I…don't think he made it back onboard.
SS: One will do.
WV: On so many levels - not helpful.
SS: Anyway. Where are we?
WV: Er. I don't think you'll like the answer to that.
SS: I can tell you right now, I didn't like that answer either.
WV: You might want to look out a window.

He's too sore to fly up through Chela the hard way. Grumbling, Starscream locates a window that runs the length of the corridor, the upper half of the view shades by the outer sheaves of Chela's armor.

For a moment, the view makes no sense: there's a swirling surface of white and blue filling the upper right quadrant of his vision, before Chela rotates and all Starscream can see is space, black shading to blue as they dive into atmo.

But it's not until Chela rights itself, braking hard, that Starscream realizes that he knows that sky.

Oh no.

Chela streaks down towards Earth.

Below, the clouds whip away, and the view resolves itself into a desert. Last Starscream heard, Optimus had taken a page out of Onyx Prime's book and set up his Titan to loom over the planet in an aerial fortress mode, because all Primes are the exact same.

Metrotitan doesn't appear to have gotten the memo. It stares up at them, almost a twin to Metroplex but a deeper grey, blue visor bright in the sun as its arms reach out.

[non me sōlum relinquātis, amāns]

Starscream can only assume, from the way that Metrotitan catches Chela in an effortless embrace, that they've done this before.

---

break in the sun till the sun breaks down /

and death shall have no dominion

- Dylan Thomas of Earth, <<epistle>>

---

He always intended to go out with a bang.

Just seemed fitting. It's what Nyonites do. Better than waiting for old age to find him a billion rusted years down the road, or dying in some stupid way, remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Smelters were always horrific, but distant. That kind of thing where you try to picture it in your mind, but your processor can only construct a vague shadow of what it'd feel like. You don't want to think about it, in the most literal way. Someone tried to describe it once on the 'net, a witness - the agony of boiling EM fields, the pain reverberating and building on itself as everyone felt themselves melting, felt their sparks liquefying in a horrific chorus, like drowning in a sun - but that's the kind of slag you don't read alone at night. He closed the feed and never opened it again.

Weird. He expected it to hurt more.

Rodimus cracks an eye open, and sees nothing but swirling, white-hot liquid metal. It makes his optic glass throb, the visual sensors useless and the heat sensors whited out; the sound is like an endless roar, so loud that the sensation barely registers. Molten heat scalds his armor - there goes all his nice purple vengeance paint Drift worked so hard on - but he's more surprised he can feel his armor at all. He expected to be a bit more, uh, gooey, by now.

[I'm alive?] he tries, on comms. He thinks that's the case; if not, death is a bit of a wash.

Vivere answers immediately. "Yes, splendid work. Your spark is very well suited to the core." A set of very solid fingers flex on Rodimus's collar. He can't tell which way is down and which way is up, but he's abruptly aware that they're absolutely booking it. The molten metal of Neo-Cybertron shifts around them at a glacial, tectonic pace - Vivere dives through it like a missile, drawn down toward the center like a magnet as she hauls Rodimus in her wake.

The spark clamped in the crook of his elbow feels oddly electric, burning cold against his side. He holds it tighter as the sensation of motion rushes around them. It feels like they've been falling for five minutes and an eternity at the same time - his chronometer averages it out to a few hours. Most of it spent curled up in a panic ball. "I don't think that's how science works," Rodimus points out.

But he's still not melting. So much for science. Vivere's laugh travels weirdly through the molten core.

Then, without warning, she drops him. Rodimus gets exactly two seconds to realize he's falling upside down through empty air, not metal, before Vivere hits a solid floor, catches him with an 'oof!', and sets him briskly on his feet again.

With his free, trembling hand, Rodimus touches his face. "We are alive," he repeats, impressed. His eyes still throb with bright afterimages, but he can make out the bleached old yellow paint of his fingers, and the simple, smooth curve of the room at the center of the planet.

Vector Sigma has seen better and worse days. The supercomputer hangs in the center of the room, twenty mechs tall and round and dark, with only a dull glow emanating from within - but the rest of the chamber is weirdly blank. As in, Rodimus can't see a single seam or door in the walls. If they hadn't just fallen into it, he'd say it was completely sealed. No control terminals, no monitors - nothing.

When he takes a step, he realizes the floor is steaming. Freshly made, and only just barely cool enough to be solid.

He opens his mouth - looks at Vivere - and shuts it again. "Why are we down here?" he asks, instead.

Vivere is staring around the far side of Vector Sigma. He'd call her expression remote, but her optics are burning smears of white light, brighter down here than they were on the surface, and that's terrifying. "Because your friend came from somewhere. That photonic crystal didn't just form by itself, and he was quite insistent that we come down here ourselves," she says, distractedly. "The core hasn't fully differentiated; the grand mechanisms for spark production aren't even solid yet…"

Yeah, that. He's still stuck on that. Rodimus uncramps his arm from around the spark and holds it up, grimacing. "My friend?" he repeats, doubtful.

Vivere looks at him, her expression equal parts eerie and patient. "I'm sure it will come to you. Or you could ask him yourself; you are not incapable. Once he had the theory down, it was easy."

The spark crackles and pops in his hands, the corona spitting blue sparks over his hand. Its proto-EM field can't really project that far.

Of all things, it's the word 'theory' that blows Rodimus's mind. For a long second, he's too damn scared to say it out loud.

Then, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, Rodimus turns his back on Vivere. His mouth feels dry. "…Skids?" he whispers.

Skids flares like a ball of human Christmas lights.

"Rung," Vivere says, quietly urgent.

The sound that emits from Rodimus's vocalizer is somewhere between a squeak, a scream, and a shaky laugh, and Drift can never know he made it. Ever. Rodimus whips around, clutching Skids to his chest and mouthing holy Primus to himself. "Rung too?!" he repeats, wildly, half-expecting Rung to pop out of the floor like a daisy.

But no - Vivere's kneeling almost out of sight behind Vector Sigma. It's only when Rodimus jogs after her that he sees the third person smoldering on the floor. For a horrible second, Rung looks half melted - but Vivere peels strips of magma away from his joints and helm with white-hot fingers, and Rung's underlying frame looks bright and shiny orange underneath. Rodimus drops to his knees beside them. "How long has he been down here? Has this place been molten since you left? Is everyone I know secretly smelter-proof?!" he demands. Damn. He got those questions in the wrong order. That last one is what's really relevant, honestly.

Skids flares in agreement.

"Most likely since the pulse," Vivere says. She turns Rung over so he's face up, his skinny, unarmored limbs limp. His thick brows are knitted together in a frown, even while his glasses are dimmed in unconsciousness. "And he is alright. Underfueled, and in the middle of a reboot. But he was born for this."

Even as she says it, she digs another rapidly cooling hunk of lava out of Rung's spark window and flicks it over her shoulder. But Rung starts coughing a klik later - a wet, hacking cough that racks his whole skinny frame. Coughs are like. Never supposed to sound wet. Which probably they means they need an actual medical expert here like Ratchet, instead of Vivere, who's a maniac, and Rodimus, who currently has his hands full of disembodied Skids. With the next cough Rung jackknifes upright, one leg kicking out and his aqua optics unevenly lit. Rodimus useless reaches out to help support him as he leans forward, clutching his chest.

Then, without warning, Rung hocks up an almost solid, amalgamated ball of metal and crystal. Horrified and fascinated, Rodimus pounds him on the back, helpfully, and Rung wheezes a few times as a few smaller shards of crystal and more liquified metal come back out his intake.

"He may have needed to ingest more," Vivere says, very seriously.

Rodimus stares at her, appalled. "Uh, I think you meant the opposite of that!" Rung raises a hand, groping blindly, and Rodimus grabs it with his free hand. "Rung? Hey, easy does it, mech. Holy slag, you're not supposed to try to drink the magma."

"Most of the sentio metallico has gathered in the center - it's very dense. And he did need repairs." Vivere knocks on Rung's back with a knuckle, audial cocked as she listens to the echoes from his chest. "Rung. Can you hear me?"

Rung's hand spasms tightly in Rodimus's. One last shuddering wheeze to clear his intake of dust, and then Rung's ventilation system kicks in. "Yes," Rung forces out. He sounds hoarser than if he'd gargled diamond shards on a dare (not that Rodimus would have any personal experience with what that would sound like). Rung removes his glasses, fingers shaking, and looks at Rodimus and Vivere. With a smile for Rodimus, he clears his vocalizer - and then looks sharply at Vivere. He looks almost ticked off. Which is incredible, and inexplicable, since Rung's the most patient mech around, and Rodimus may need to document this for posterity. He's not sure even Whirl can crack Rung's professional face that fast. "And I remember everything, Vivere."

Not even Rung's exhausted grimace can faze this mech. Vivere kicks the main chunk of metal and crystal away and lopsidedly smiles at Rung.

After they stare each other down for a few seconds, Rodimus waves a hand between their faces. "Remember what now?"

Rung sighs, and, hilariously, pulls a microfiber cloth out of his subspace to wipe the lenses of his specs. He always looks older with them off. More serious. Look, it's just hard to take a guy seriously when he has big, magnified googly eyes. "Who I am. What I am," Rung says. His EM field is full of melancholy as he takes in the room around them, and sighs. "I'm home."

He sounds less than enthusiastic about this miraculous revelation, considering the fact that Nightbeat is going to have an existential crisis when he hears that they beat him to the punch. Seriously, the mech's gonna lose his mind, and Rung just looks depressed! Rodimus claps him on the back with more enthusiasm, and shoots Rung a thumbs up when Rung looks up at him. It gets a wobbly, crooked smile, but not much else.

The next Rodimus Star is gonna read 'stole Nightbeat's thunder.' That'll cheer him up. Probably. Morale is a finicky thing.

Vivere rises to her toes with a spin, trailing one hand along the wall as she walks the perimeter. "The failure was catastrophic. At the time, we were still operating under the assumption that the damage was direct, systemic sabotage. But planned obsolescence was never something we could fight. Not that late," she says. "I estimate that we salvaged only a hundred mecha or so to send to the surface, before the core and mantle solidified completely."

Then, as Vivere lets her hand fall, the wall ripples, white hot, and the imprints of molten hands press through the wall, following the trail she traced. They subside, smoothing back into cold metal - but haha! Oh great! Clutching a staticky Skids under his arm, Rodimus scoops an arm around Rung's skinny waist. No mech gets left behind. "Awesome! That's not creepy at all!" Rodimus says aloud, forcing a smile with all his teeth. "Wow, look at the time, Rung. We should really get going -"

Rung lays a steadying hand on Rodimus's forearm. "Ring? Rang? They're here?"

For a second, Rodimus wonders why Rung's repeating his own name. The difference is so fragging subtle - a rising tone and a high tone on the single glyph of Rung's name, versus the falling tone that you're technically supposed to use. Mostly people just default to the toneless form, since Neo-Cybex doesn't bother with more convoluted stuff. When Rung says the names, it sounds more like he's singing, but in the end, the designation means basically the same thing. Skids is pulling that snap, crackle, pop thing again, which is only amusing when it's a human jingle and not when it's a giant energy crystal shocking you in the ribs.

Vivere stops. "Yes. But they've had millions of years to be reforged."

Rung huffs, head dipping. Skids pops off another burst of electricity strong enough to make Rodimus's elbow twinge. "I am so lost," he says, setting Rung back down on his feet. Then he stuffs Skids into Rung's arms, because he's a doctor of some kind. Problem solved. "Here, tell Skids you're alright so he'll stop zapping me."

That seems to break the weird vibes; Vivere laughs, tossing her head back as she swings around. "See? You're already getting the hang of it!"

Rung looks startled, clutching Skids with both hands as the spark crackles against his chest window. Rodimus'll take it. "I guess that's two down! Even if Skids is a surprise bonus in the form of a lightbulb." Rodimus slams his fist into his hand decisively. "We've achieved something."

Vivere swivels the rest of the way around, pressing a finger to her cheek. "I don't suppose he'd be willing to return to the Forge and wait for the Core mechanisms to reform?" she asks, tone light. The effect's kinda cancelled out by the mystical glowy eyes, but whatever.

Skids spits sparks in protest. Rung looks extra alarmed without his specs.

She claps her hands together. And that's the extra-unnerving thing - her delight fills the whole room. It catches Rodimus's attention when it shifts, but otherwise it just is. That weird atmosphere earlier? Yeah. "A challenge! How exciting!" Rather than going for Skids - Rung looks vaguely alarmed as Vivere veers toward them - the Muse catches Rodimus by the arm and drags him toward the creepy hand wall. "Come, Rodimus. A lesson."

Rodimus side-eyes the wall. "Don't follow strange mechs who bathe in molten hot lava?" he guesses.

Vivere smiles and taps the metal.

A gout of molten metal fountains out of the wall, swamping both of them. The wall doesn't even have the decency to burst or spring a leak - it just melts at a touch.

[Augh, I think I swallowed some,] Rodimus complains, as the room floods in a rush. He walked right into that one, honestly.

He almost doesn't notice when the metal splits around them. But Vivere slowly melts into view again, her paint almost blending with the white-yellow rush of metal before Rodimus realizes he can see. [You are a Matrix of Creation. But you don't forge anyone. They forge themselves, in the end,] Vivere says. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches out and pulls a stream of metal out of the coil wrapped around them, spooling it around her hands without quite touching it. [Sentio metallico is very intuitive. Go on.]

It's a Matrix affinity thing. At least, that's how Rodimus learned it. Sentio metallico feels wet to the touch, more liquid than solid. He never really got to test most of the signs; he kinda hopped right into the Matrix thing right out of the gate. He lit up a hot spot once, on Luna-1 - right before breaking the Matrix even more. [Right. I can do that,] he says. [Totally.]

Vivere glances at him, her expression suddenly skeptical. [Doubt.]

Before he can second-guess whether that's her judging him, or just her calling him on the whole doubt thing, Rodimus sticks his whole hand into the swirling metal out on contrary impulse. His hand doesn't immediately melt off, so that's a bonus! He pulls it back out just as fast, but the molten sentio metallico sticks to his hand, almost tacky like glue. With a grimace, Rodimus tries to unwind it with his other hand - and another loop of metal droops out of the sphere's coil. So obviously he tries to catch it before it can hit the floor; another white-hot glop of metal droops overhead, and Rodimus gathers that too, vaguely incensed as he tosses it over his armful. At this point his hand is buried under all the ropey metal. He sticks his free hand into the wall one last time, shooting a glare at Vivere, who is being no help whatsoever while he's beset on all sides, and drags it back out.

Skids pulses cold in his hand, a corona of pale blue light that cuts through the ambient yellow glow.

Rodimus freezes.

The sentio metallico coiling around his arms trickles up, reaching.

Oh, they are so doing this. Finally, finally getting it, Rodimus grins as he shoves Skids into the metal.

The whole ropy coil absorbs the spark and slumps off Rodimus's arm, shifting and roiling with intent. Vivere brings her hands down as the metal she gathered slithers off her arm, and the rest of it flows away to form walls again. Rung is standing right beside Rodimus, apparently unfazed by the fact that he was standing in a literal flow of magma for most of that; instead, he kneels beside the sentio metallico as it shrinks and compacts itself, smaller and smaller, the metal cooling from white-hot to a familiar, living grey in visible stages.

It doesn't stop until it's a protoform - still warm, the surface of the metal more circuitry than armor, and kind of nubby. Vivere whistles as the nubs get bigger, and a pair of optics starts to form out of a rounded, undifferentiated head nub.

It takes everything in Rodimus's considerable, tried-and-true willpower not to poke him. "Uh. Skids?" he says, once the audials start to come in. Not that he's seen too many protoforms fresh out of the ground, but he doesn't think they're supposed to go that fast.

A tiny opening forms under the optics as they online. "Scum," Skids says, in a ludicrously high-pitched version of his old voice.

"No," Rung says, very quietly. He rests his hand against the back of Skids's bobbling head as the protoform's back writhes, and splits into doorwings for an alt mode that's not all there yet. "Skids."

Skids raises a nubby arm without arguing. "My fingers are tiny," he observes. Still squeaky, still deeply offended by this revelation.

Vivere hums as she stoops, her armor panels clicking against the floor as she kneels. That weird, remote feeling is back in the atmosphere. "I already have reservations about this. You haven't had enough time to be annealed of your sorrows," she says, as Skids comes to rest in a tiny rootmode, smaller than a grown human still. Then Vivere's optics brighten again with delight. "But I met the most fascinating child recently! Perhaps you would consider developing instars more slowly?"

Skids looks singularly unimpressed by the suggestion. "If anything, I'm going faster. I've been a protoform once, I think I've got the general idea," he says. He kicks out one leg, then the other, and wobbles to his feet. Well. Not feet yet. Mostly just nubs still. A lot of him is still greyish-white and unarmored, but a blue tinge spreads across his helm. Then he glances around him, his optics too big for his face. "Rodimus. Rung. What happened while I was gone?"

"A great deal," Rung says, and he smiles properly for the first time since they got down here. It's still a sad smile, but still. Work in progress.

But Vivere's off again, bounding back to her feet, and someone's got to keep track of that mech. Rodimus watches warily as she strides over to the dim heap of Vector Sigma, humming to herself loudly enough that they can hear. "What are you doing?"

"Calling for volunteers," she says, cryptically, as she walks under the unlit globe of the supercomputer. But nothing blows up or erupts like a volcano, so Rodimus figures they're good. "Now. Multitasking. This map 'to the Knights of Cybertron.' Could you draw it for me, Rodimus?"

The question's so open and unselfconscious that Rodimus just blinks, caught off guard. "Off the top of my head? Yeah, sure. I doodled it all over my desk without even thinking about," he says, scratching the back of his head as he casts around for something to draw with. He's not exactly the type to keep datapads on him - that's just asking for Ultra Magnus to slip him more paperwork, 90% of which Rodimus is pretty sure Ultra Magnus just makes up to oppress him with.

But Vivere snaps her fingers, and a holo projection lights up in the air in front of him, the blank surface faintly gold at the edges but otherwise blank. Cool. "You want the squiggly inscription, too?" he asks, framing the available space with his fingers as he contemplates where to start. He basically has the whole thing memorized out of self-defense.

"Please."

It takes him a bit to pull the inscription out of memory - he remembers the gist of it, but he and Drift went over the wording so many times before Drift left that it got a little jumbled with their later interpretations. But he writes the inscription out with a flourish and a grin, the ancient glyphs flipping around to face Vivere when he flicks them.

She breaks off mid-pace to come forward, inspecting the glyphs with a curious expression. "Who translated this for you?" she asks, after a pause.

"Rewind. But he said it was old Old Cybertronian. Pre-everything he'd ever archived." Rodimus waves his hand noncommittally, and gets started on outlining the map itself below the glyphs. The rough circles first, then the paths linking them. The other glyphs and symbols can come last, since they take the most concentration. He points to the inscription, rattling off the interpretations that they'd come to a consensus about before leaving on the quest. "So that's [til all are one,] and that's [trapped light,] and the last bit's something about the Guiding Hand, according to Optimus -"

"It never ceases to amaze me how muddled that Orion fellow was," Vivere comments, squinting. Then she reaches out and starts rearranging the scribbled inscription - spreading the glyphs out into their component syllables, and arranging them in a three-dimensional spiral of light, linked by thin, parallel lines. "Though I will give credit to Rewind for a decent attempt. This is not just old Old Cybertronian - it is written in Core musical notation. I don't believe that script ever made its way to the surface." Once she's satisfied, Vivere starts at the top and traces the spiral of glyphs down. "[one from many | ynam morf eno]. [lost light^[taken]]. And this…" She pauses at the bottom, stroking her chin. "Trickier. More metaphorical. Not a fist. [An uncurled hand]?"

"[I offer. I surrender,]" Rung says. Skids is using his leg as a prop to test his balance; Rung, meanwhile, still hasn't put his glasses back on, and there's a glint in his optics as he scans the inscription.

Cheerful! They're learning so many new and ominous things today. "And the map!" Rodimus announces, drawing the last big symbol inside the central circle. Then he steps back. "Perceptor said it looked like the Matrix crystal was designed with deliberate fracture lines. Like it was meant to split open. When you shone light through it, it projected a starmap."

Which. In hindsight. Seems a lot more horrifying, considering -

Vivere's smile is almost as sad as Rung's. "Oh, Kore." She follows the map out of order, her index finger outlining the outer planets and symbols first. "Make no mistake. Through the Matrix, even in that faded twilight, you could most likely draw impressions from them. A Matrix assembles and distills the collective insight and spark processing power of a million souls. But those many minds cannot overwhelm the Matrix itself. In the end, it was always Kore." She resets her optics, and the sudden absence of light is almost as disconcerting as it is when she brightens them again. "In the end, it was only Kore. This is not a map of normal space, Rodimus. This is a warning, sent back to Cybertron through Kore's willing sacrifice. And that -"

Vivere taps the center planet, and the great golden gear at the center of it all.

"- is the insignia of the Grand Architect of the Quintessons."

"Oh." Rodimus rests a hand on his hip, and stares at the map for a long moment. "Well, fuck."

---

Mine ears made deaf and mine eyes blind as glass /

My body broken as a turning wheel.

- Resonance of Iacon, <<a softer world>>

---

Sari bites back one gasp of pain - then another - and another - and each time she does it, they make it further from the basilica. Her breathing is still ragged and noisy, compared to Resonance's tight ventilation cycle, but that's just how life is sometimes. Papa always promised it would be better once she got her grown up body, but -

"Up here!" Resonance urges, and Sari bites her lower lip until it bleeds as she scrambles up the ladder, her leg throbbing in steady starbursts of pain -

-

"That leg won't hold," Dominus says, grimly. They've left the shouts of the guards behind them - no one was small enough to slip through the narrow opening in the pipe system - but Sari's leg is a mess of metal and stupid, squishy protoform where she tore herself free so they could run away in a panic. Dominus looks to Rewind. "Rewind, go. They need what you have."

Rewind shakes his head, visor bright with alarm as he projects a hasty map on the wall. "We go together!" he retorts, frantically tracking a route through the maze of infrastructure tunnels. "Dredger marked an emergency overflow sanitation tunnel - we can make it."

It's her fault. Sari feels woozy. She keeps her hand clamped on the jagged metal edges of the wound, trying to pinch the edges back together and make the bleeding stop. "Uhhhhh. Go on without me," she tells them, leaning hard on the wall. She makes her voice sound tough, but it's hard with her mask hanging loose so she can breathe better.

Split up, Scorponok's advice whispers in the back of her head. Go to ground, and let the bait draw them away.

Sometimes, Papa's kind of an afthead. Sari's just pretty sure that she's leaving a trail of energon, and it's not stopping any time soon. They need to get away from her. She glances back the way they came, visor brightening the dark as she checks worriedly for any sign of a creepy, transparent tentacle coming after them. Quintus Prime is gross, and who knows how long his reach is!

An enormous crash booms through the tunnel, hard enough to knock them all off their feet except Dominus. Sari's cheek scrapes against the wall as she staggers. Resonance loops their arm under Sari's again, half-dragging her back upright. "I have her," they say, as dust billows through the rounded corridor and the sound of voices begin to echo from the direction of the crash. "Go!"

-

They run without lights, optics and biolights dark. Resonance emits a quick burst of sound at intervals, their audial fins fully extended as they navigate the tunnels by sound, a crappy copy of Rewind's transmitted map in their HUD. Sari knows that she's leaving damp handprints in energon on the walls any time she stumbles - so she grits her teeth and doesn't stumble.

When the silence extends long enough with no sign of pursuit, Resonance stops and drops, digging into their subspace before Sari realizes they've stopped. A faint gleam of light brightens the gloom, outlining the angles of Resonance's face and just barely illuminating a sector number painted on the wall. "Your energon's too dark a purple," Resonance says, voice tight with concern as they pull a slim medkit out of their insides. It's barely more than a handheld welder and a sheaf of patch and wound-packing metal.

"That's normal," Sari says, gritting her teeth as she forces her to straighten. The worst of the damage is to the calf, just under her knee, but inside it tunnels into the protoform. Papa usually has to stitch up protoform wounds with something else, and cauterize with silver nitrate. It's not gonna work right on her. But if she could just stop leaking, they won't have to worry about people on their tail. "Cauterize it, then pack it?"

Resonance glances at her sharply. "Can do," they say. They radiate queasiness themselves as they raise the welding torch. "But also, I'm really not a medic. You may want to mute your vocalizer."

Her mouth is already chewed up. Sari bites down on her wrist as the torch switches on.

-

She and Resonance fall behind. Dominus lopes ahead in his alt mode, audials up and nose to the ground, alert for any disturbances up ahead; Rewind calls out the turns.

When the triplechanger punches through the roof, crowing with delight as the tunnel caves in, Sari and Resonance are trapped on the wrong side.

Or maybe the right side. When the roar of the maintenance shaft collapsing creaks to a stop, the only thing in front of them is a wall of crumpled metal, torn pipes, and dangling cables, swaying faintly in the dusty dark as the sound of someone laughing echoes, muffled, from the far side. Where Rewind and Dominus are, if they weren't crushed in the collapse.

The color drains from Resonance's face. "Blitzwing," they say. "Slag. The Triorian Guard works in threes."

That just sounds like three times the trouble, to Sari. Glancing around wildly, she spies the turnoff they passed under Rewind's direction. There's no way to go except to backtrack and find another route. She yanks on their arm and starts running, her wrecked leg screaming in protest with every pounding step. "This way, come on!"

-

They run out of Underground. Probably the reason why Rewind led them past that turn, to be honest. Resonance takes them as far as they can, but eventually they run out of ways to go deeper, and find only exit hatches.

Which is kinda unfortunate, all things considered, as the Functionist Council's troops flood the streets.

But even with Sari's leg patched up, the sounds of someone closing in on them in the tunnels draws closer and closer. Resonance stares grimly up at the hatch, and then laces their fingers together to boost Sari up. "We have no other choice."

They come out in a small closet. Sari can't even call it a maintenance closet; it looks stripped down, like someone took everything but the flanges that used to hold a curtain rod. Sari shoves the hatch closed again - it looks sad and exposed, in the empty closet - while Resonance cautiously opens the door a crack to make sure the coast is clear.

The main room is...creepy. Sari's not a big fan of cities, so far. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all the same functional, glossy shade of yellow; despite the fact that the place is empty, the scrolling screens along the walls continue to announce that 'Everything Is Fine' and for selected citizens to please wait to be recalled and processed. It used to be a shop, Resonance explains, in silent, simple chirolingual signs, the owners probably shuffled away a few recalls ago. No one stands behind the counter, and the shelves are barren. It all looks so generic that Sari can't tell what they even sold here, and at this point she's too anxious to ask.

A camera winks from every corner, implacably filming them. They press against empty shelves, splaying flat and army crawling under a raised display. By the time they reach the front windows, the shooting pain in Sari's leg from all the running dampens to a dull throb.

Then they peer out the window, at the diamond intersection and the sky beyond, and Sari realizes they're in serious trouble.

She remembers how empty the streets and airways were when she first got here. Now, suddenly, the streets crawl with orderly regiments of guards - too many. Most of them move in perfect, color-coded formation, their single optics roving constantly; flatheads mark the corner of every block, their screens broadcasting more of the Council's mood prompts. Mechs with actual helms hover slightly above the patrolling ranks on platforms, almost all of them with identical visors and heavy builds as they oversee the deployment. Clouds of sky spies fill the air like a contiguous, shifting grey mesh, the waves rising and falling in perfect sync to patrol the space between skyscrapers and the billboard blimps.

Even worse - Sari spies the dome and pillars of the basilica's, just barely visible around the corner of the building next door. They doubled back and zigged a lot underground, hemmed in by guards, and now they're stuck right in the middle of the scrap.

[That can't all be for us,] Resonance signs. [They're actually going to do it. They're going to set off the rest of the obsolescence chips. We've disseminated instructions on how to deactivate them to some, but not all. It'll be a massacre. Anyone who doesn't drop won't be in a position to run, either. That's - that's -]

[Super evil,] Sari signs back when Resonance's can't come up with the words. [Functionists are the Originals, after all.] Prima and Quintus are just an extra layer of bad guy on top of the cake.

Resonance pauses, brow furrowed. [What do you know about this?] they sign, slowly, with clear hesitation. Not suspicious, not really.

Whoops. Sari's supposed to nod along and act natural when she runs into stuff she doesn't know - but this place is all kinds of weird. For one thing, she was pretty sure Papa said the Functionists got wiped out early in the war, their oppressive ideology surviving only in the ranks of the Autobot menace, but here this place is, overrun with them. Everything's kinda screwed up.

Gulping, she scans outside the window one last time. What would Papa do?

Beat everyone up, probably. Or dig into the ground through one of his own tunnels, and lie low until the coast was clear. Scorponok always picks his battles. He'd tell her to hide until she can safely reach the communications terminal she knows about, but soon there's not gonna be anywhere to hide. Whoever's in the tunnels still will eventually come out, or the patrols outside will start sweeping the buildings for people to drag to the recycling bin. If she can reach open air, she can outfly them - maybe. If the damage to her leg hasn't messed up her thrusters.

And then there's Resonance, whose alt mode can best be described as non-existent.

Sari takes another breath to settle her stomach.

So if she can't do what Papa would do, what would Brother do?

"I'm going in," Sari announces, to Resonance and the room at large. She boosts herself upright and stands right in front of the window, fists on her hips. "I'll distract them - get to the next hatch!"

Resonance's optics almost pop out of their sockets. They manage to get out a, "Wait, wh-" before Sari strikes a pose with her arms, snaps her heels together, and smashes through the window.

Good news - she can fly! Bad news - one thruster's definitely stronger than the other. Sari inhales as glass shards pepper the crowd of guards on the sidewalk, and screams at the top of her lungs as she veers wildly through air. Thankfully, when people start shooting at her, she's pinwheeling too crazily for anyone to get a clear shot. Revving her engine, Sari launches herself in a burst at the nearest hover platform, and slams into the undercarriage. The guard on top barks an order, clinging to the railing as he grits his dentae and tries to lean over to get an angle on her, but Sari transforms out one of her guns and lights up the hover mechanism until the platform bursts into flames. As it slews to the side and dips precipitously, Sari kicks off, still spinning as she blasts over the patrols.

She just needs to kick up enough of a fuss that Resonance can find a break in the ranks. Oh, and not die. Important, that one. If they capture her and don't just try that purge stuff again, she can totally bust out of a jail cell and find another way to contact Scorponok.

Well, she might as well try to jack Prima's ride, while she's zooming around in circles. With renewed purpose, Sari aims for a flathead when her busted thruster spits and cuts out, and plants her foot square in the poor faceless dude's screen, cracking it. She pushes off with a 'hup!' and kicks her stuttering heel hard. The thruster cuts in again, even choppier than before, but she has enough lift for her fans to carry her sailing down the block, toward the basilica. A detachment of sky spies pours after her, more agile, their claws snapping below them as they home in on her.

Someone clips her good foot, just as she reaches the forum in front of the basilica. Lucky shot. Sari hollers again as she tumbles, air rushing around her head as she reaches out. She hits one of the towering columns that line the forum and scrabbles for a grip. Her feet are both hurting, now, but Sari locks her arms around the twining metal as best she can, and glances back over her shoulder.

She's still several meters up - but the sky spies arrange themselves in a neat circle around her, their staring camera lens trained on her. As if she's going anywhere. The view of the courtyard below is neat, if vaguely terrifying: through all the guards that march between the colonnades and sculptures, Sari can see that the floor itself is a big mosaic, with blue chips marking rays of light shining from a big image of a crystal. It would be cool, if it weren't being trampled by fascists.

Her right foot slips and loses its grip. The air rushes out of Sari as she gasps and scrabbles again, her fingers trying and failing to find better handholds. She flattens her red finials down, her vents wheezing in time with her lungs as she clings to the column.

Right. Okay. The fall won't kill her. Probably. But falling evokes some pretty strong feelings of oh no. No one's shooting at her, now that the sky spies have her pinned down, so maybe she can just…hang out for a sec?

The problem with doing what Brother would do is that she can't just fix herself at a moment's notice.

Which is when, of course, the troops clear the way. It's eerie how fast they filter to the sides, some striding out to join the rest of the army swarming the streets, and the rest filing back into the arms of the basilica that stretch out to frame the yard. The sky spies don't budge an inch, even when the wind slices around Sari and threatens to tug her off like the traitor that it is. She lets her helm rest against the cool, grooved metal for a second, waiting to see what comes out.

She expects Quintus, or that Prima guy. Maybe with the whole Council in tow. It would be pretty dramatic if they all came out at once!

The person who emerges from the tall, arching front door of the basilica, however, doesn't have a head. Just a conical, squared off megaphone that sprouts right out of his neck.

No optics. No audial sensors. Nothing at the ends of his arms except stumps. The mech walks forward all the same, each step a lurch, the megaphone swaying in time with his body. It takes him minutes to reach the middle of the forum; only then does he stumble to a blind stop. From her lofty perch, Sari can just barely see him twitching, the rust-red plates of his alt-less frame clamped down like he's in pain.

The same instinct that said puppy when she met Dominus Ambus says, air raid siren.

That instinct is totally wrong.

The mech's megaphone head clicks, and a beautiful symphony fills the air.

Sari's spark spasms. The world narrows to her torso; she coughs hard, choking on nothing, and only realizes, when her HUD's altitude warnings turn red enough to pierce her blind panic, that she let go of the column.

One thruster. Activating it requires unbelievably, wrenching willpower. Sari hits the ground hard, feet first, and crumples forward, vomiting. The courtyard spins around her, a smear of color and light, and when she tries to clear her throat of the lingering yuck, another wave of nausea and not-quite-pain seizes through her. She can't think - can't breathe - the song seems to skip straight past her auditory sensors and reaches for her spark -

She needs to move. Sari stumbles forward, and slams her hip into a sculpture that swims into her line of sight a klik too late. The song itself is horribly, awfully familiar, but she can't think around the reverberating sound to find the memory.

Think. They cleared the courtyard, but the song is everywhere - it's not just the megaphone, it's in every broadcast speaker across the city. The sky spies are dead lumps where they pitched out of the sky. But Sari turns her head to the side, woozily, and sees the soldiers still filing out of the basilica onto the street.

Range matters. The courtyard is the epicenter. Sari lunges again, hauling herself up and aiming to circle around the singer. The spasms ease a little, but she can't tell if the effect is fading, or if she's just adjusting to the cramping nausea of her spark guttering in her chest.

The music crescendos.

She blacks out.

It only lasts a fraction of a second, Sari thinks. She drags in another breath a spasm later. Her whole body aches like she got kicked in the chest.

Oh. A thud, then another. Her backup organic fuel pump just took over. Never a great sign. That's supposed to be vestigial.

"Damus!"

Sari raises her head. All the lights are kind of bleary, but she can see that she's closer to the side entrance. She drags herself along, flat on her belly, but - she recognizes that voice. However hoarse, however wretched.

She pulls herself another half a step, and looks back over her shoulder, and sees Resonance walking through the courtyard.

Which is weird! Since Sari told them to run, and they don't look like they got captured. For a second Sari thinks they're immune to the terrible symphony singing through the air: they walk with their back perfectly straight, their gaze locked on the singing mech.

Then Resonance coughs, and bright pink energon bursts from their mouth. The right side of their visor flickers, the glass shattered and the optic behind unevenly lit. They walk on. "Damus!" they call again, their voice barely recognizable through the distortion and the symphony.

He can't hear them. He doesn't have any sensors -

Another spasm hits Sari; this time, it muddles through her, and her meat fuelpump beats a tattoo inside her protoform. But it's manageable. Resonance jerks, wrapping an arm around their torso as more than a mouthful of energon spills out of their intake, dripping into their hand as they try to cover their mouth and stem the flow. They're closer to the singer now than Sari ever was, and the music, terrible and beautiful, won't stop.

"I won't leave you this time, Damus," Resonance mouths. That close to the speaker, Sari can't hear them over the volume. But Resonance's mouth keeps moving, the faint notes of a song threading under the killing sound, and they reach for Damus's arms with their hands.

The music swells again.

Tearing her eyes away, Sari crawls onto her knees and throws herself against the door.

It slides open, and she tumbles through.

The soundproofed silence of the basilica falls over her like a blanket.

---

Arise^{[ting ting]} like glitter and gold

- Flipsides of Devisiun, <<glitter & gold>>

---

Onyx Prime rises in the dark of night.

He chose Eukaris for a reason - but it was never the most suitable candidate for his designs. Antilla served perfectly, in that regard. Eukaris was merely a place to set aside what he didn't require. To thresh the strong from the weak, the truth from the deceit.

He rises, and his internals and armor transform, shunting crushed armor aside, fanning out fresh plating. His standard face sloughs off and his true face shifts smoothly down, polished and honed. He pulls in his forward hooves and strides out of the crater on two feet, teeth in his smile as his draca flock to him out of the sky in a serrated tide.

Solus dropped a city on him. It tickled. They really must discuss it over a drink, next time they meet.

Atorcop and Aranea wait at the edge of the crater, one an unpainted grey, the other black and blue. Airachnid, he presumes, had the sense to make herself scarce before their deception could come to light. He strolls up to them and lifts them effortlessly by the necks, his claws sharp on either side of their small, weathered faces.

"So, my dear spies," Onyx Prime says, amused. "Tell me. Did Quintus truly think he could play both sides?"

After they make their token protests, he simply closes his claws into fists. The draca pour forth from the iris, their layered wings spreading to blot out the pale moonlight, more than could ever have fit in a vessel the size of the optic craft.

Then, as his true Titan begins to unfold its full dimensions against the sky, Onyx Prime sets to work.

Chapter Text

---

Failure is common. But the composition of yours is quite atypical.

- Killmaster of the High-ceilinged Manifold, <<source unknown^{[citation needed]}>>

---

Someone more poetically minded might say that Quintessa has no heart - only a writhing, all-consuming black hole of greed and arrogance dense enough to warp space-time.

But it has a center, as warped and artificial as the rest of the system. Dolus phaseshifts through the walls as the architecture grows more and more byzantine, the corridors opening up into multilayered, vaulted galleries whose arches and walkways run both horizontally and vertically, the space freely manipulated to create more expansive, extravagant vantages. The emissary gestures for otherwise impassable corridors to shift for Scorponok's benefit only as an afterthought, pathways made of hard light brightening under his heavy feet as they traverse Quintessa.

No one here except the emissaries bears less than three faces. Scorponok catches glimpses of the scientists and judges as they drift through the great halls. The scientists follow the paths, their tentacles wafting and stirring under their heavy masks as they float up into circular portals of light. The judges, meanwhile, move wherever they please, cutting across at diagonals and passing through walls upside down like Dolus does; they're the most heavily augmented, even their tentacles metallic. The emissary's revolving palanquin of shields stands out in more ways than one.

There aren't many of them, and all of them move alone, without acknowledging each other. With every step Scorponok takes the angles of the rooms seem to shift, refracting like a kaleidoscopic diamond, and a different fragging squid shifts into focus. The heavy machinery of their multifold masks and support systems can't equal out the unnerving, organic sheen of the tendrils.

And every mask is a unique horror. No two alike.

They reach the innermost surface of the artificial ring, and Dolus floats out into the abyss of compressed space without stopping. A red, faceted bubble pops in around Scorponok, and, grimacing, he folds his arms as it phases him through the wall and floats him at a steady distance behind the emissary.

The view's dull. Scorponok has made this trip before - the first time too full of agony for his processor to form an accessible, coherent long-term memory - and the current arrangement interests him only on the clinical level. Scorponok is something of a connoisseur of alien species and their methods. Compressed space is not natural space, and so the Quintessons arrayed the five natural planetary bodies of Quintessa in impossibly close proximity to each other. The planets loom efficiently in the deep, wine-dark sky, low and immense enough to create the illusion that they're perpetually falling toward the observer. Continent-sized megalopolises carve up the metal lithosphere, the tallest spires and mechanisms jutting like blades through what little remains of the native atmosphere. Every inch of the planets sculpted into artful whorls and skeletal machinery - and then abandoned in favor of newer toys.

Passably intimidating.

The sixth, artificial body of Quintessa resides at the center of the support ring, gleaming from within. Two Titan ships cling to the sides of the compact golden sphere like insects - one white and silver, the other a weathered, silvery green with pink and gold accents, each beside a small city that serves as a docking station. The Grand Architect enjoys collecting and enslaving Cybertronians of all shapes and sizes.

Dolus ripples through the side of the sphere, and Scorponok clenches his tanks against the dizzying waves as they descend through multiple layers of the facility in a shuffle of distorted space. But the only way to approach the Architect himself runs through solid halls that seem to stymie even the emissary; Dolus releases Scorponok from the bubble with an indifferent wave and proceeds along the golden, echoing corridor.

The same one as last time. A Junkion corpse floats in a viscous, bubbling orange fluid, followed by a squat green Stentarian. Most Junkions are cannibalistic junkers: this one was preserved in its prime, with all the original parts.

The Cybertronian in the second to last niche is barely more than soft protoform. Its face is paralyzed in a rigid, blank smile, its flimsy chest armor forcibly retracted by five spindly needles extending from the sides of the tank to bare the pallid blue spark.

They're all still twitching, after however many billions of years on display. Scorponok's impressed by the work. The last niche remains empty. He half expected, cynically, to find the prototype Infinite here. That was his best hypothesis for the origins of the other three.

Emissary Dolus halts the palanquin before the blinding light that shields the entrance, and waits. The entrance is ten times the size of any standard Quintesson.

This is because it was not built to accommodate an ordinary Quintesson.

"Enter," the Grand Architect whispers. The sound resonates, sonorous and low, and it's in Scorponok's head as much as it is out loud. The leash sunk into the coding of his processor didn't initiate that effect; it only made it worse. Gritting his teeth, he feels a circuit in his jaw twitch as he bends his head to endure it.

Interestingly, though, a familiar figure strides furiously before the colossal, cephalopodan array of the Grand Architect's vast, coiling limbs as Dolus guides him through the entrance. Scorponok isn't about to draw undue attention to himself - discretion is the better part of survival in circumstances like these - but since he's apparently alive, a comm to Flame might not go amiss -

Flame pivots on a heel, slashing his hand through the air with a grating snarl, and Scorponok sees the hole in his shoulder, scorched wires and cables hanging in the blackened hole. Another through the abdomen, unwelded and unpatched, the spinal strut barely intact enough to support Flame's frame with almost everything around it ripped out. The internals are lit by the glow of a leaking spark, and the rage in Flame's expression doesn't fit the contours of his facial features.

More to the point, the remaining armor appears to be sloughing off him like a scorpion's molt. A chunk of side armor sluices off as Scorponok arches a brow behind his visor, rebounding off the floor with a clang. The protoform underneath bears the faint, sickly sheen of blue condensation, the wires tacky with sweat.

Ah. How unfortunate. Spark rejection of the frame.

"This putrid body rots," the person who isn't Flame snarls at the Grand Architect. It's just Flame's voice - tetchier, with an effort made to imitate a Quintesson's, but without any detectable unnatural harmonics. Better and better. "I require a new chassis!"

Dolus drifts across the floor, approaching neither Flame's shambling half-corpse nor the Architect himself. "Bellica. You know exactly what you risked with your failure," he drones, almost absently, the red palanquin spinning in slow rotations over the shining, iridescent liquid that supports the Architect's immense bulk beneath the surface.

Scorponok can't look directly at the horror of the Grand Architect's full form without a fragment of thought crawling through his mind and averting his visor for him. An impression of white, mostly, with veins of black trailing down the extremities. It's difficult to judge depth through the refraction, but the tendrils sink deep into the core. Something gold burns behind the insignia of a gear in the awful space where the mouth of the immense, unmasked Quintesson should be if its physiology scaled compared to the rest of the species.

All of it made irrelevant by the fact that Scorponok's 86.5% certain that this isn't the Architect's true body. A monster like this wouldn't have survived so long ruling a species of voracious, power-hungry, consummate tyrants and orchestrating the fate of multiple galaxies without taking steps to thwart assassination. Aside from the light gates and the mazing effect of the spatial distortions, this chamber isn't guarded anywhere near as heavily as it needs to be.

The Emissary Bellica bares Flame's flat teeth at Dolus. The one remaining optic blazes with green light rather than blue. A shame. Flame's feigned, wide-eyed innocence worked best with the Autobot blue. With only the shell of a Cybertronian body to work with, Bellica's wrath contorts into something feverish; the frame moves like a misjointed puppet, staggering toward Dolus.

But before she can lash out at the other emissary, the Architect speaks. The sound almost sends Scorponok to the hard-light floor on a knee; the wide, spherical chamber amplifies the Grand Architect's voice and its crawling effects a hundredfold. Palanquin shields flicker under the brunt of the roil; Scorponok's already battered visor splinters across his field of vision.

The proclamation, at least, is directly at Flame rather than at him. Direct attention would be unbearable.

"You demand nothing. You have earned nothing," the heart of the Quintesson empire says, simply.

Bellica-in-Flame staggers under the weight of the Architect's regard, and then drops low of her own accord, prostrating herself on her hands and knees with her forehead to the floor. A shame, Scorponok thinks, observing detachedly as a whole section of Flame's right arm slides off at the transformation seam. Ah, well. He makes a note that whatever's left of Flame's spark would make an excellent candidate for rebirth, and otherwise writes off the scientist as a lost cause. Whatever Bellica's done to hijack him has made a ruin of that frame. "Architect," Bellica murmurs, subdued and wheedling at the same time, and turns that feverish green eye up imploringly.

The wheel of the gear turns. There is no mercy.

"A pity, to lose an Emissary to such a lapse in judgement," the Architect says, dismissing Bellica without moving. One moment Flame is there; the next, the panel of hard light under him is gone, along with his repossessed frame. "The spark did not survive the transition. Only the mind. Ever a hindrance. Emissary Dolus. Inform the ranks of the Inquisitors that former Emissary Bellica's position is open to those so inclined. Alert Emissaries Achlys and Ker to test the actual claimants when they join the fray."

Then the heat and weight press down on Scorponok again, as much internal as external. He stiffens his knees. "Scorponok," the Architect says.

The chiding tone makes Scorponok clench his hands into fists.

A dark red tendril whips around his neck and shoves him down. But shove is the wrong word for it; it would imply more emotion than Dolus displays. Scorponok glares down at his own reflection in the floor: the strained twitch of his cheek circuits, no trace of emotion in the hard line of his mouth. "Bend your unworthy head," Dolus states, mechanically.

And then the Architect strips everything from him.

"We have located your errant experiment, Scorponok," the Grand Architect informs him, and drives it home before Scorponok can even flinch. "It was found meddling in the affairs on the reclaimed Cybertron-F, and subjected to fatal spark dissonance."

Something indescribable lights in Scorponok's belly. A chilling, corrosive burn.

Experiments have come and gone. Research trials can be disrupted by Autobot interference, and still be seeded again on a new world. Nothing, Scorponok feels, is ever truly a loss. Such a catastrophizing mindset is a defect suffered by other people. Remorse is an unnecessary subroutine, just like the general obsession with ethical limitations.

'Subjected to fatal spark dissonance.'

"Tarn," he breathes out, staring down at his claws rather than his reflection. The brilliant liquid swirls and blurs at the edges of his narrowing field of sight.

Sari.

The Architect shifts, an immense, ponderous adjustment that stirs the whole chamber and upsets the mirrored reflection below. "Such a waste. As were you all," he says, dismissively. "Killmaster schemes above his station, but his stratagems promote only aimless chaos and waste. The Design proceeds apace. You will complete repairs, then rejoin the phantom fleet and make the necessary arrangements to rendezvous with the Galactic Council's flagship."

Well. There is only one answer Scorponok can give, in good - an internal laugh - conscience.

"No," he says.

A tug on the leash whites out his processor with pain.

When he comes to, his visor is a cracked, crazing red web of fractures. The caustic burn, at least, is gone; he can't feel much of anything below the neck except pain.

The Architect's gear and the horrific eye behind it gaze up at the constellations that fill the ceiling of the chamber; a dark reflection of the white galaxies below the liquid. The Architect continues, speaking mostly to Dolus, as though Scorponok's momentary blackout was little more than a pet's tantrum. An inconvenience. "The passage of Onyx Prime through the heartland of the galactic community has reminded them of the peril in which their lives stand. Megatron's meager efforts to repair the reputation of inorganic life have been sufficiently overwritten for the next phase," he murmurs, drawing fiery ink around the galaxy's core. "Emissary Quintus's research permit expires shortly. The Cybertronian format will be fully decommissioned and recycled back into the resource pool concurrent with the initial rollout of the Infinite format in the Euphratic sector."

Then, having condemned them all, the Architect begins the rolling shift to dismiss them, as another Emissary snaps into view on the far side of his great mass, her palanquin deep violet. "Now, Emissary Achlys. The Andromede Galactic Council -"

-

They dump him in a bog-standard medical bay without ceremony. Somewhere far enough from the center of Quintessa that the walls seem solid. Scorponok mechanically locates a welder to repair himself in the supply room, navigating on autopilot, before a Cybertronian medic storms out of the office and snatches it out of his hand to do the job itself.

One of the slaves, Scorponok assumes without looking, subjected to more than just the leash. Most of them modified with alien upgrades and given slave designations. All of them pathetic. The repairs will be passable, at least, and Scorponok can set to work scraping out the unpleasant sensations inspired by Sari's death.

He thinks this until the medic inclines his head beside Scorponok's audial, disgustingly coy, and whispers, "Your spawn isn't dead."

A blunt claw locks around the medic's neck, with crushing force. Scorponok rises belatedly, lifting the medic without effort as he scans them from head to foot. Broad shouldered to accommodate flight-capable wings. More blue than the usual medic paint job. A grey Autobot insignia. A narrow, aristocratic face of the type that used to stare down their nose at the gladiators of the pits, now staring down at him as the medic kicks and scrabbles furiously for purchase on Scorponok's broad grip.

With hands that are [not hands.]

Interesting. Someone's been playing with Infinite grafts. Scorponok recognizes the texture of the sentio metallico.

"Pharma," Scorponok says. By the snarled demand that he let go, he deduced correctly. But only a set number of items matter at the moment, and an Autobot's comfort is not one of them. "Do elaborate."

Pharma stops clawing at his hand - though the metal continues to probe, of its own accord - and his smile stretches too wide, with a kind of manic hopelessness. "We're nothing to them, you know. The only reason they didn't wipe us out and start over from scratch eons ago is because of a research permit," the mech prattles, stiltedly, vocalizer rising and falling with a sharp edge. He barks out a laugh. "Emissary Quintus specializes in alternative methods of processor hijacking, with a particular interest in how proto-Cybertronians defied their original programming."

Enough. Scorponok rolls his helm and turns, slamming Pharma up against the wall. "My daughter. Now," he says, staring.

Pharma tosses his head, his smile widening crookedly. "The Architect is overseeing the processing of some ludicrous, alternate Cybertron that was imported into our universe, through an avatar. It's located where the old Cybertron used to be. Which means…?" He trails off significantly, as though expecting Scorponok to lower himself to answering a leading question. When Scorponok continues to stare, the medic cycles a long sigh. "He's not paying as much attention here." Then he glances up, and lowers his voice, before Scorponok can lose his patience. "But Tarn didn't finish the job. Something interrupted him. They lied about your spawn being dead. Don't ask me what I had to do for that information."

The medic reads as passably unafraid of Scorponok - though if he's been here some time, expected to repair all and sundry, the odds that he's run into Overlord are not nil. Such encounters tend to either traumatize or burn out the terror. His bitter smile is crooked, and his [not hands] are attempting to find the seams of Scorponok's hands to pry them to pieces. Autobots have proven useful tools in the past; one who's too broken to fear death also has potential.

And he should look into a replacement for Flame. Good help is so hard to find.

Scorponok lets him drop, scraping down the side of the wall. The medic massages his throat with hands that are still just a little too fluid, his glare sullen. Easy enough to beat out of him, if the investment's necessary.

"Finish the repairs," Scorponok decides, deadening any emotion in his voice as he returns to the medical table.

If there is any chance at all that Sari survives, he must secure her. It isn't something as false as hope. It is simply an imperative.

Still sullen, the medic returns to patching Scorponok's visor. Scorponok allows a warning growl to rev through his engine. The script he used to recruit Flame will do. "The Titan Emissary will be detaching from Quintessa shortly to serve as a troop carrier for the first Infinite army. Be on it when it leaves," Pharma says - orders - as he rapidly replaces fuses blown by the leash's chastisement, and the only thing that stops Scorponok from knocking the medic aside for the presumption is the fact that someone has already told him to do that exact thing today.

Killmaster, his back to the wall. Killmaster, scheming above his station.

Not the [Emissary] of the Quintesson title. Emissary.

It's almost as rich as the Architect himself admitting to an [error.]

"Emissary," Scorponok repeats, savoring the sound. Pharma draws his not-hands away with a wary, sharp expression. "And your reward for this, Autobot?"

Ordinarily, he'd offer a perfunctory death. People seem to prefer that over being made the subject of scientific experimentation. Scorponok isn't sure why so few are interested in being useful for the advancement of the species.

Pharma's expression goes distant and grimly resigned. He glances up with just his optics.

…Scorponok was not paying proper attention when he arrived in the medical bay. He must anticipate such side effects and neutralize them if Sari is threatened again.

Because it's simply unforgivable for him to have missed the three mechs grinning down at them through the vent in the ceiling.

"Did you know? In Spectralist tradition, this move is called, ^sword_head, Arcee style," the turncoat Deadlock says, entirely too sunny, the red markings under his optics bright as human blood. His sword hangs braced between them all, directly over Scorponok's head.

"It is not," Brainstorm scoffs. Then he pauses. "Is it?"

"He's totally making it up," the purple mech says, tapping her wrench against the side of the vent. Her eyes are very bright behind a holovisor. "Spectralism doesn't have a martial temple component."

Brainstorm nods sagely, as though he knew it all along. "Also - that was an insult to the memory of Skids," he adds, jabbing a finger at Deadlock.

Deadlock strokes his chin. "'Crouching Arcee, Hidden Skids,'" he says, after a moment of deep contemplation.

Brainstorm and the other mech look at each other. "Better."

"Have fun," Pharma says, with equal parts relief and cheer, clapping Scorponok on the shoulder. He tries to stroll out through the door.

"Oh no, Pharma. We're all in this together," Deadlock says, deadpan, his expression sobering rapidly. There's old violence in the downturn of his mouth.

Scorponok is beginning to suspect that these people are ridiculous. Particularly because he's not sure how they're all fitting into a single vent like that, even on the scale Quintessons build. "Autobots. What are you up to?" he asks, unperturbed by the sword over his head.

"Hijinks and mild peril, obviously," Brainstorm scoffs. He taps a tiny handgun that could level a city against the side of his helm, then snorts. "No, duh. What's it look like? We're here to cause problems."

And Scorponok -

Can work with that.

Tools can be used, after all.

(There is a worrying joke to be made, however, about Killmaster and Brainstorm walking into a bar and unravelling the space-time continuum.

A problem to be handled at a later time. Another piece of the puzzle.)

"Acceptable," he says.

---

I'll be waiting for you until the sun goes down

I'll be waiting for you until the sun goes down

I'll be waiting for you until the sun goes down

No tidal wave could turn me around

- Rosanna of Devisiun, <<sun goes down>>

---

One would think, with two unmatched analytical minds of the likes of Prowl and Megatron - widely regarded as two of the most horrifyingly brilliant tacticians of the war - working on the same problem, they'd be able to put their heads together and figure things out in record time.

Nah, that's a lie. Wheeljack doesn't think anyone has ever thought that. Ever. It's just not realistic. They've got five people together now, not counting the hallucination of Mesothulas, and there should be strength in numbers. More ways to snap each other out of it when confronted by an illusion. But what that actually means is that Wheeljack is juggling an ex-genocidal warlord, two Wreckers, and…Prowl. Prowl, who was already volatile enough on his own.

It's like someone handed him a glass of water and some caesium, and told him to shake the glass.

Except Whirl is already holding the glass and shaking it with wild abandon. "So, you come here often?" he asks, sidling up to Prowl.

"Whirl, no," Megatron and Springer say, in unison. Springer looks a lot more disturbed by this than Megatron does; Megatron just shoots Whirl a stern frown.

Whirl narrows his optic and puffs out his gun-laden cockpit in a way that sets off all of Wheeljack's overworked alarm bells. "Don't stop me now," he says, weirdly syncopated, and then cycles a deep vent.

Megatron pinches his brow. "Has grounding you from the ship-wide karaoke night ever actually worked?" he asks, deeply resigned.

"Nope!" Whirl replies, cheerfully.

"Take a lap, Whirl," Springer says, instead, equally resigned. Whirl complies with a sloppy salute, his sharp chopper blades kicking up a turbulent breeze until he vanishes around the street corner.

Probably not a good idea for any of them to go off alone. Wheeljack isn't sure he wants to know what a Whirl-centric daydream looks like. Springer led them back into the city to regroup and get their bearings right inside the gate, and Wheeljack finds himself double checking the street corners around them. Just in case.

Megatron and Prowl are both deep in thought, which Prowl seems to have taken as a threat and a challenge. He keeps glaring over his steepled fingers at Megatron. If looks could kill, Prowl would've won the war in two seconds. Springer's vigilance doesn't slack for a minute as they all work. His weapons are probably as real as Prowl's, but it's the thought that counts.

Maybe the thought is the only thing that counts.

Slag, Wheeljack's tired. He's starting to think nonsense. "Yup. There she is," he announces, breaking the awkward silence. He can put a name to the massive anomaly at the edge of his scanner's range, now: Mnemosyne. "Mnemosyne's not moving, but she's not outside the city anymore."

Megatron strokes his chin, still studying the inscription over the nearest door as though it holds the answer to life's mysteries. "Mnemosyne," he repeats. One hand strays to his medical kit, and Wheeljack tenses a little before Megatron extracts a scalpel. Rather than trying to stab them all to death with an incredibly inefficient object, Megatron raises the scalpel and scrapes it along the metal wall. "That does take me back."

Springer stirs again. "You know the name?"

"After a fashion. I am familiar with the poetic concept of invoking Muses. Illicit research, with how closely monitored my network usage became." Megatron lifts the scalpel away from the wall and stows it, closing the medkit with a click. Wheeljack can't tell what he changed; the inscription looks the same to him.

"It's been millions of years. No one cares anymore," Prowl snaps. "You didn't even care anymore."

"Not on the Functionist Cybertron, it hasn't. I've had…time to reflect on what should have mattered." Megatron covers part of the glyphs with his hand, blocking them out. "The trend died out around the end of the Primal Age. Allegedly, they were spirits of artistic and scientific inspiration."

This time, Springer snorts. "A mech goes off the grid for a few years, and comes back to find out we don't blame Decepticons for everything and Megatron's spouting poetry. Not sure I like it."

Funny. Wheeljack forgot that Springer missed the end of the war, and the turbulent fits and starts as they figured out how to mean it. He checks Megatron's expression and field again to see how he reacts, but the guy's unreadable. "Makes sense. Vivere's runnin' around - this has to be one of her cohort," Wheeljack comments, to keep them on track. All it might take is one aftheaded comment too many from Prowl or Springer, and Megatron's mask might snap. 

Megatron turns so abruptly Wheeljack nearly has a spark attack anyway. Prowl drops from his thinking squat to one knee to brace himself better; Springer's gun doesn't click, because the safety was never on. "What?"

Wheeljack can feel an infodump coming on. Oof. He holds up both hands in caution, trying not to visibly wince. "Look. There's been some wild slag since you left. Okay?" Maybe - just maybe - he can get out of rehashing the whole thing.

"That explains nothing. I can understand well-deserved doubts about myself and my intentions, but omitting vital information at a time like this is unacceptable," Megatron says, flatly. 

"Feels like I've been out of the loop on Earth," Springer adds, with a frown of his own. "Care to share?"

Wheeljack groans. "You wanna tell 'em, Prowl?" he asks.

Prowl side eyes him. "Absolutely not."

Judging by the roar of engines between the buildings, Whirl's taken another lap. Wheeljack sighs. "Hoo boy. Here we go."

-

The news goes down easier than Wheeljack expects. Springer nods at irregular intervals, his expression distant and brooding as he absorbs it; Wheeljack gets the feeling that he's only half-listening.

Megatron, on the other hand, is familiar with the Necrobot's hollow world and the template of Cybertron inside up to a point. Slag, he's less skeptical about Unicron and the two moons pouring metal and spark energy into the template than Optimus was, and Optimus had it explained to him five different ways from Sunday. Megatron fixes on Wheeljack all through the explanation, absorbed, asking questions only to clarify, and there's something weirdly compelling about having that kinda concentration locked on one's words. Megatron pays attention.

Easy to forget the charisma and the scary intellect behind the fusion cannon.

Still. Wheeljack successfully talks around Starscream without naming him once through the whole story, for which he probably deserves a medal. Unicron is only relevant as context for everything that happened after - Tailgate vanishing thanks to Cybertron-F's resonance, Vivere popping up out of the molten core, and Killmaster being neck deep in Neo-Cybertron's science team, perfectly positioned to ruin their day.

By this point, Whirl must be on his fifth lap. He careens around in loop-de-loops around the nearest spire rather than a full lap, but he's certainly dedicated.

"Can we make measurable progress like this? If the dimensions of this mental space change on a whim, the Muse could walk us around in circles until we succumb to an illusion." Prowl gave up on squatting. He leans against the wall, one leg folded over the other, his optics more like bruises in his face. Wheeljack isn't getting notices from his processor about recharge, but Prowl's stringing himself out.

Wheeljack glances around and hopes he's not about to jinx them. "Speaking of - haven't seen one of those in a while," he says, tapping the side of his helm with a screwdriver. "Maybe we've got too many people grouped together here for this Lotus Machine to decide what to throw at us. Or maybe there's a limit to what one mech's processing power can handle."

Like. There's only so much he can take away from what Overlord let slip. But there's some difference between the Muse of Memory and the Lotus Machine. Two parts of one trap.

Now Wheeljack just needs to suss out how they're connected, who's really running the show, and figure out how to get them all out of here. Solely with the power of his mind.

Totally doable.

Megatron raises a hand, like a student in a classroom. Wheeljack points at him on instinct. "I believe we've already seen its limits," Megatron says, tapping two fingers against the inscription he's been tinkering with on-and-off. "This door, Wheeljack. What does it say?"

Wheeljack squints, but the glyphs don't come into focus despite his best efforts. Reluctantly, he stands up, brushes stray bits of metal off his lap, and walks up to Megatron with a nonchalance he's not really feeling. He's too close to Megatron before the door resolves its blur; Megatron steps out of his way, but he looms. He's a looming kind of guy.

"[We are all trapped light,]" Wheeljack reads off. Pretty standard stuff. Most religions have some variant on that one.

Megatron shakes his head and frames the words with a careful hand. He leans, and Wheeljack leans back automatically, but Megatron stares at the door like it's a mountain to climb. "No. It says, [113,]" he says, decisively.

And the door says [113.]

The whole door shifts to accommodate it: a strip of warning yellow-and-black paint on the left, a security panel with blue buttons, and the habsuite number settling in the middle of the door itself.

Wheeljack forgets about Megatron entirely. Prowl strides forward to inspect the altered doorway, but that's secondary. Wheeljack runs his fingers along the edges of the door, the sensors catching and tugging in the blurry seam where the door meets the unremarkable building. When Megatron's leg gets in the way, Wheeljack absentmindedly nudges with his elbow until Megatron takes a step back and he can scan the door from the bottom up.

"What we're seeing is a generic mold. The machine can't decide whose memories take precedence, so it presents a template of a city for us to fill in the blanks of while it recalculates what scene to present next. I suspect it can't maintain anything more complex indefinitely," Megatron says, arms folded as he continues to stare down the door. Willing it to be a different door.

"No, not generic. Mnemosyne's memories as the baseline, maybe?" By all accounts she and Vivere are, in Wheeljack's scientific opinion, old as hell. They probably remember Cybertron as it was, fresh out of the template, before things got eroded or built over. Which would fit eerily well with the way the architecture is not quite familiar. Wheeljack takes the screwdriver and wedges it into the seam. Interestingly, the screwdriver remains unaffected, even when he drags it down; Wheeljack sticks it back into its slot in the side of the scanner, processor awhirl.

"And when two people strongly perceive two different things…" Prowl trails off. The door warps again - Wheeljack snatches his scanner back - and becomes the door to the Black Room.

Almost immediately the new door starts to fizzle and distort like a bad computer graphic: the inscription turns fuzzy again as Prowl and Megatron squint for supremacy. "It doesn't know who to take cues from. It's not sustainable," Prowl finishes, cupping his elbow with a hand as he scrutinizes the indistinct, slanted glitch of a door left in the wall. "All of this is a mental attack. Whatever this Lotus Machine is, it can pinpoint what we want and recreate it with our own thoughts, trying to undermine our defenses."

"Who we want," Springer says to himself, almost inaudible.

"The functionality is very similar to a positive-reinforcement prison, and yet fundamentally divergent in its goal," Mesothulas adds, suddenly, right in Wheeljack's audial.

The tiny, spider-shaped mech dips in a bow when Wheeljack swivels to follow the voice, balanced on Wheeljack's shoulder as he strokes his chelicerae thoughtfully. Wheeljack didn't feel him climbing up, and he has a sudden, fervent appreciation for humans and the disproportionate amount of fear they have of something so much smaller and squishier than them.

Prowl, on the other hand, has no compunctions. He smacks Mesothulas off Wheeljack's shoulder with a reflexive shout. The tiny mech soars across the road. "Rude!" the spider shouts back, shrilly.

Then he vanishes in midair. "Such poor manners, Prowl," Mesothulas continues, reappearing on Wheeljack's shoulder. He shakes out his limbs and folds his normal arms as he takes up a new post on the opposite side from Prowl. Wheeljack hunches his shoulder to keep Mesothulas angled away from his face.

"I thought you said that thing was a fake." Prowl whirls to snap at Springer.

Springer shoots back a cool look. "Ignore him. I haven't let him talk long enough to try to persuade me of anything," he says, clipped, and turns his shoulder on Prowl. Then he tilts his head back to frown at the sky.

Mesothulas hums, amused.

"- whoawhoaWHOAwhoa -!"

Springer leaps out of the way as Whirl hurtles through the air, ready to bulldoze anyone who gets in his way. Something purple streaks after him, but pulls up as Whirl crashes into the ground with a shriek. Wheeljack catches a brief glimpse of a shocked, gaunt face before Springer fires. An energy bolt scythes through the illusion of Cyclonus, and the hallucination cuts out.

Whirl hauls himself out of the resulting skid mark, smoking slightly. He lifts his helm, then raises a wobbly arm to point at them all. "None of you saw anything. Capiche?" Whirl croaks. He army-crawls the rest of the way out of the hole, apparently none the worse for the wear. "Sorry, I'm allergic to plot. What did I miss?" he asks, hobbling over to smack Megatron square in the back.

Ignoring Whirl's death wish - or genuinely unaffected - Megatron splays his palm out against the door again. When he concentrates it becomes a pale metal door. "A test, then," he says, and slides the door open. Without hesitation, he walk through the doorway.

Wheeljack leans in, one hand on the side of the door, and peers around the bridge of the Lost Light. The far wall is all window, the stark view of interstellar space just a few layers of reinforced, fused silica away. The seats at each terminal are empty as Megatron walks down the rows, his expression wistfully soft.

It's an expression Wheeljack thinks he wasn't supposed to see. Mostly because if Megatron defected and meant it, he might have to deal with the fact that Megatron's not about to turn on them at a moment's notice.

Slag. Living in a world where Megatron is a happy pacifist on an Autobot ship. Wheeljack can barely wrap his head around the idea that it might be real. He focuses on the stars outside the window instead, the world tilting slightly as he follows Megatron onto the bridge. It's almost the same section of space beyond the floating Matrix in the sky outside, with a weird, iridescent tint like a bad filter. Huh.

Prowl remains on the threshold. His mouth twitches downward as Whirl loops his neck to peer around, then scrambles past him to reach the bridge with unholy glee.

Springer joins them with a grunt. It's hard for a mech with shoulders that wide to keep exactly a meter of space between himself and Prowl when they're both clustered at the same door, but Springer is nothing if not talented. "Well, that's one slag of a magic trick. Care to use it to get us out of here?" Springer asks, cocking a brow at the inexplicable space ship bridge inside the building.

"We're still not physically moving. But we can manipulate the setting around us to some extent. My only caveat is that doing so might draw the attention of more targeted hallucinations." Megatron stops beside the comms terminal and taps on the screen a few times. He clicks his vocalizer in a rapid sigh of defeat. He glances toward the captain's seat, currently commandeered by Whirl, and grimaces. "I'm becoming more concerned about Killmaster's goal."

Wheeljack gives the captain's chair a wide berth - Whirl is carving something that looks remarkably like [Whirl wuz here] into the seat. "Yeah. I've got a bad feeling about this. How long has he been sending folks here? The people he doesn't kill, he sends to dimensional pockets, not…whatever this is. What changed?"

It's not impossible for someone to hijack Killmaster's tech. Heck, Wheeljack could probably manage it without worrying too much about collateral damage to the fabric of the universe.

But there's a point where coincidence runs out of steam. Landing smack in the middle of a mind prison posing as the afterlife powered by a long-lost Muse with Overlord wandering around vaporized it.

Whirl throws up a claw as he lounges in the chair. "I know, right? I mean, I thought he'd at least make it a little more personal if he decided to take me out. Mano-a-mano!" the empuratee says, waving his claws in an approximation of a Metallikato block.

"But which moon?" Megatron murmurs.

Something shifts in the corner of Wheeljack's vision and he nearly jumps out of his armor. "There are very few reasons to imprison a large group of people, strap them into a machine, and lure them into a false sense of security with mirages like these," Mesothulas says, talking over Megatron with blithe cheer. He gestures, his segmented mouth curved in a smile. "If your captors simply wished you all dead, you would be. If this is intended to be some form of retributive punishment, the phantasms would not be kind. A positive reinforcement prison would not require this sort of shared, interactive mental space. They need something from you. Something which requires either complacence or compliance on your part." He taps his extra arms together like the fingers of a hand, with a low chuckle. "I suspect it is an attempt to circumvent the zero point problem. Sparks do tend to hiccup when one wishes to extract them or the energy contained within. Even the slightest interruption in the photonic crystal energy circuit can trigger it, and then the vast majority of any vitality extracted tends to disperse. Your tale of this Unicron collecting spark energy is quite infuriating, in that regard! How petulant..."

"I suppose you would be the expert on that sort of thing." Prowl says. He crosses the facsimile of the Lost Light, arms folded tight enough that it looks more like a hug. He looks grim, his stare slipping away from Mesothulas like he can't bear to look at him for too long.

"Only for you, my Prowl. Always for you," Mesothulas replies.

And Springer's hand lands hard on Wheeljack's shoulder, heavy enough to shake him. "That's enough," Springer snarls, yanking Wheeljack around.

Mesothulas is already gone. Springer is pale; the buzz of his EM field has an odd aftertaste, like nausea.

Mesothulas seats himself cross-legged on the crest of Springer's shoulder. "Of course, Ostaros," the spider says, primly. "I would add only that you yourself should be especially mindful. Watch your step."

Across the room, Prowl slams a fist against the wall.

"…Ooookay. That took a turn. A weird, eight-legged, creepy turn," Whirl drawls, splaying out sideways on the captain's chair. He bobs one long, rangy leg, glancing from Prowl to Springer to Springer's shoulder and back again with a significant pause for each stop. "So! When do we get to shoot the Muse?"

Springer lets go. Wheeljack unfreezes. Wishes that the world outside the window would stop spinning as he gets his bearings. His mouth feels thick and dry.

You could barely call that an argument. There's too much left unsaid between those three - Prowl, Springer, Mesothulas, there's something oppressive hanging over the room.

It shouldn't overwhelm him like that. Wheeljack shouldn't feel like he got hit by a freight train. Megatron shouldn't be the one to snap him out of it, faint concern etched in his face as he frowns at Wheeljack from across the room. "Mnemosyne seemed confused about where she was. She tried to fix Chromedome, not trick him," Wheeljack says, forcing himself to talk. The muddle clears a little more when Springer backs out of EM range.

"That's not what I saw. She accessed his mind and generated new hallucinatory agents," Prowl snaps, grinding the heel of his palm against his chevron. At least he's too far away to reach; Wheeljack can't handle another blast of irritation on his sensors right now.

"But maybe not on purpose," Wheeljack fires back, temper flaring. "We can't just shoot someone who might be as trapped here as we are."

"Then if we can, we need to snap her out of it. Persuade her to exit the machine and it may shut this whole thing down," Megatron says.

"Orrr just shoot it," Whirl sings, sprawling further out in the captain's seat.

Megatron sends Whirl a reproving look. "I would prefer not to harm someone who's not responsible for their actions. If you can save someone, you should save them. You can't put a price on life," he says, like he's quoting something.

Wheeljack's not sure whether he should laugh or cry.

Springer laughs, short and bitter. "That's a new one."

A slow shake of Megatron's head as he looks out the window. "It shouldn't be."

Whirl throws up both arms. "Slag! I'd forgotten how boring you were nowadays. Boring, boring, boring!" he chants. Then he sits bolt upright, leveling a pair of guns at the room, and declares, "Right. We're not shooting anyone. I reserve the right to do extreme violence on anyone who tries!"

"You've quite neatly decapitated the point," Megatron points out, dryly.

Whirl puffs out his chest more. "And proud of it!"

"Or we can cut the nonsense." Prowl storms across the room and seizes a doorknob that wasn't there before. "This is a door to the Muse's current location," he orders in his command voice. Then he turns the knob.

A human glances up from a crumpled paper map, spread out over the table. Optimus crouches on the far side, hunkered down in root mode, studying the map. "Hey, Prowl!" Spike Witwicky greets them, with crooked smile and a human salute.

Prowl slams the door shut.

"Not that door," he says, after a moment.

Wheeljack checks over to his shoulder. To his relief, the other door hasn't vanished while they weren't looking. The light that pours in through the opening doesn't look bright in a realistic way; the building across the road looks flat compared to the depth of space outside the Lost Light.

He fights to keep his gaze fixed on the door, and not the figure he can see drifting outside the window.

"Then the road trip continues," he sighs.

-

Springer takes point, cruising in alt mode, while Whirl falls in overhead in an unreliable air support position. Prowl inches up to consult with Springer - and by consult, Wheeljack means 'argue in hushed whispers on a secure line' - and leaves Wheeljack to fend for himself.

Megatron, the only one without a position in an Autobot-style convoy, winds up awkwardly sandwiched in beside Wheeljack. Which is less than ideal on so many levels. Megatron's alt is still a Cybertronian heavy tank; the absence of the old armaments and fusion cannon smooth out the silhouette, but the mining drill juts forward along his side. He moves the slowest of the group by a fraction, but Springer pings them all at regular intervals, keeping them in a steady formation.

Wheeljack lowers his baseline estimate for his optimal mental state, and resigns himself to the inevitable. He needs to do better than he did earlier at keeping his head cool. They can't all do a flying pirouette off the handle at the same time. It'd be another clusterfrag.

Megatron comms him.

Megatron was also one of the most level-headed people back there, and Wheeljack's a sucker.

MT: My apologies. I think it would be prudent for us to touch base.
MT: You dislike me.

Wheeljack almost swerves off the highway. Which gets him a sharp ping from Springer. A little embarrassed, Wheeljack sends an all clear and shifts back into place.

WJ: What? No - uh - nothing personal. It's just your. Uh. Everything.
WJ: Mostly the war thing.
WJ: No offense.
MT: Oh, none taken.
MT: Forgive me, but I think it is personal. You conceal it well, and I - respect your efforts to keep the peace. I know it can't be easy.
MT: …
MT: How is Starscream?

Starscream, Wheeljack thinks, wouldn't want this conversation to be happening at all. Wheeljack's on edge about it himself. It's tempting to just peel ahead until he's level with Springer and slag this mess of a situation.

Years, it's taken, for Starscream unbend enough to let Wheeljack catch glimpses of what Megatron did to him. What being part of Decepticon high command meant. However it started, it ended so toxic that it scarred Starscream more than the rest of the war combined. Starscream scowls and bristles and sarcastically jokes around it, winding himself into thorny knots, and watches Wheeljack as though he expects him to dig into any vulnerability and twist.

Megatron doesn't act like someone who can't sleep a full night through with someone else in the berth, paranoid that his partner will turn on him. His field doesn't spike with cold terror when he says Starscream's name. It wasn't Megatron slowly breaking down in Metroplex's roots, haunted by visions of his worst nightmare.

Or maybe Wheeljack's being an uncharitable aft. Either way, he's gonna have to make so many jokes about Megatron cooties before Starscream will calm down after this.

WJ: Oh, wow.
WJ: Haha.
WJ: Don't think I'm answering that question.
MT: That's…enough.
MT: There was much left unresolved between Starscream and I. Things that should never have escalated to the extent that they did.

Oh slag. It's like an unstoppable force trying to meet an immovable object - except Wheeljack is the object, and he's trying to tap-dance away from the conversation as fast as he can. It just keeps happening.

MT: It seems less wise now, to hope to return to Cybertron one day and catch him unawares. Like some frivolous indulgence, of a part of me it's better to move on from.
MT: I've had time to reflect on things. Whatever petty disputes and vendettas were at the root of it, neither of us -
WJ: I don't think I want to hear this.
WJ: I'm driving away now.
MT: …I see.
MT: I did not intend to -

Wheeljack slams the comm line down. He's hot and cold at the same time, his tanks roiling at odds with the unnatural smoothness of the road, and he wants to not have had that conversation at all. That's another query ping from Springer as Wheeljack surges ahead, putting distance between him and Megatron as though that'll make the comms not happen, but Wheeljack keeps his response clamped down as he pulls closer to Springer and Prowl.

If they're trying to have a private conversation, they shouldn't have switched out of private comms. Springer sounds coldly furious again, and neither of them shuts up as Wheeljack approaches.

SR: You think I'm happy about this, Prowl?
PR: So far as I can tell, no one is happy about any of this. Trust me, I'm well aware that you want nothing to do with me, and with -
SR: I want this to be done. It should've been done, two years ago. Now I've got places to be, people I care about, and the only damn reason we're having this conversation is because you're a useful asset, when you're not just an ass.
SR: Even at your worst.
SR: We're not tooled up for this sort of trap, so we make do.
PR: I'm trying to do better. I want to make things right.
SR: Heard that before. The universe really doesn't have that much time left. Save it for someone who cares.

Then Springer updates the formation with a brusque ping and pushes forward to take point again, leaving Wheeljack to hesitantly catch up with Prowl and coast. Let Megatron have fun with Whirl messing around overhead.

WJ: …So I take it Earth didn't go well?

It's not like he knows what went down. He's gonna make a wild leap and guess Prowl fragged up again, because that's the common theme.

Prowl sounds dark and broody and vaguely bitter when he finally replies. Dark and broody and bitter Prowl is never a good sign.

PR: Humans have a saying. 'Sins come home to roost.'
PR: Nothing changes.
WJ: What? Things change all the time.
WJ: That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, Prowl, and sometimes you're as dumb as a bag of rocks.

Prowl's wheels sputter under him. But it does the job - by the time he replies, Prowl just sounds incredulous, not like he's ready to pull some fresh scrap.

PR: No, really? Tell me how you really feel, Wheeljack.
WJ: Like you make jokes about your war crimes, but I'd still rather talk to you than Megatron. So there's hope for you yet!
PR: Scraping the bottom of the barrel?
WJ: I think by now we've established that my standards for befriending people are pretty fragged up.
WJ: Good news, though. I have a new plan that might help with plan 'drive in a straight line until we reach the anomaly again.'
PR: And the bad news?
WJ: I didn't say there was bad news.
PR: There's always bad news.
WJ: …
WJ: I probably need to take a nap for it to work.

-

Apparently, that's a really bad plan.

-

A vague sense of unease rouses him in the middle of the night.

His optics online slowly, and he watches the streaks of two fliers goofing off in the no-fly zone over the park through the haze of sleep as he waits for the unease to resolve itself. It's not quite nausea; probably just some recharge feedback gone awry. It'll sort itself by morning. Not worth waking Starscream over. He's warm and comfortable, otherwise. Not really inclined to move. The balcony windows' tint settings partially dim the purple and blue lights of the nightlife pulsing in the distance; neither he nor Starscream need blackout settings to let them relax and recharge. The ferrofluid lamp emits a faint blue glow in the far corner, the inky black bubbles casting shadows against the wall.

A twinge, just behind the ridge of his brow. Starscream murmurs in his sleep as Wheeljack shifts his weight off his lower wing to move away; the upper pair of wings flex up and down before stilling. He used to be a light sleeper, tossing and turning on his side of the berth, until Wheeljack flopped on top of him one night to make him stop fidgeting.

It's not as bad when he shuffles over to the workbench by the window. A pass of his hand under the overhanging shelves activates the warm lights - easier on the optics for late night fiddling. He's got a couple of blueprints loaded into the blue holoscreen that runs the length of the bench, but he's not feeling them tonight.

His scanner, he remembers. He was working on his scanner. He figures you can never have too much functionality. Removing it from subspace, Wheeljack drags the seat closer to the window, straddles it, and lets himself fall into the rhythm of work to take his mind off things. He glances outside every so often, his hands taking the scanner apart by memory, and catches a bemused glimpse of a human kicking her heels on a bench beside a green and yellow mech down in the park, her feet several dozen meters above the ground.

Wheeljack's about 90% sure Cybertron's atmosphere isn't breathable for humans, but they seem to be doing okay. Both moons are out tonight.

(Which moon?)

Two arms wrap around him from behind. Starscream mashes his forehead against Wheeljack's shoulder with a mumble, then rests his chin so he can peer blearily at the workbench. "What are you doing up so late? Tinkering?" he yawns.

Wheeljack bumps his audial against the side of Starscream's finial with a tired smile. "It's a pet project, yeah," he says. His hand unspools a small link cable from his wrist to plug into the scanner's core so he can access the main CPU as well as the memory.

Memory -

Starscream yawns again, a faint, extended vent that cracks his jaw and pours out of vents further down his torso. His arms tighten a little as he rocks his weight, and Wheeljack along with him. "Come back," he says, in a murmur.

One of these days, Wheeljack's gonna have to consider how to propose without Starscream taking it the wrong way. They're already basically there. The trouble is that Starscream's a creature of habit: not a fan of big, sudden changes, unless he's the one making them in a suitably melodramatic fashion.

Today, he feels weird. Like he missed a critical half-step at the last turn he made, and now he misses Starscream the most when he's right in front of him.

He angles his head to press his maskplate to the side of Starscream's head, and receives a half-asleep grumble in response. "In a minute," Wheeljack promises, tweaking the settings of the scanner from the inside as he immerses his processor in the data stream. Three layers - a room with Starscream, a room with four other people, and a room with three fixed points. Weirdly compressed.

Another petulant mumble. Starscream hasn't gone back to bed; he's still draped against Wheeljack's back, still warm with recharge. Wheeljack frowns as he stares at the fuzzy, unsteady constellation of data points before him. "You feelin' alright? You seem a little..." he starts and trails off. Clingy's not the right word or a good word in general. Clinging, maybe. Seeking affection. Not like Wheeljack would begrudge him it. The whole situation's just…odd. It's odd that the situation feels odd.

He doesn't feel like he's all the way awake still. But he can work with that.

Starscream's optics stare broodingly out the window, like he's lost in thought. Or sleeping while standing up. He's a mech of many talents. "Mm. Just missing you," he says, and tugs on Wheeljack more insistently. But Wheeljack's hooked into the scanner right now. Starscream admits defeat with another long, pouting sigh, and adjusts his whole frame until his arms hang over Wheeljack's shoulders. "You're the one up in the middle of the night. How are you?"

Easy question, easy answer. "I'm fine," Wheeljack says, manipulating the projection with mental direction rather than gestures.

Starscream is very still and silent for a long moment, to the point Wheeljack thinks he really has fallen asleep like that. "You're always the one that's fine," he says, quietly, like he's turning it over in his head as he says it.

A shrug would jostle Starscream. Wheeljack scrunches his optics in a smile. "Someone has t'be. I'm doing better than most." And when things hit harder than usual, he's equipped to handle it. It carried him all through the -

The starfield judders in response to the twinge in Wheeljack's head. He maps the shape of the disruption, marking it with more interwoven lines. A fourth layer - a room inside his own mind.

He knew he should've asked to check out the Lathe. But that would have given Shockwave ideas, and no one wants that. The scanner is set up to send him alert notifications, not access the inner workings of his own processor. Wheeljack tugs another cable out of his wrist and starts reworking the connection.

"You can't always be the support, Wheeljack," Starscream says, acerbically. Now he sounds more awake than Wheeljack feels.

Ah well. Wheeljack gives in and shrugs, as he deepwires the scanner. "Hey. It's what I'm good at." Holding up a stripped wire to the light, he squints at the ends. Concentrating on it helps. The scanner's gonna need more processing power for what he plans to put it through, and he doesn't have much to work with apart from his own. "Just let me wrap this up real quick."

But Starscream persists. It's funny. Normally he'd start pacing or trying to squirm around to take up more of Wheeljack's attention. Being this close to a window makes him fidgety. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, the violet of his optics reflecting the light. "Nothing's bothering you? Nothing I can help you with?" he asks, sounding almost sad. Which means Wheeljack probably needs to stop multitasking and devote his full brain to the conversation. 

But it's clearly not Starscream anymore by the time the illusion continues. "Or is deflecting it just…second nature, now? It's easier to be fine if you just - keep being fine. If you let someone else know you're not okay, that would mean admitting it to yourself, and then you'd lose the rhythm," the Starscream says, reading Wheeljack like a book. 

It helps. It's more data points on the projection. But Wheeljack still feels uncomfortable, his gut tightening as he separates the two layers from each other. Another layer that is someone else's mind, and one more, for their spark. The compression's a physical phenomenon, not part of the layers. Compressed space, fragging with his readings.

Easier to think about the problem than to confront the discomfort. The awkward, vaguely nauseating sense that he's burdening someone with his problems when they're just…not that big of a deal. He's fine. 

He keeps his tone light as he strips out more circuitry to rewire his arm. It's not quite a hackjob, but it's close; he nicks a minor fuel line, but it will seal itself in a sec. "You're in rougher shape than I am -" Why is that, again? He can't quite pin it down, but it's true for the real Starscream "- so don't worry about it until you're in a good place. I'm just happy to spend time with you."

And that's the anomaly fanned out and balanced for, so that it's no longer a searing burst of light on the radar when he maps it. He's no expert in outlier sparks, but it's the processor that's gonna be a capital-P problem - overclocked, with enough memory space to make a Titan cry, and inextricably enmeshed with all the other layers of rooms. Including their own minds. Which is why he can access its specifications when he's not hooked in on a medical port. 

Damn. 

"'Don't worry about you,' you mean?" Starscream steps between him and the workbench, pressing his hands against Wheeljack's mask as his wings pass through the projection. The expression is very Starscream - like he's irritated with Wheeljack's stubbornness and his own sincerity at the same time. Neither of them are very good at talking about their problems; Starscream's just less good at keeping the lid on the pot when he boils over.

"Let me help," Starscream asks, and damn, that hurts. 

Wheeljack leans back on the seat, and considers. Starscream waits expectantly, his mouth pursed together in the stubborn, triumphant way he gets when he thinks he's figured out how to get his way and he's trying not to smirk about it.

Not quite agitated enough. Not snappish. The real Starscream - slag, who knows how many centuries he's off from this. If he'll ever make it to this point at all.

Without breaking eye contact, trying not to wish he could memorize this, Wheeljack reaches out and puts the pieces of the scanner back together. Then he slides it into the new, exposed dock along his wrist, and accepts the scanner's handshake as it offers to integrate the separated layers directly into his perception. 

The illusion of Starscream is abruptly very flat and still. 

"Alright. What am I looking at, here?" he asks the third person in the room, when he's sure he can say it without breaking. 

"Your brain module is new," the other person says. She's standing by the window, staring at the view of the city at night without seeing it. "Estimated 0-5 solar cycles old. Wear minimal. Yet you're very tired."

"Mnemosyne." There's the name. The oldest word for [memory]. Wheeljack stands up, bracing the scanner unconsciously, half-afraid it'll fall off his arm. Feels heavier than it used to. The room rolls around him, trying to reconcile the apartment, the memory of the apartment, and all the other rooms he's not actually in. "Kinda weird, isn't it? That you're making us forget, messing with our memories to put this together. Is that what a Muse of Memory does?"

"I can't remember." The world judders again as Mnemosyne tilts her head to the side. The neon lights outside stain the green paint of her armor with alternating splotches. "I remember everything. I remember everyone."

And that's where the logic of this place bugs out. It's broken, right down to the source code. Wheeljack maps that too, trying to discern where Mnemosyne ends and the Lotus Machine begins by following the ripples they leave on the world. "I think you're trying to help. But something's gone wrong," Wheeljack says, urgently, as he reaches out to try to grab the Muse's shoulder.

"Wrong," Mnemosyne echoes. 

Then she looks directly at him. "You need to save them. It knows you're here."

The distance between them starts to yawn. Outside the window, the color of the city drains away, and the structures themselves shake and rattle like a mobile fortress is passing too close overhead.

Wheeljack can't remember a bomb strike while he was in this apartment. Can he?

He's super not interested in finding out. "You need to let us wake-"

-

"- up," Wheeljack tells the ceiling.

The ceiling fails to respond.

Problem - he doesn't remember falling asleep in a building. They pulled over under the highway for cover.

His frame feels horribly stiff as he eases himself up onto his elbows, like he went without transforming for a week.

But his processor is very clear. His forearm twinges with pain still; energon oozes out from under the scanner he hacked into his internals. It's a haphazard mashup of what Wheeljack learned from tuning up Chromedome's integrated needles this past year and what he intuited from seeing Windvoice work with the Lathe plugged into her helm, surrounded by shaky scratch marks where he lost focus. It…looks like he did it in his sleep. With a hammer instead of a screwdriver.

Not bad for a mech who was only ever supposed to be a medic when all else failed.

"Huh. All we had to do was ask?" he mumbles, as the layers of the room swirl and eddy around him, and the scanner compensates.

Then he looks up, and sees the unconscious bodies collapsed around him.

"Never mind, then," Wheeljack says, as a nightmare crawls in through the window.

---

What kind of monster are you?

A goal-oriented one.

- Stardrive of the Pyrrhic Campaign and Starscream of Kaon

---

The fact is, no one on Earth needs to see two Titans getting it on.

For that matter, Starscream doesn't need to see it. Both he and humanity as a species got along perfectly fine without ever witnessing the chest-sucking union of two giant exhibitionists, and Starscream, out of the infinite altruism and selfless generosity of his spark, shrieks directly into Chela's audial sensor chamber at maximum volume until the two Titans bridge away from Earth in tandem. The humans snooping around can thank him for letting them live in blissful ignorance later. Or, preferably, never.

(The less humans know about interfacing in any form, Starscream thinks, more cynically, the better. He hasn't forgotten Skywatch.)

"On Caminus, this would be considered a sacred act," Windvoice informs him when Chromia bullies him out of the audial chamber, with that earnest, solemn voice that means she's telling him this for the express purpose of ruining his life. "We're blessed to see it in our lifetime."

It's almost awe-inspiring, how evil she can be. He's created a monster. "Oh look, is that Jupiter?" Starscream says, with a despair so deep it comes out blithe and cheery. "I'm calling Soundwave. Anyone who wants to give them some privacy -"

In the end, everyone does (though he's tempted to leave Windvoice to witness what she's wrought.) The poor bot who answers the transmission at Sanctuary Station is in a tizzy - two city-sized Titans bursting into existence without warning seems to have given him a spark attack - but then Cosmos of all people hops on the line and directs a shuttle to pick them up. Starscream flies himself, which is a mistake; Cosmos accompanies the shuttle, a rotund green package of annoying who zooms around Starscream, fascinated, as he escorts them back to Io. An Autobot-manned shuttle ditches Metrotitan simultaneously, full of whatever stragglers didn't bail before they left Earth, but they ignore the station and head back. Probably blowing up Orion's phone as they speak.

Chela and Metrotitan skim along the edge of the Jovian atmosphere, off in their own little world of swirling ammonia clouds and shimmering ice.

By the time they reach the station, Starscream is ready to check out for the day. He lands and transforms without waiting for anyone else to disembark, rubbing his temples and squinting menacingly at anyone who dares get in his way. Most of them are Decepticons and should know better. He locates the station's medical bay, allows the obviously stolen D.0.C. bot to hook him up to a drip, its whistles disturbingly cheery, and promptly passes out.

-

He plays Orion's furious voicemail to wake up the next day, before he's even onlined his optics, as a treat to himself. Like unwrapping a lovely present. Orion's voice sounds twice as grating when he's furious, but it's the sentiment that counts.

"Orion called. He wants his mobile fortress back," Starscream drawls, basking in the moment. It's like a two for one sale on thwarting Primes and commandeering Titans.

"You sound entirely too smug about that," Windvoice says, voice full of irony. "But yes, I've already heard it from him. Five times. I tried to let him know that none of us told Chela to come here, and that we're not preventing Metrotitan from returning to Earth, but he seems to think I should be able to just order Metrotitan to disengage and then present myself on Earth to explain what we were thinking."

"To be fair," Starscream says, smirking, "you are notorious for stealing Titans." He permits himself a leisurely stretch - which cuts off with a curse as his entire frame protests and a medical alarm wails.

He glowers as he onlines his optics and sits up, reaching for the medical terminal past Windvoice. The D.0.C bot beeps at him in agitated protest - those things are not supposed to emote - and in the doorway Cosmos waves an anxious hand. "Oh hey, you're awake," the Autobot says. "Soundwave should be back any minute, so he asked if you could please not burn the place down until he gets in -"

The only reason Starscream doesn't snap at Cosmos for holding the door open is that the mech is bulky enough to completely fill the opening, and Starscream has bricked up doorways with bodies before. "We need to get back," he says to Windvoice, tuning Cosmos's babble out. "Yesterday, if possible." The sooner he shoves Airazor in front of a camera to make a pretty speech about how brave, selfless Windvoice was almost kidnapped by the dastardly Onyx Prime, the easier it will be to smooth over her disappearance during a crisis. "Collect your baggage - sorry, bodyguard - so we can find a way off this tin can."

"I heard that!" Chromia yells, crankily, from outside the door.

"All according to plan!" Starscream shouts back. While he was in recharge someone decided to hook him up to the medical berth like some sort of invalid; he starts peremptorily tearing the wires out of their associated ports. 

Windvoice lets him. But she has that look. The meddling one. She touches the Lathe pinned to the side of her helm; it's turning into one of her tells. "Metrotitan is - erratically open to allowing people through his space bridge," she says, clearly biting back the urge to say something else. "He's willing, Chela is…less so. The interaction of the two space bridges means that there are only narrow windows where it's stable enough to bridge. He and Chela don't seem interested in unmerging at the moment, which complicates things. We're lucky they're in a good mood, or we might've had to fly home the long way."

Starscream snorts. "A good mood?" On second thought? He doesn't want to know.

Thankfully, Windvoice doesn't elaborate. Instead, she looks hesitant. "There's something else I'd like to discuss," she says. She doesn't finish her train of thought.

Starscream narrows his eyes. Then he switches his hard glare from Windvoice to Cosmos. "How much will Soundwave care if I shoot you?" he asks. He's midway through pulling the last cable out of his wrist; he yanks it out without breaking eye contact and lets the tension snap it back against the terminal.

Cosmos's visor brightens with alarm at being addressed directly; the Autobot glances nervously over both shoulders as though Starscream could be talking to someone else. "I mean - he might care a little - I don't, uh -"

Ugh. Dithering. Worse, it's not an immediate 'no,' which implies something worse than dithering. Starscream interrupts, his expression flat. "Trick question - how much do I care if Soundwave cares?" he says, through gritted teeth.

It's not the most strenuous thought exercise.

Cosmos backpedals, mashing the security panel as he goes. "I'm just, uh…gonna go grab Soundwave. Be right ba-" he announces, before the door cuts off both his mumbling and Chromia's protest.

Mission accomplished. Starscream rolls his wrist and stands up. "Now what?"

Windvoice sighs at the closed door. "Seriously, Starscream?" When he just shoots her a look, she realizes the folly of her question and clears her throat. "When you were fighting Onyx Prime, were you trying to get yourself killed? Because I know you fight better than that."

She says it in bursts, the words weirdly enunciated, like she's not sure how to phrase it. And she stares at the mess of cords and tubes while she says it, her visor empty except for a single string of calculations, instead of looking at him.

He wants to recoil. He scowls instead. "I was distracting him so that you could work, you ungrateful prong," he says.

"You're not -"

She cuts off. Starscream stalks away so he can't see what her face is doing. He locks his hands behind his back, and ignores the insidious, queasy sensation in his tanks. "Oh, finish it." Never mind the fact that what she's implying is - is absolute drivel -

"You're not," Windvoice says, tightly, "a disposable second. You, Ironhide, Lightbright, Wheeljack. Neo-Cybertron wouldn't be where it is today without all of you. All of us. I told you. I need you here, now, more than ever. I'm not going to let you throw yourself away."

It takes him two seconds too long to figure out why that first sentence makes his alarm skyrocket. It pings a memory with jarring source codes, over a year old, and he barely hears the rest of what comes out of her mouth.

(Vigilem shoved him down and stripped away every layer of him until he was nothing - until he was less than nothing - wearing the same face that did it every time before, looming in the same way that always makes him shut down and lock up. Breaking the façade of Kaon into rubble, until there was nothing left but the limbless, exposed, useless hunk of crystal in his chest, unable to fly, whirling in terror as the full, abyssal weight of Vigilem's mind fell over him -)

Nothing but a [knock-off]. A cheap [imitation]. All the old insults that Vigilem ripped out of Starscream's mind with no context. A [disposable second] was never something Starscream put into words, even in the privacy of his own mind. He just knew it, every time Megatron reminded him where his place was.

But Windvoice never says what she's supposed to say - what Starscream expects her to say - and it is maddening how badly he wants the rest of it to be true. She even has the nerve to sound sincere. The room pulses at the edge of Starscream's vision. "You're reading too much into things. Every move I made was calculated. You just don't appreciate art when you see it," he says, reaching for haughty, stiff-necked pride and just coming up mortified. He's embarrassed on her behalf, really. That's all.

If he's actually, successfully tricked her into believing he's essential, he feels the perverse need to snap her out of it.

Pushing back her seat, Windvoice changes tack. "Wheeljack wouldn't want you to kill yourself." When Starscream whips around, hissing, Windvoice glares at him mulishly. "If there is any chance at all that he's still alive? Don't make him come back to you dead."

…Never mind. If she can land a low blow like that, she's doing just fine.

"Better. Your emotional manipulation is still heavy-handed at best, but we'll work on it," Starscream concedes, and is rewarded by the sight of Windvoice screwing up her face in dismay. He pats her on the shoulder in a way that is not awkward at all, and mentally shelves the whole conversation as a victory. The mention of Wheeljack he snips out - but only because Soundwave is probably back in range by now and spying on every word they think. The UTTER AFT.

With that very loud thought in mind, Starscream drapes an arm over Windvoice's shoulders and walks to the door. "Bravo on handling that bird brain, by the way. Your processor is still in one piece, I trust?"

Windvoice stares at his hand and then up at his face like she's deeply concerned for his well-being. Which she might be; Starscream can't rule that out when she's so stubbornly determined not to let him self-destruct in peace. Shaking her head, Windvoice says, "Don't worry about me, Starscream. Titans are the least of my problems, these days." Just as the door opens, she smoothly lifts his arm and ducks out from under it. Robbing him of Chromia's reaction. Typical. "I'm not sure Chela was ever as vehemently antagonistic towards standardformers as Onyx needed him to be; he just didn't consider standardformers and their concerns a priority in any way whatsoever. Once Chela knew the processor wasn't trapped and took full control of his own facilities, I was in no danger." Then, with a cycling vent, she adds, "And I know you're dying to say it, so get it out of your system before we talk to Soundwave."

Chromia glowers at Starscream as they step into the wide, sterile medical center beyond. Starscream smiles back with a mocking salute. If Windvoice is so graciously giving him an opening, who is he to say no? "I told you so," Starscream says, with relish. He dismisses the row of empty medical berths and Laserbeak and Buzzsaw, perched on either side of the door.

Then he does a double-take at the appalling sight waiting for them. "Soundwave! In public?!" Starscream demands.

Soundwave looks up from where he's staring tenderly into Cosmos's visor. To the untrained optic, Soundwave would look perfectly neutral - Starscream knows better. "Starscream," Soundwave says. He inclines his head to Windvoice, voice modulated to sound imperceptibly more polite. "Speaker Windvoice."

Windvoice has her diplomatic mask back up, along with the humming pink transparency of the visor. "My apologies, Soundwave. For Starscream as well as the two Titans," she says, equally polite.

"Starscream: is Starscream," Soundwave says, philosophically. By his side, Cosmos flutters nervously, glancing around for a way out after being caught in the act. With the certainty of a mind-reader, Soundwave presses a hand to Cosmos's arm and gazes into his visor for a solid five seconds of affectionate, reassuring silence.

"I can't believe you two are doing that in front of us," Starscream says, scandalized. He's going to be embarrassed on everyone's behalf before the day is done.

Windvoice cracks. "Starscream, they're just looking at each other."

Starscream snaps his fingers and points at Soundwave. Buzzsaw eyes the offending digit like he's considering how much trouble he'd be in if he bit it off. "Let me make something very clear. I've known Soundwave for too long. That? That is tender." How long have they been like this? Starscream assumed it was just blackmail forcing Soundwave to heel for Optimus, but an affair with one of Prime's soldiers? This is spicy! Soundwave has clearly been holding out on him. "A few years without a war, and look at us! We've all gone domestic!"

Cosmos squirms, and really, what's the point of the mask if his EM field erupts like an embarrassed firework? "It's not like that!" the Autobot insists. Then he glances anxiously at Soundwave as he realizes what he just said. "I mean - oh Primus - I can leave -"

Soundwave passively refuses to remove his hand. "Stay."

Cosmos melts. Unlike Soundwave, he isn't subtle about the affectionate eye contact. "Okay," he promises.

"Soft!" Starscream shouts. Cosmos leaps a meter in the air. "Why do I bother asking if he'd mind if I shot you when I should be asking where my invitation to the conjunx ceremony is?"

Soundwave stops staring at Cosmos long enough to look unamused. "The only reason you would be invited is because you would show up regardless."

Thankfully, by the time Windvoice wrests control of the conversation away from Starscream and Soundwave, fed up with their nonsense, Starscream feels like he's on a more even keel. No one's mentioned Wheeljack in fifteen minutes, and Soundwave and Windvoice get along swimmingly, united in their firm desire to have a sane, productive conversation without Starscream interrupting.

Better, Starscream gets a chance to observe how Windvoice handles someone as dangerous as Soundwave. It's different compared to dealing with Soundwave on his own terms - none of the old jokes, none of the old grudges. None of the long-standing, mutual distaste over differences in methodology and ideology. When he ruled Cybertron, Starscream kept contact with Soundwave and his little hippie commune to a minimum; with Orion's star setting, Windvoice might be able to strengthen relations here. It's a step up.

"I've communicated with Metrotitan and Chela as best I can. But Chela was enslaved by Onyx Prime and doesn't take kindly to anything that sounds like an order. I can try to speak with them again, but for the moment I don't think they're willing to move," Windvoice says, apologetically. At this point in the station's circuit around Io, the moon is between them and the view of Jupiter through the window; the Titans themselves are out of sight.

Soundwave tilts his helm to the side. Listening. Always listening. "They are free to make their own choices, and the right to decide how to live their lives. This is a sanctuary for all. They are welcome," he says at last. "It is no different just because they live on a different scale than us. That we should be so slow to see it is our own failing."

Starscream makes a mental note never to leave Soundwave and Vigilem alone together. He's dangerous enough without all of Megatron's old talking points on self-determination.

Windvoice smiles warmly up at Soundwave through the holovisor. "Thank you."

…They get along entirely too well.

"Orion won't be happy," Starscream comments, with a certain amount of cheer. Of course, Orion's fury promises to be a fresh annoyance once harsh reality sets in, but for now he can enjoy it.

Cosmos gulps but doesn't falter. Soundwave is implacable. "Orion is never happy."

They round up the Tryptichs and the Eukarians, and Soundwave sees them off personally. Most likely because he wants to make sure that Starscream's well and truly gone. Starscream doesn't miss the fact that Soundwave kept them quarantined from the station's residents, most of whom hate Starscream on principle. "Tell Jetfire…bye," Cosmos says, wistfully, as they board the shuttle for a second time. Then, apparently under the impression that they can't hear him as the shuttle door cycles shut - "We wouldn't actually have to invite him, would we?"

-

Ironhide is waiting beside Metroplex's space bridge, quietly disapproving.

At least he has the decency to haul Starscream, Windvoice, and Chromia into a private office before laying into them. It would never do to have the head of security lambast the Speaker and another lieutenant in front of the curious masses.

(And people are very curious. A muttering, dangerous sort of curiosity, in certain circles, which Starscream quashes as fast as he finds it.)

"You three're going to give me a complex," Ironhide says, when he runs out of steam. "Please, just…siddown and give me one day without someone going missing? Fireflight almost had a nervous breakdown when they couldn't locate you, and Ratchet's had it up to here with Shockwave. I don't blame either of 'em."

Windvoice bends her head, at least somewhat chastened. Ironhide looks haggard, though not to the point of exhaustion. His capable, patient focus is a sharp contrast to the mech who used to wander around the bowels of Metroplex, aimless and barely able to string a sentence together. Three mugs grace the desk behind him - one normal, one still half-full of tepid oil, and one extra-large, reinforced mug with 'ULTRA MUGNUS' on one side and 'TASTY' on the other.

Starscream stared at it through most of the lecture, at a loss for words. There are things in the universe that mechs were not meant to know. The Lost Light crew took that as a challenge. Starscream's beginning to wonder if Getaway might not have committed mutiny to cope. He already sympathized immensely with the desire to overthrow Megatron. This - this is ridiculous.

Finally, Ironhide releases them.

Bumblebee waits outside the office until they emerge. "Oh, no. Now it's my turn," he says, pointing back into the office. "If you don't think I'm intimately familiar with the lengths you'll go to fob your paperwork off on someone else - think again."

Starscream sighs deeply. He pulls up Circuit and Longtooth on speed dial and patches together an interview with Airazor, drumming his fingers along the desk as he disregards Bumblebee's lecture.

Time for damage control.

They need to re-establish contact with Eukaris. With Airazor present, they still have a voting voice on the Council of Worlds who's aligned with Windvoice. But if Chela refuses to return, it's not a long-term solution. The instantaneous transmission of messages, goods, and people through the space bridge network made them complacent. Worse, according to Airazor, Eukaris had no truly space-worthy vessels or alt modes that it could use to reconnect on its own. Which means someone - preferably the Velocitronians, whose planet is physically closer to Eukaris and whose ships are ludicrously fast - needs to head over, make sure Chela's departure hasn't left the planet a slagheap, and lend the Eukarians a heavy-duty long-range comms transmitter.

Botanica and Blackarachnia relocate in rooms attached to Airazor and Tigatron's guest quarters within Metroplex, primarily because Starscream doesn't want either of them out of his sight. Setting Botanica loose on the dirt-encrusted surface of Neo-Cybertron sounds like Starscream's idea of a bad time. With Chromedome missing in action, on the other hand, Blackarachnia is better than nothing. Though she claims not to be able to perform the sort of invasive, in-depth mnemosurgeries that Airachnid can, he's not letting her run amok, either. Neither of them protest - Botanica would've preferred to remain with Chela, but. Well. Staying in close proximity to Metroplex's space bridge is the next best compromise.

Starscream has other matters to attend to. Things that have been neglected for too long.

-

The security feed shows Strongarm fidgeting in the hall for a full minute before the Camien shakes her head, straightens to attention, and knocks on the door.

The file open on Starscream's datapad is more dossier than résumé - Strongarm doesn't know why she's here. What he reviews instead is a background check pieced together from Windvoice's report, tidbits recently skimmed from Ironhide, and the Camien archives, easier to surreptitiously access now than ever before. Starscream sets it aside and sends the signal to the door security to open. He waves her in with his most ingratiating smile. "Come in, Strongarm. Sit, please." His office is in a perpetual state of chaos, seven parts neglect to three parts deliberate obfuscation, but the seat across from his is clear.

Strongarm keeps her arms folded behind her back, stiffly. The reference image in the file most likely came from some ceremony: the picture shows dark paint over her optics and a line of blue on her mouth that's currently absent. She's blue and white with yellow accents, her helm and frame blocky, her shoulders broadened by wheels. Sturdy, by Camien standards.

"I, um. Feel more comfortable standing at attention while reporting, sir," she replies, stiltedly polite. Refreshingly, there's no suspicion in her EM field: just a flicker of uncertainty under her professional veneer.

On the other hand, the mech successfully fooled the rest of the Praetorian Guard into believing she sincerely toed the Mistress of Flame's party line on Windvoice's supposed treason, right up until she wound up guarding Windvoice's cell.

Starscream doesn't hire people without aptitude, a brain, and a respectable flair for the dramatic. He has standards.

(The trouble being that most people on Neo-Cybertron know better than to allow themselves to be hired by him, these days.)

No matter. Starscream keeps his posture relaxed, informal, as he folds one leg over the other. His smile tilts toward rueful. "Oh, no need for all that. I just feel that I've been - remiss in welcoming you to Neo-Cybertron. I hope that you're settling in well."

Strongarm frowns; the deep yellow crest on her forehead makes the expression look darker and sterner than it is. "Do you ordinarily welcome recent arrivals individually? It seems like you'd normally be too busy, sir. Especially with Caminus's arrival, and all the disappearances," she says, serious and still exactingly polite.

Her relative inexperience - fresh out of cadethood, apparently, and yet already hipdeep in significant events - will be less of an issue to deal with than the righteous indignation Windvoice reported. Strongarm's sense of justice is, thankfully, tempered in favor of Windvoice. The Mistress of Flame withdrew from public view in shame, but not before the shocking exposure of her lies and her collusion with Onyx Prime tainted the well for a significant portion of the Camien population. Three-quarters of them now worship the ground Windvoice walks on - something that makes Starscream's lip curl with disgust, but which he can and will take ruthless advantage of. "Not all. Just those who have proven indispensable in saving the life of our lovely Speaker," he says, with light, droll humor. To business. "You've been to see Ironhide?"

Her pale optics brighten at [Speaker] - interestingly, the flush in her field reads more as admiration than blind reverence. Better and better. "I've spoken with Ironhide, yes. My squad has volunteered to serve as an honor guard for Speaker Windvoice," Strongarm says.

Starscream taps a finger on the other prepared datapad, nodding. "On loan from the Praetorian Guard, with the Matriarch's approval, yes. But for you, Ironhide and I are discussing a more - personal assignment." He pauses to let her process that, and how Ironhide didn't bring it up earlier. Mostly because Starscream doesn't intend to discuss it with Ironhide until he can't say no. "There is currently a gap in the rotation in Speaker Windvoice's personal bodyguards. A glaring oversight, considering her hands-on approach to matters of governance." He picks up the datapad and flips it around for Strongarm to take without leaning forward, and waits. "You would be working jointly with Chromia. The other set of guards are Silverbolt and Fireflight of Cybertron."

Before his already thin patience can wear thinner still, Strongarm reaches out hesitantly and accepts the datapad. The screen lights under her hands, but he can tell she's too stunned to take in the actual words as she scans it. "I'm - honored." She can't keep the thrill of excitement out of her face.

There. Now, for the real meat of the matter. "Oh, do think it over," Starscream says, still feigning a casual, briskly indulgent smile. Her answer is essentially a given. He just needs to…lay the groundwork. Phrase it in a way that appeals to Camien sensibilities. His expression falls into something more serious. "I'm going to be frank with you, Strongarm. Chromia is unsuitable for her post. Ironhide and I would be putting our trust in you to anticipate and cover for her…lapses in judgement."

The trouble with Ironhide is that he's reluctant, and also an Autobot to the core - their hypocrisy knows no bounds. From his perspective, Chromia made regrettable mistakes, going too far to try to protect Windvoice from Starscream, the big, bad Decepticon.

He probably didn't know that Chromia was responsible for the bombing at the time. Probably. But he forgave her for attacking him and knocking him out (simply sloppy), and even after Chromia's public confession they kept in contact while Chromia was exiled, with the legally grey excuse that someone needed to keep tabs on Chromia's location.

So it falls to Starscream to actually deal with the problem, before she can become a problem again.

Strongarm twitches, startled. "Unsuitable? I'm not sure I understand. Chromia left Caminus a member in good standing with the guard of the Word of Caminus temple." Another hesitation; when she continues, she hedges. "I…heard of a scandal, a year ago."

Starscream steeples his hands together and leans forward. Prolonged eye contact, he has learned from Windvoice, is a potent tool in the Camien arsenal. He keeps his tone neutral but icily relentless. "Shortly after her arrival, Chromia detonated an explosive device in the middle of a public Metroplex street, killing two mechs and injuring dozens more. Including Speaker Windvoice herself."

No need for him to fake any scandalized offense: the emotions slam through Strongarm's field perfectly, shock warring with betrayed disbelief. Strongarm has to set the datapad down, her dark hands trembling as horror transforms her wide face. Starscream drives on, allowing his optics to flicker to the side in a grimace before meeting Strongarm's again, more sharply. "In fact, Windvoice was in fact the intended target of the bomb. Chromia believed that the only way to persuade Windvoice to leave Cybertron and abandon Metroplex was to trick her into believing she was the target of a murder attempt. Chromia also gave clandestine orders to Metroplex to activate his space bridge at a time when bridging would drain him, undo all the hard-won repair work, and kill everyone not inside him. It could have killed Metroplex himself."

Another pause, to savor the faint shake of Strongarm's head as the truth sinks deep. He needs to uproot any faith she might have placed in Chromia by default, and sear it away. Salt the Earth, as it were.

Thankfully, Chromia's made it ever so easy for him. Every word he says is the bare, ugly truth. A sworn bodyguard, harming their charge with the weak excuse that it was for her own good? Camiens are very religious about these things. Them and their sacred duties.

His own actions at the time are irrelevant. It doesn't matter that Starscream himself found the plot laughably mediocre, the bomb trite, the two real casualties trivial except as a means with which to blackmail Windblade.

It matters to Strongarm.

He closes his hand in a fist and rests his cheek on it, keeping his mouth restricted to a grimace rather than a sneer. "Chromia knew this. She did not care about the thousands - hundreds of thousands - who would die, or that it might cripple Metroplex." The transgression against a Titan is another lever, however little Starscream thinks of Metroplex personally. Another lesson from Windvoice's example. "She also, as I understand it, forcibly convinced Windvoice that she had no other choice but to directly merge with Metroplex's processor for the first time. The strain involved nearly broke Windvoice's mind." Now, of course, Windvoice merges with Titans as a matter of course - no more stuttering glitches or staggering around like a drunk as her mind short circuits. Irrelevant. At the time, Chromia was stupidly reckless. He sighs and shakes his head. "Chromia confessed to all of this publicly a year ago, and was exiled. But you can see why a mere year of exile as punishment isn't exactly…reassuring, when Windvoice's safety as well as that of Metroplex must be our priority."

Strongarm finally finds her voice. "But she is permitted to guard Speaker Windvoice anyway. After all that?" she demands, appalled, even outraged. Any subtlety in her field is gone. She leans in with her hands on Starscream's desk; Starscream permits it.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Starscream smothers a smirk. As tempting as it is to be smug, he's been told it makes him look suspicious by every Autobot he's on speaking terms with. Back to neutral. "Windvoice is attached to Chromia. Sentiment." He shakes his head. "She's not blind to Chromia's warped judgement or her crimes, but they are - were - amica, and she bypassed myself and Ironhide in allowing Chromia to take up her old post once she fulfilled the terms of her exile. My hope is that you will be a suitable check on Chromia - and soon, replace her. Your recommendation for another candidate of equal talent from the Praetoria would go a long way in ensuring a smooth transition."

He makes a notation on another unrelated datapad to give her a moment. Strongarm visibly wrestles with her own and tamps it back down, until she can speak professionally again.

Her jaw sets as she masters herself. "There are those who say that you were once Speaker Windvoice's opponent, Starscream," Strongarm says, carefully. Guarded. But she does have nerve. "That you manipulated and killed to get where you are today." And now, you're trying to manipulate me, goes unsaid.

Better and better. If she's cunning enough not to simply take Starscream at his word, there's hope for her yet. He couldn't have asked for a better opening. Starscream spreads his hands wide. "Yet here I am, working for her. Windvoice is…persuasive. But show me anyone, Autobot or Decepticon, and I'll show you someone who killed to get where they are today. If you think you can get a less biased account of Chromia's actions from someone else, by all means. There are only so many ways to sugar coat it." He scowls - not at Strongarm, but at the specter of Chromia that hangs between them - deadly, coldly serious. "Consider this the unvarnished truth: I do not trust Chromia to protect the Speaker. She only knows how to 'save' the Windblade she has stuck in her head. And in the end? She wasn't even good at that."

It doesn't matter who Strongarm turns to for a second opinion, really - Ironhide, Windvoice, Chromia herself. The steel bones of the truth will still be there, unpleasant and undeniable, and any justifications will sound like flimsy excuses papered on top.

What matters is that Starscream got here first.

Strongarm looks off to the side, jaw working as she processes all this. When she looks back at him, her lip juts slightly, and her optics are full of grim determination. "Caetra," she says, voice clipped. She picks up the datapad again, and folds it behind her back as she falls back into attention. "Part of the Word of Caminus guard. She's - she's served in Coronae, and is more experienced than I am. She used to guard and advise the Matriarch of Incaendium before she became Matriarch. I don't know if she wants to leave her current post."

And behold - a timely message in his inbox, including Caetra of Caminus's comm line. Starscream smiles approvingly as he underlines the designation on his datapad. "A stellar resume already," he says - light and droll once more, to end the meeting on an excellent, engaging note. He inclines his head toward the door. "Thank you for your time, Strongarm."

Strongarm takes her cue with another short nod. Deeply distracted, she leaves.

Transmutate almost speeds into her as the door slides open; her heelwheels brake on a dime. "Ah, excuse me -" Strongarm starts.

"No problem! My bad!" Transmutate says, cheerfully. She moonwalks back on her heels to get out of Strongarm's way, then skates inside. "Hey, boss!" she says.

Her cheerful smile drops as soon as the door shuts.

Starscream tenses. "Transmutate."

Transmutate's expression flickers too quickly for Starscream to pick up what it does when she doesn't deliberately slow it down. She takes the seat that Strongarm didn't and sits down, just a little too hard. Her face, when she settles on it, looks - concerned. "Just got word from Velocity," she informs him, with a lackluster smile. "They're talking about waking up Onslaught."

Starscream goes perfectly still.

"Is that so," he says, after a moment.

Transmutate looks worried by his lack of reaction. She chatters on, nervous, rolling her right wheel against the floor incessantly. "Brawl and Blast Off are recovering well enough that the medics think it's safe to decant him. We're not short on CR chambers, but after the battle -"

He cuts her off by standing. "Of course," he says, diffidently. Turning to face the back wall of his office, Starscream folds his arms. "Get out, Transmutate."

"S-"

His well of smooth talk has abruptly dried up. He scrapes at the dusty bottom for a shred of effort. Something, anything to make her go away. "Take a few personal days. Visit Velocitron or something. You've earned it," he says, his relaxed, friendly good humor cracked like rotten ice. It sounds false to his own ears: jagged, with a dangerous edge. "On your way out, tell Vortex he has the night off."

Transmutate is silent for a long moment. His sensors are all on edge; the frigid chill of foreboding rimes him with frost.

"Hang in there, boss," she says - softly, barely above a whisper - and then skates out.

-

The fields to the east of Metroplex and Censere are generally uninspiring.

Now, of course, the fields host two other Titans. The city of Caminus sprawls in the distance on the bank of a river, its lights brighter with each passing day. They're making themselves right at home, stringing red and gold and white lanterns over the city entrances while Caminus sinks roots into the crust and begins the long, drawn-out process of replenishing himself so he can be useful again. They've also begun gating and redirecting the waterflow for decorative projects, with raised, covered walkways stretching out over the river.

Starscream could not care less about Caminus, right now. His problem is…homegrown.

"I'm getting déjà vu. Can't help but feel like we've been here before," Blast Off says, dully. The lights of Caminus don't reach them at night, in the shadow of the bluff; only the thick crescent of a single moon - Luna-1, at the moment - is visible overhead. Blast Off's muted brown and purple armor, like most of the Combaticons', covers any biolights; his violet visor is dim. He hugs himself as he stares out across the green fields toward Metroplex, instead of looking at Starscream. "I'm guessing that there's an ultimatum."

He's had days, now. It's almost sad, really. According to the reports, all Blast Off has really done while Starscream was waylaid by their Eukarian adventure is visit Brawl with Swindle at the hospital, and then help settle Brawl in at Vortex's place. Brawl promptly became engrossed in Vortex's extensive backlog of violent video games, and hasn't resurfaced or responded to Flatline's prompted offer to let him work security at the Censere clinic. Swindle's in high spirits, exuberantly drafting Blast Off for a pre-emptive party at Maccadam's and touring Swindle's warehouses (both legitimate and illegitimate) and storefront. Blast Off followed him without a peep, in a daze at how the world has transformed in his year-long absence. Most likely just as oblivious to Swindle's burgeoning crush as Onslaught was to his own. It's saccharinely sickening.

Censere is a far cry from the old Decepticon slum that ringed Iacon back on old Cybertron - Metroplex's infrastructure extends further, and Windvoice supported the second city's development rather than ignoring its existence as an eyesore. It hosts a functioning economy and adequate living conditions, instead of a ramshackle assortment of disaffected, mistrustful soldiers unused to civilian life, drinking too much engex and too little energon, dredging a living out of a dead planet when they could and rioting when they couldn't. Energon flows freely now that Metroplex produces it seemingly out of the template's crunchy, dirt-riddled crust. Decepticons are still notable figures in the public view - Flatline, Sparkstalker as Ironhide's deputy in Censere - but more and more often the badges are off. People have lives now.

There's no room here for Onslaught, and all his return would entail. It would do more than ruin Starscream's life; it would upend public trust in the government, right in the middle of a crisis. Onslaught is one of the very few minds on the planet that can outmaneuver Starscream, and Starscream's squandered the only advantage he had - time.

Wheeljack's still dead. Starscream has to keep going, apparently. So - time to take out the trash.

Starscream steps out of the darker shadow, raises a hand, and lets a security chip fall to the ground beside Blast Off with an unceremonious thmp.

Blast Off doesn't even flinch.

Neither of them, it seems, are in the mood for games. Starscream snorts, but his expression remains coldly neutral as he steps up beside Blast Off, staring off into the distance as well for the benefit of their audience. "Pick a direction. Start flying. Don't stop," he says, nonchalantly - but with no room for argument. He wasn't often in a position to dictate the terms of a reprimand in the ranks; the Decepticons tended to resolve disputes like that with aggressively creative rank advancement techniques. But the times are a-changing. "You feed him whatever lie you need to so that he doesn't come back here. Tell him Cybertron spontaneously combusted. Unicron ate the colonies one by one and we all died in a spectacularly dramatic fashion for no reason. Show him the nice empty space where Cybertron used to be, then take a hike." He's tempted to go off on an extravagant tangent about himself heroically sacrificing his own life to magically stop Unicron's rampage, but alas. Onslaught would probably catch on. Tragic. "Find a nice little planetoid at least ten galaxies away all to yourselves and raise hideous organic children together in wedded bliss, or something."

That last, off-color comment finally snaps Blast Off from his sulking stupor. "Eugh." With his maskplate retracted, his wrinkled nose is obvious. Then he has the utter gall to question Starscream's unquestionable orders. "Or what?"

A question that daft doesn't even deserve a response. "As if you really need to ask," Starscream snaps.

Starscream's alerts bombard him as Blast Off reaches out to pick up the security chip for the vessel secured in one of Metroplex's outside docks, but he disregards them. All of Blast Off's integrated weapons have been onlined since they got here; he's already aware. Blast Off's hand shakes with rage, not fear, and his other hand creaks, his fist balled up tight enough to strain the joints. "And that's it. You get away with it. All of it," Blast Off spits back, bitterly. "Sending Swindle with Menasor to loot Caminus. Using mnemosurgery to rewrite our minds so we wouldn't expose you for the monster you are."

Well, not with that attitude. Starscream laughs out loud this time, harsh and biting enough that Blast Off flinches back in alarm. As he should. "Without the mnemosurgery, you idiots would all still be braindead and I'd have five fewer problems in my life," Starscream says, stalking around Blast Off. He lets the contempt pour into his EM field like a poison. He folds his hands behind his back, neat and polite as one pleases, but lets his armor rise in smooth, silent display until Blast Off ducks his head. Blast Off rises slowly to his feet, tense, his wary visor tracking Starscream. "And I didn't order Swindle to do anything. It's not my fault that he chose to take the Stunticons, commandeer the space bridge, and let those maniacs run amok, now is it?"

And it's true in the most oblique, Decepticon way. Starscream never needed to say it out loud. He introduced Blackjack to the Stunticons, and tipped the domino of Swindle's greed with word that the space bridge was operational, and the rest was simply…implied. A tacit permission: one that Swindle recognized and seized upon with glee.

The fact that he didn't recognize the set up for what it was until it was too late, naturally, was his own fault.

That was all they ever had on him, Airachnid had reported, with her heavy-lidded, lying smile. Nothing concrete - nothing even solid enough to convince the later Council of Worlds that Starscream provoked the attack on Caminus consciously and with deliberate intent. Just Swindle's frantic realization as he put the pieces together, when Menasor's temper spiraled out of anyone's control. And later the theory - fueled directly by Rattrap's traitorous leaks and rumors, spread under the codename DC-357 - that Swindle was alive in Starscream's custody, covered up by a mnemosurgeon killing people. Naturally, Starscream had only brought in Airachnid to mine for evidence of Swindle's survival on his own end. Between the fact that Rattrap was a leaking sieve and Airachnid was a slagging serial killer, it was a clusterfrag from start to finish.

No proof. Just enough that, if Windblade had ever heard it all, it would've destroyed any chance at Starscream keeping power.

Enough that if she heard it now, it could still come crumbling down upon his head.

He stops directly behind Blast Off, where the mech can hear the ugly smile in Starscream's voice as he leans in. "We're all monsters, you insufferable fool," he says, softly. "But Swindle never did time for that, did he?"

Onslaught could never be the only leverage over Blast Off - not when Blast Off was already regretting his choices enough to walk right into Airachnid's clutches. He cares too much about salving his brittle conscience.

But Swindle has a life now. One where he sees enough profit and tangible growth that he considers other colonies markets instead of just targets. If they keep this up, he might be a legitimate merchant in a few centuries.

It would be a shame if something happened to that.

Something slackens in Blast Off's shoulders. Defeat has a sour tinge. "He might not remember. Brawl doesn't," he argues, weakly.

Starscream inspects the tips of his fingers. When he starts circling again, he smooths down the riled armor. "But maybe he will. And maybe he'll remember exactly what your price was to sell him out," he says, pausing to smile pleasantly at Blast Off's bleak expression. "And then what? He decides to incite another riot? Another war? Have you murder someone else using a Badgeless mask again, so he has a trumped-up excuse to undermine this planet even more?" Finding a fleck of chipped paint under the sharp tip of his thumb, he flicks it away. "We're building something better here. How long until Onslaught throws a tantrum and overthrows Windvoice so that the 'Decepticons' rule the world, just because he's bitter Megatron never gave him a seat in high command millions of years ago."

Blast Off folds further in on himself. Still shaking. "Stop it."

Starscream lowers his voice and leans in once more, forcing Blast Off to make eye contact. "Exactly how happy will Swindle be once Onslaught starts tearing down everything that's been achieved here, just because I didn't give him a job, either? After you people dropped me in favor of Megatron the moment he returned, as if that was supposed to inspire me with your loyalty? I'm sure all of us would be glad to go back to the days when shooting someone was just fine and dandy, and not a crime. Vortex certainly would -"

"Stop." Blast Off's voice cracks. "I'll take him."

Starscream pauses to savor the moment - smiles - and then steps back. Blast Off sways a little, as though Starscream's looming proximity was the only thing stringing him upright. He stares down at the chip in his hand, looking like he's on the verge of tears.

Starscream tosses his head and stalks back into the deeper shadows, uncaring. The fight trickles out of Blast Off, along with his weapon alerts. Sad. "His CR chamber is being loaded as we speak. Your ship departs in four hours. If you're still here in the morning - don't be," Starscream says, bored, as he strides up the bluff.

Blast Off sounds strangled as he laughs. "You're right," he says, vocalizer cracking even harder. "Windvoice is building something good. This world would be better off without either of us."

Then, with that pathetic little rejoinder, Blast Off finally walks away.

There. Bumblebee had better be feeling an inexplicable wave of gratitude and good will towards Starscream, right about now. He's earned it, after this waste of time.

Vigilem waits until Blast Off trudges off through the fields before speaking. [Well. That was banal.]

Starscream leans back against a cool outer wall. It's not the thunder of a Titan's full voice: just Vigilem's private whisper that he uses, the individual speaker rumbling through the metal at Starscream's back. Starscream lets his helm fall to the side as he rolls his shoulders, smiling at Blast Off's distant, retreating back. "We are overdue for a little spark-to-spark chat, aren't we?" he says, stretching his arms over his head.

[You have my attention. Not necessarily my interest.]

"Really?" Starscream waits. But in a contest between a Titan's patience and his own, the Titan will always win. He heaves a gusty sigh. "Let's talk about your dear Liege."

Soundlessly, the door to Vigilem's interior opens beside him.

Starscream smiles, and enters.

-

From the moment he enters the Titan, he is under intense scrutiny.

This is simply a fact. Vigilem's sensor network was carefully maintained.

Vigilem hasn't redecorated as much as one would think: the Carcerians repaired him with their own dead frames, and Vigilem seems mirthlessly amused by keeping the repurposed bodies around to pave the road to his processor chamber. Hilariously, Megatron commissioned a siege mode armature with a similar aesthetic once, with heads mounted on pikes to gaze out at the Phase 5 desolation. It only lasted as long as it took for the Autobots to fly in a commander willing to bomb the slag out of the bodies of their own dead.

Still. Windvoice might be on to something when she waxes lyrical about Titans being inhabited. Walking the halls of an empty building doesn't faze Starscream, yet there's something undeniably disturbing about Vigilem and the hollow, lingering, listening silence. Few things are more ominous in this world than a living city with nothing to occupy his time, a set of smelter recycling units in his basement, and a patient, persuasive grudge.

"The Council holds its hearing tomorrow morning, and I'm sure everyone would like to avoid another giant…miscarriage of justice," Starscream says, as he approaches the processor chamber. There's little point to coming here other than the symbolic - unlike Windvoice, he gains no deeper insight from staring at the incomprehensible, drifting glyphs of a Titan's mind. Particularly not one as controlled and secretive as Vigilem. The route here is never the same twice.

Vigilem is not amused. [Make your point, Starscream. My tolerance on this subject wore thin approximately five million years ago,] the Titan murmurs, the voice rolling through the halls and echoing in all the wrong ways.

Screens line the walls of the circular chamber, depicting a livestream of the surrounding fields. Blast Off is a purple and brown figure nearing the edge of civilization, the tracking view accommodatingly zoomed in so that Starscream can see detail. Above, calculations drift through a starry grid, marking Luna-1 and -2 as well as Trypticon. Starscream can only guess that the latter is Trypticon, of course - the marker Vigilem uses for the other Titan is an unpronounceable abomination. Vigilem makes no further effort at hospitality than the tracking view of Blast Off, and Starscream never presumes upon it. The Titan's processor is deceptively unguarded.

They have a mutual understanding.

"Windvoice will recuse herself from the proceedings, given her conflicts of interest. At most, she could present her opinion on your…checkered history for their consideration. Anything further would be construed as an attempt to manipulate things in her favor, and it is of the utmost importance that this appear to be an unbiased hearing." Starscream strides around the panel in the ground where Vigilem once dumped Elita-1 down a garbage chute, perfectly aware that the Titan has the whole floor thoroughly trapped. The only thing currently between Starscream and Vigilem's ability to control the playing field is his ability to fly and war-honed reflexes. He corrects himself. "A blatant attempt, at least. So, in light of that, Liege Maximo will be alone in vouching for himself."

That's the beauty of it, really. After so many millennia, everything is hearsay.

A single eye twice the size of Starscream's head etches itself in front of the processor in fuchsia-red light, with the sharp curls and stylized lines of the paint Vigilem used to wear. Starscream waves his fingers once at the farce. [I will naturally be in attendance,] the Titan says, the light, casual tone in his rumble just as false as Starscream's.

Well. Good thing Starscream crammed this into his tight schedule; the loss of sleep is worth it to receive that little tidbit. He can just imagine the utter pandemonium that would've ensued if Vigilem walked up to Metroplex and punted the roof off their new, not-yet-blown-up council chamber. He rapidly starts reconsidering their choice of venue, clicking his vocalizer. "That may help less than you think. Elita-1 is gone. Strika-1 is an unknown factor." As much of an arbitrary, surly bane of his existence Elita used to be, at least she'd become familiar. More incredible still, Windvoice actually made some headway in persuading Elita to reconsider her obsession with reclaiming custody of Vigilem - if only for a day. All that progress lost, because of Killmaster. "If only she'd left Obsidian in command instead. Windvoice has a rapport with him; Strika is more of a blunt object than a general."

[Bold of you to assume that Strika and Obsidian do not work in almost perfect symbiosis.] As Starscream grasps the implications of that alarming statement, Vigilem chuckles. [They are quite good at what they do. Without Elita-1 to play the brutally pragmatic leader, their public front may appear less balanced, but it will hold. Any opinion one of them ever expressed to you and Windvoice was thoroughly vetted by all three.]

Starscream is equal parts horrified and impressed. "Too clever of them, by far," he mutters, pacing agitatedly before Vigilem's coldly amused eye. They shouldn't have been able to fool him so easily; by shaping their approach to focus on Windvoice, with the convenient pretext that Starscream's entire personality and the Carcerian philosophy on lies clashed to the point of petty slapfights…

Slag. It's the kind of twisty deception that makes Starscream wish Elita were back here so he could lose his temper properly. He's reminded, quite forcefully, that the Carcerians started out as Liege Maximo-trained diplomats. If Windvoice's version of events is even half right, the damn Prime was his own worst enemy.

Vigilem's ironic. [My own fault. In my earlier years I was too eager to strike at the weaker-minded Firsts. When I finally sought to cultivate and subvert them more subtly, they'd already lain down the foundations for emergency succession of power in the event of a compromised First.]

Great. Starscream narrows his eyes mid-pace, glaring at Vigilem. "You're being oddly forthcoming, considering the fact that I haven't even made my offer."

[What other purpose could there have been behind your little show, out there?] Vigilem is fully amused now. The holo-optic tracks around, following Starscream with that relentless scrutiny. [You're cleaning house, Starscream. Wise of you - you've left dry kindling strewn around you, and one day, someone will light a spark you can't snuff out.]

Spare him from malevolent Titans and their equally malevolent puns. They're both very aware that Vigilem is already a problem Starscream can't solve. They can deal and banter and manipulate each other all they like: neither would ever be so stupid as to trust the other. Starscream would say they don't trust each other as far as they can be thrown, but the plain fact is that Vigilem could flick him into orbit without blinking, and the metaphor rather falls apart.

Still. Starscream smirks, blade-sharp. "Really. Is that all you took away from it?"

It's not every day one manages to scheme on a layer that the Titan of Lies doesn't catch.

Vigilem's silence is telling.

Still smiling, Starscream pivots on a heel and saunters around the room, one hand cupped around the elbow of the other as he waves a flippant hand. "Well. I suppose my considerations must seem so small, from your lofty height."

He doesn't get to keep Vigilem at a disadvantage for long, alas. Unlike Metroplex, whose brain is Autobot sludge, Vigilem's mind flickers through the implications in a ball of lightning that never resolves into glyphs at all. When the Titan speaks again, he sounds almost genuinely fascinated. [Interesting. You seek stability. Securing your own position, in the context of long-term socio-economic development.]

Starscream spreads his hands out to either side and drawls, "Welcome to Phase 7."

[I have no idea what that means,] Vigilem says, flatly.

"Good." It was nine-tenths a joke, and it doesn't fit right, anyway. In hindsight, the phased infiltration model was a little too destruction-centric. A lot of detail for the first six phases, and a whole lot of nothing on how they'd actually pull off the legendary, nigh-mythical seventh - reconstruction and repopulation. And then you get people like Scorponok, who got ideas in their head about how liberally you interpret 'repopulation.'

Megatron never had a plan for after. None of them did. Not really. It was just something for the foot soldiers to cling too. Some days, Starscream dares to think that it would have ended up exactly like the asteroid - with what remained of the Cybertronian race consuming itself as the world kept getting colder. That Megatron would've just done a better job of lording it over everyone until the bitter, nihilistic end.

"You've said it yourself: your enemies are gone or washed up. You're free. The world and everything wrong with it has changed so drastically that there's nothing left to avenge yourself on. Nothing that would satisfy, anyway. There is only one real question here, Vigilem," Starscream says, folding his arms and stepping in close enough that Vigilem's projected optic casts garish light on him. "Are you in?"

Vigilem's eye burns into him - too wide across for Starscream focus on anything but a single point at once. It makes his head throb as the silence extends.

[Are you?]

And there's a precipice waiting for him. There's a part of him that's still screaming, because he knew. He knew a year ago that Wheeljack would fall out from under him again, like everything always does, and now that it's happened he's too damn used up to figure out what to do next. Some part of his processor will always be - he flinches away from the word - grieving. Missing that fundamental support strut that made putting up with all the paperwork and the bureaucracy and the platitude-vomiting Autobots regrettably worth it.

He doesn't know how to stop surviving. Slag knows, he's tried before. No one has been considerate enough to kill him yet. 

At least Windvoice seems to know where she's going with all this.

Vigilem's optic narrows - and winks out in a line of fuchsia. [Windvoice. Welcome.]

That's not fair. Starscream stiffens, and he can practically hear Slash saying, you smell of anguish. He smothers whatever garbage is in his treacherous EM field with a flicker of anger, and ignores the hollow, grinding sensation of his insides as Windvoice walks in the same way he did.

She resets her optics, surprised. "Starscream. I - didn't realize you had company, Vigilem."

Well, at least the slagger let both of them walk into this blind. Starscream grimaces as Vigilem's processor glows with more glyphs, less intense than the blindingly bright eye. [It seemed like an opportune moment to speak to both of you,] Vigilem says, his voice smoothly rising to encompass both of them. As though he hasn't been just as complicit in keeping Starscream's little social calls quiet.

"Don't let me stop you," Starscream says, rubbing his brow as he breaks away from Vigilem. Probably not smart to stay in close quarters like that. When Windvoice looks askance on him, he cycles a vent. "Oh, we're obviously both here for the same reason: we don't want this giant aft trampling Metroplex tomorrow if he doesn't get his way. Come on then. Let's connive."

"For the hundredth time, it's not conniving," Windvoice says, her patience stretched to the point of exasperation. "For the love of Solus, why must you always pick the worst possible subglyphs? We strategize."

Starscream sniffs. "Just keep telling yourself that."

Shaking her head, Windvoice comes to a stop beside him and folds her arms. For a moment her expression is distant as she stares moodily into Vigilem's welcoming lightshow, optics reflecting flickers of red and fuchsia. She still has the Lathe plugged in this late in the night - Starscream can't recall the last time she wore the old, decorative length of gold that didn't do anything except cover the gaping hole in her helm. Just another sign of how Camiens never had to deal with interrogations, hacks, or other wartime forms of assault. The thought of walking around with a mostly unprotected interface port like that makes Starscream shudder.

Aaand she's zoned out. Starscream's about to roll his eyes and snap his fingers in front of her face when Vigilem beats him to the punch. [Something on your mind?]

A tiny shake of her head, and Windvoice comes back to the present. "My minds, yes," she sighs, and what. Without any clarification, she moves on. "Why Tempo?"

Starscream replays the last five seconds before spluttering. "Come again?" he says, voice rising with each syllable. Windvoice winces, which means she knows what she slagging said, but ignores Starscream's entirely justified hysterics in favor of staring at Vigilem.

[…]

Windvoice expands, while Starscream mimes strangling the air in front of her. She tilts her head to the side to look around him. "Why did you choose to disguise your bridge signature as Tempo's, when Metroplex found you?"

Vigilem betrays only a faint note of polite confusion. If he hadn't paused so long, it might've worked. [Metroplex would never have willingly linked to me if he kn-]

Windvoice steps in closer. "I know why you camouflaged the signal. But… [Why Tempo.]"

Her voice is subtly off again; it tends to do that around Titans. But the name designation rings a faint bell. Starscream dredges up the memory; it's been a long day. Or two. He'd forgotten the Luna-1 thing on purpose, and the Tempo part for good measure. The warning about Onyx Prime was all he'd needed, thanks.

Giving up on his efforts to pantomime the truth out of Windvoice, he rubs his face with his hand in defeat. "Ugh. Didn't Metroplex have a pending message from that one? As if we need a new Titan skipping around the place," he mutters, shooting an evil eye at the screen that shows Metroplex.

"He does. Thanks for mentioning it," Windvoice says, dryly. "But oddly enough, we can't access it - it's literally pending. Metroplex's system claims that it isn't time for it arrive yet."

None of this has anything to do with anything, let alone Liege Maximo - and yet… "A pre-scheduled transmission? When is it due?" Starscream asks with a frown.

"Two days from now, roughly." Windvoice goes back to staring down Vigilem's processor. "Vigilem…"

The Titan's silence is telling. If Starscream didn't know any better, he'd swear that the room itself felt uncomfortable. [There is truly no deeper meaning behind it,] Vigilem says. [Tempo's signature was simply familiar to me, and convenient. And the way that she left Cybertron was abnormal. I theorized that it was unlikely Metroplex's call would succeed in reaching her, and so I wouldn't give myself away by replicating someone who had already connected.]

"Abnormal? Abnormal how?" Windvoice repeats.

It says something that while Starscream has to banter and bargain with Vigilem for straight answers, Windvoice receives them for free. It says something…exasperating. [Vector Prime and Solus Prime were close friends and companions before the Covenant. Solus installed a new device in Tempo shortly before - everything.] The voice cuts off, clipped. Still a sore subject, then. The next hesitation seems genuine, though, which is interesting - Vigilem is either faking it, or he legitimately didn't have an explanation prepared in advance for this line of conversation. Perhaps he never thought it would be relevant again. [When Tempo left, everyone felt it. The stutters in time.]

Oh, lovely. Solus Prime, the proto-Brainstorm - and them, sadly Brainstorm-less, with this Tempo apparently knocking at their door.

"Yes, I remember," Windvoice murmurs. A tiny shake of her head. "The Lathe remembers, anyway."

Starscream hadn't even noticed her activating that damn thing; it's almost always unfurled, but the pink of the holovisor blended in with the light of Vigilem's shifting mind.

Vigilem's walls creak, and resettle. [Loathe as I am to admit it, Caminus would have remembered more about the device. But by the time Vector Prime left the planet, he was already riven by grief.]

-

All of that nonsense is beside the point. Unless Tempo's impending message is advance notice that yet another Prime is going to show up and ruin their lives, Starscream would rather they focus on the thing tomorrow they already know could ruin their lives. One slagging thing at a time.

But even with Windvoice's presence to grease the gears, Vigilem makes no promises. Not that Starscream would believe one if he'd made it. Windvoice is having one of her fits where she pretends to be allergic to proper scheming, despite the fact that Starscream knows she's not incapable, and by the end of it Starscream's ready to call Vortex, order him to deliver Liege Maximo to Vigilem, and kick both of them off the planet. It would simplify things immensely if they could just jettison all of their problems into space without fear of retaliation.

Starscream's never so lucky.

"Minds?" he hisses, once they're safely back over Metroplex. He follows Windvoice on the wing until they reach the street where she's taken up residence, and transforms impatiently out of alt mode when she doesn't reply. "Changed?"

Another wince as Windvoice glances around the street. Psh. As if her optics are better than Starscream's sensors. "Not here," she says.

Which means it's bad, and she knows it's bad, and she deliberately kept it quiet in her little recap of the past week. Starscream mutters all the way up to her suite of rooms, feeling vaguely mutinous.

The optimism of her quarters makes Starscream uncomfortable. It's more than just the Camien way she's decorated; it's the fact that she decorated at all. The place feels lived in. Meanwhile, most of the mecha Starscream knows probably gave up on collecting anything that couldn't be stuffed into subspace after the first time their barracks got blown up millions of years and a few thousand planets ago. She keeps vases around for more than target practice, and flimsy woven mats and cushions and mirrors, and apparently today she hung something new on the wall - a sheet of silky white metal with glyphs painted in red ink, using a tiny, elaborate Camien script that makes Starscream go cross-eyed trying to read it in a glance.

[as if she, alone, 

could forge 

the signature 

of the sun]

At the bottom, the Matriarch of Incaendium has signed her designation.

"There are two new brain modules in my back," Windvoice says, while Starscream's still distracted.

…And that's it.

Starscream stands there, looking at her with an expectantly raised brow, his processor completely stalled out as he waits for further input.

Windvoice stares right back, her expression grimly resigned.

 "…Explain?" Starscream says, at last. What is he supposed to take away from an announcement like that? Was it a custom job, or an unpleasant surprise? Who knows!

But no. Things are never simple.

"According to Blackarachnia and Botanica, it's an…adaptation," Windvoice says. She's not looking at him anymore; instead, she turns away, her wings angled tightly downward as she takes one of the porcelain bottles Starscream assumed was ornamental and sets a pair of empty cubes on the counter with overlapping clacks. Her movements are stiff as she pours milky blue engex into them, her hands cupping the bottle with shaky precision. Starscream can't help staring, trying to pinpoint where the processors would be - the space over the wings? No sign of buckling, no mismatch in the paint tint. She sets the jug down, rounds the counter, and thrusts the cube into his hands without stopping as she strides across the room. The agitation is palpable. "You're not supposed to merge directly with a Titan's mind. Let alone multiple times, with multiple Titans, in the space of mere years. So my spark - compensated."

She stops and stares into one of the mirrors angled on the far wall to reflect the view through the window. She doesn't take a sip of her drink; she just cups it in her hands.

It's not even the multiple brain modules that's the problem. Frag, Starscream knows 'Cons out there who've had them installed for any number of reasons: paranoia, better memory, faster targeting, more paranoia. It's the fact that they just - what, grew? Normal processors can be rebuilt by self-repair or replaced, so long as the spark doesn't tank, but for Windvoice to sprout two new modules without knowing it? Without some obvious warping of the frame?

Then again, considering the source… "Forgive me if I don't take the word of a pseudo-mnemosurgeon on faith," Starscream snorts. "Did you at least get a second opinion?"

He downs the cube in one go, too keyed up to register the dismal amount of charge in Camien engex, and sets it down on the counter, hard. Blackarachnia admitted herself that she didn't know when Airachnid first mastered mnemosurgery or if she was truly the only one among the Fateweavers to do so - but how far can they trust Blackarachnia?

Nothing on Eukaris was what it seemed.

And if there's one thing Starscream regrets on a daily basis, it's the fact that Airachnid had unfettered access to both his and Windvoice's processors.

He paces behind Windvoice, glaring at her unreadable expression in the mirror. The Creation Lathe flickers pink over her eyes for a second, and then, as Starscream pivots on a heel for a second pass, the light outlines a pair of circles on her back. A little higher than Starscream guessed: thick cords of pink light course up the back of her neck to the original processor, linking them.

When Windvoice doesn't respond except to stare even more bleakly into the mirror, Starscream curses. "You don't even know how they got in there - they could be anything!" Because that's all they need, the leader of the planet hosting an extra brain or two, full of Vigilem or something worse. "It's not -"

The pink projection of the Lathe cuts off, sucked back into the side of her helm, and the cube of engex shatters in Windvoice's hand. "Normal! Yes, I know, Starscream, I'm aware of that!" she shouts back, whirling on him. She throws an arm out to the side wildly, her optics wide and bright and burning. Her vocalizer cracks. "And it's not like I can talk to Chromia about it, because I can barely talk to Chromia at all!"

Something snaps inside him. The fury and pain is an unexpected slap. A sharp laugh tears out of Starscream, and he recognizes the cruel, horrible curl of the smile distorting his face. "Oh! That I should be so lucky," he yells at the ceiling, throwing his hands up.

He says it to hurt. Of course he does; that's what he does best. He knows exactly how she'll take it, and she doesn't disappoint - all the emotion in her face going cold, her wings tight with fury. "How dare you," she says, as if she didn't slap him first.

"Wheeljack is dead!" Starscream shrieks back. There's nothing inside him but vindictive, vicious knives. He's past the point of being able to read her face or her EM field, blind and shaking with rage, but he's had millions of years' worth of practice stabbing. He can be mean. He can be as mean as she likes. "Boohoo, Chromia blew some people up. Who hasn't!"

"That doesn't make any of it okay!" Windvoice yells back, right in his face, and then she has the gall. The unadulterated audacity. To hug him.

It's not fair. When someone lunges at you like that, they're at least supposed to have the common courtesy of trying to stab you. Starscream freezes, combat protocols glitching as they try to anticipate the attack that's not coming. Megatron would've either had him through a wall or on a berth by now, but the subroutines don't work when Windvoice just stands there and vents with a ragged, awful little sound.

Oh no. Oh, slag. No one's ever been that desperate. "How dare you," Starscream echoes, appalled. He can't slagging think like this - the pain and fury are there, waiting for him to pick up where he left off.

She thunks her forehead against his chest. "Could you stop talking? Just. For two seconds. Please."

"For eight thousand credits a month, I will stop," Starscream says, automatically. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands; he had them up, ready to start tearing, but now he's stuck. He's not sure he wants to encourage this…thing. This Camien sleeper hold she's attempting to use against him. Gingerly, Starscream flattens his hands out and lets them rest on her shoulders, because they have to go somewhere until she's done.

Windvoice's next vent hitches, and for another horrible second he thinks she's started crying. But no. Another snicker escapes her, half-stifled. "…That's all? If I'd known it was that easy, we could've spent the past five years in blissfully silent meditation," Windvoice says, removing one hand from her stranglehold around his neck to cover her own face.

Starscream rolls his optics. "Oh, shut up." She's already half detached, so he fidgets his wings uneasily and manages to unwind her other arm so he can edge free. "We will never speak of this again."

She rolls her own right back, and then visibly hesitates for long enough that Starscream can brace himself for whatever fresh nonsense is about to come out. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to remind you of it. We need to communicate clearly, to prevent misunderstandings like that in the future."

Hgh. How is it possible for her to make this situation even more awkward? And now she's making eye contact again, expectantly. "Whichever one of your three brains is telling you I'll say it? It's lying to you. I'm incorrigible," Starscream informs her.

Windvoice's brow quirks. "No, you're not. Even if you won't say you're sorry, you implied it. I measure all of your progress in baby steps."

While Starscream's still spluttering, Windvoice steps away. Her optics fritz a little as she grimaces at her hand; without the Lathe's visor obscuring them, he sees that she's painted a fresh line of paint under the optics to obscure a shadow. She goes to the sink to rinse the engex off, and the sound of running solvent feels unreal. The room's too large and too small at the same time.

"Apparently Shockwave made significant progress toward tracking Killmaster's weapon signature. He might be able to track down people who were flung further away, or even Killmaster himself, soon. Part of the reason it's taking him so long at all is that Killmaster went through something called 'compressed space,'" Windvoice says, to fill the void. She might as well be speaking in tongues. Starscream manages to nod as he sinks on the couch, just barely following the news. "But then he started insisting that he needed to visit the moon to be sure. Ironhide and Ratchet put him on pause. We'll need to meet with him after the trial."

Maybe the room isn't fuzzy because he's coming down from a combat headrush - the engex might've had more of a kick than he felt. Or Windvoice finally poisoned him. Starscream slouches back against the couch with a sigh. "Well, that would explain why I didn't catch that one. I have a filter on the word 'moon.'"

The solvent keeps running, long after Windvoice should've finished cleaning up. "That's…ridiculous," she says, at last.

"It's the only thing that allows me to cling to the last thread of my sanity in these trying times." He slouches further, pinching the bridge of his nose and offlining his optics. The sensation in his helm isn't quite a headache - yet - but without the visual input it ebbs. His helm vents can't decide whether to click on or off to deal with the residual heat. "I should've known you were cheating."

"Cheating?"

Digging a knuckle into the side of his helm, Starscream keeps tabs on her via sensors. "Extra processors. Typical. How many more Titans must you collect until your insatiable appetite is appeased, oh Titan Whisperer?"

She sounds amused as she comes back around the counter. "Go to sleep, Starscream."

He is not. "Flatline is discreet. Unless you have dirt on Velocity that I don't know about."

A sigh. She's behind the couch now, but otherwise inoffensive. "It's not a question of discretion. I trust Ratchet and Velocity. I just…haven't had time. We still don't have time. And Blackarachnia's given us no reason to distrust her."

Distrust should be the default. Bringing his optics back on takes more effort than it should. Starscream cracks one open as a compromise and squints up at her upside down. "Well. If you start acting strange, I've got my eye on you," he says. It sounds a lot less threatening when he mumbles. Slag it.

Windvoice leans on her elbows, smiling crookedly down at him. "I know you do. I trust your judgement, obviously."

Camiens are just broken. "Mistake number one," Starscream mutters. His HUD darkens again, insisting to the bitter end that there's no soporifics in his system. Blatant lies.

Something rests on the top of his helm. "Go to sleep."

"No, you," he mumbles, and promptly passes out.

-

The morning dawns on entertaining note, at least. Starscream is at approximately 75% functionality when he emerges from the washracks, disgruntled at the need to step around the shallow pots full of tree clippings and copper wire Windvoice insists on placing in strategic locations around the room. Like on the shelf where the soap and polish and squeegee sit, or on the mat where one steps out of the damn washrack, or right in front of the mirror for no reason whatsoever. He resets his optics as the door shuts behind him, feeling vaguely more alive, and opens them to the sight of Chromia attempting to ax him in the face.

 He ducks, obviously. Chromia's engine snarls in frustration as the swing embeds the ax in the wall. She cuts the energy blade's power to free it as Starscream throws himself out of the way, but the damage is done. [Wind-voice^[?]] Metroplex asks in actual words, distressed over the Titan equivalent of chipped paint. [Chromia?]

Typical. Of course Metroplex pays attention here.

Shaking with rage, Chromia rounds on him. "You sludge-licker!" Chromia growls, as the ax crackles back to life. Starscream's HUD shunts everything to the backburner except combat protocols. Chromia charges in, telegraphing her swing with the angle of her foot, her optics livid. Starscream jerks against the automatic impulse to shoot her, darting back out of range.

"Chromia!" Windvoice shouts as she vaults over the counter. She tackles Chromia's shield arm and knocks her off course, visor awhirl with light. Doesn't bother drawing her sword, and her giant slagging hammer never leaves her office - Starscream normally appreciates the gloating value of keeping the Forge hammer where any Camien envoy who cops an attitude is forced to stare at it, like a trophy of war, but not right now.

But Windvoice is nothing if not resourceful: she wraps around Chromia's arm like a limpet, heels scraping along the floor as she takes advantage of Chromia's critical weakness - herself. "Stand down!" she says, with a grunt as Chromia tries to wrest herself free.

No one can beat Chromia at leaping to conclusions. She's simply the best there is. And she's in top form today. "Is he threatening you?!" she demands, and she stares down at Windvoice in horror, pale face petrified in a jumbled mix of agonizing self-recrimination and a distraught fury. Windvoice jolts back, blinking in momentary disorientation at the force behind Chromia's cracking voice.

What she's implying is enough to make Starscream ice over. Everything slices away except the clarity and the cold sense of distance as he adjusts his aim.

A wall shoots down out of the ceiling and halves the room. Sensors can still approximate Chromia's location through the metal, and his processor automatically jacks up the strength of the energy burst - but Windvoice could be anywhere by now. Most likely in the way.

Once upon a time, that wouldn't've been enough to stay his hand. She should've known better, whispers memory: a familiar excuse.

"Both of you, calm down!" Windvoice yells, her voice coming through perfectly crisp despite the wall. "Starscream, I saw that gun!"

Starscream thinks this is supremely unfair, considering the fact that Chromia started it. He was just going to finish it. Things seem very clear-cut when he's this icily furious, like the view through a fractured scope.

It's unpleasant, realizing that the cracks are there. He doesn't want to be reasonable; he wants to be a thousand years back and vicious and proud and careless with it. He wants raw spite flowing through his lines instead of energon.

He smacks a hand against the wall, and barely feels the faint sting through his palm. The tiny flicker of sensation doesn't even register a flag in his HUD. But it's enough. He forces the integrated gun to power down. Ventilation systems screaming, he leans a little against the wall, mindful of the fact that Chromia still has an ax. He can make out Windvoice's hushed voice as she talks Chromia down.

[Star-scream^[screaming]?]

Metroplex has the nerve to sound concerned.

"Shut up." Starscream straightens, summoning his dignity. He's pleased to note that the exit is on his side of the wall. "We have a trial to hold in two hours!" he yells, hands on his hips as he makes for the door. "For the third time, bring that rusted hammer!"

"I'll be there!" Windvoice hollers back. Then, after a muffled sigh: "Please help Ironhide get the Council representatives settled. This - won't take long."

"Of course," Starscream says. Calm. Agreeable. Controlled. "I'm reviewing your testimony. I'll have the datapad with me."

Windvoice sounds wry, but calmer. "Thank you. But if you mark it up with exaggerated anti-Prime rhetoric again, I reserve the right to improv."

His temper is still steaming a little, but he ices it over one more time. "You do have a way with words," he concedes. The door doesn't open until he glares at it, at which point Metroplex rapidly thinks better of keeping them cooped up.

In hindsight, her little outburst is…amusing. Easier to remember, now, that he already has measures in place to take care of Chromia.

-

Blast Off and Onslaught's ship left atmo five hours ago. Both Combaticons confirmed on board.

Starscream stows the remote destruct detonator in subspace after rolling it between his fingers for a half hour, staring into the space where Bumblebee used to always lean on his cane.

-

They hold the hearing in the open-air racing stadium, just outside of Censere. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, the air is crisp, and Windvoice flies in at the last second, guiding Vigilem on the wing to the agreed-upon position a Titan's-length away. Vigilem is impassive as he seats himself in stages, his battlemask and visor stowed away as he surveys the crowd from a distance.

The arrival causes a stir among the crowd packed into the stadium seats. Not as many as Megatron's trial attracted - for ninety percent of the people here, Liege Maximo is a vague, mysterious bogeymech that never followed through. Less than a myth - a nobody. A cryptic threat that they only learned about in the past two years. That's nothing, in the grand scheme of things. He's never harmed anyone in the stands, directly or indirectly. The war he allegedly instigated happened so long ago that quite frankly no one except the Carcerians and the Camiens gives a frag anymore. The only reason the media ever played up any concern about Liege and his Titan was because Windvoice spilled the beans about Liege's escape in her dramatic departure from the Council.

And Starscream can hardly begrudge her that - her flounce was awe-inspiring.

Better yet, so far as the general public is concerned Vigilem has been a non-entity, serenely and peacefully coexisting in orbit overhead like a very small, inoffensive moon. He helped fight off both the undead Titan hoard as well as Scorponok's forces last week. The clash between Windvoice, Elita-1, and the Mistress of Flame over Vigilem's sovereignty and questionable seat on the Council was a matter of abstract politics that never impacted daily life for the average resident of Neo-Cybertron.

People are here for a distraction from the recent turmoil. Entertainment.

It's all about presentation.

Ultra Magnus escorts Liege Maximo out to the raised platform in center of the grassy, unpaved field. Compared to Ultra Magnus, Liege looks slight and unassuming, and he walks without any shackles or chains. Starscream saw the ludicrous artists' renditions of Liege based on rampant media speculation, and the reality of him undercuts that so thoroughly that the absurdity should be apparent to all. Liege seats himself with less dramatic flair than Starscream would've used - shifting his cloak slightly to the side so that it flows to one side when he sits - but nobody's perfect.

Strika-1 fills the space at the end of the Council's platform. Her heavy maroon and yellow armor dwarfs Airazor on her right, even with her arms folded over her broad chest. According to Starscream's spies, no one questioned Strika-1's ascension. Part of it is the regimented chain of command shaping Carcer's culture, framing dissent in the ranks as treachery; part of it is that Strika-1 has the uncompromising discipline to enforce her will with an iron fist. While she and Obsidian possess the same boxy, mouthless mask and narrow crimson optics, Strika leverages her bulk for a far more forceful presence.

Not quite an aggressive one. Not yet. Starscream witnessed Strika catch one of Devastator's punches and win; she's one of the reasons he could never dismiss the Carcerians as a legitimate military threat, unlike literally every other colony. Strika and Obsidian are alone on the platform, but the Carcerians pack the stands nearest the floor level of the stadium, unflinching in the face of verbal protests from the shorter mechs trying to get a better view.

Liege nods to each of the Council delegates in turn as Windvoice takes her place. When he reaches Strika, he stops and holds eye contact for a long moment, both he and Strika unreadable. Then Liege closes his optics and resettles to face in the Council as a whole, his expression remote. Strika reveals nothing as Obsidian stoops to murmur in her audial fan.

Transmutate smoothly cuts Strongarm out of the Camien pack and escorts her up with a bright smile. Then Transmutate skates away down the table, where the Devisens flag her down and she nods politely until they let her go. Strongarm falls in beside Windvoice, chin up and looking anywhere but at Chromia as she alertly scans the arena for threats. Chromia startles, hastily covering her confusion with a tragically sloppy mask before she jerks back to attention.

Windvoice skirts around the Council assembly and stands on the edge of the platform to give her statement. Starscream lounges back in his seat, far enough that Vortex grumbles and rattles his helicopter blades beside Starscream's ears, and watches the side of Windvoice's face as she speaks. Unlike Liege, acting for the crowd but engaging the Council, she addresses everyone on equal terms, as if what everyone else thinks actually matters when it's the Council's decision.

She didn't bring the damn hammer.

It's the right note to strike. Speeches work so much better when Starscream lets someone else give them. This isn't some petty Council squabble over power and rights. Those Council members who wish to speak after Windvoice do so - Strika sends out a non-descript runner with a maskplate and no visible optics, who lays out the Carcer version of events in clear, curt terms - and then Liege gives his own modest testimony, with Ultra Magnus as counsel. Liege adjusts to complement the tone Windvoice sets with fearsome ease. Still subtly polished, but speaking directly and frankly. He doesn't sound like a Prime; he sounds like a person. Tired. Likable. Relatable.

Slag, he's good.

Starscream thinks that if this is Vigilem's final bid to subvert the Carcerians and free his Liege once and for all, it's a tour de force. Before the Council delegates withdraw to deliberate and make their decisions privately, Windvoice rises one last time.

"We may never be able to say we know what happened with 100% certainty. There is no intact recorded evidence. We have only the word of those who were there, some of whom are now gone. Nothing is ever simple." She gazes around the stadium, and closes flexes one hand against the dais as she bends her head. "But I also ask this - when is it enough? At what point do we get a chance to try again, with sentences without an expiration date and lives as long as ours? How do we balance accountability with amends. How do we heal?" A pause, a beat, a breath. "None of us are incapable of change. And I know that sometimes it feels like it'll never be enough. But we keep living, on the far side of the pain. The world is broken, is breaking - we build anyway."

-

Alpha Trion's message arrives during the deliberation period, while the Council members are sequestered. Wouldn't it be for the best, he suggests, if they wait for the testimony of someone with experience countervailing Liege Maximo's? A hasty vote would be unwise. More went into the decision to exile the Liege and his Titan than reached the general populace, and he can give a firsthand account of the sentencing -

Starscream holds down the delete key on his datapad with relish, obliterating some of the Devisiun representative's spammy messages along the way. What he would give to be able to delete Trion and Orion Pax as easily as that. Life would be so much more pleasant in the long run without their feeble attempts at being relevant.

Such a shame about that space bridge relocating. Alpha Trion is still half a day away when the Council reconvenes, and declares Liege Maximo's sentence complete. Acquittal was never on the table, when Liege freely admitted to instigating a war. If Vigilem wants to quibble, he can take it to Windvoice.

Strika-1 abstains.

Now Starscream just needs to keep Liege Maximo from stabbing them all in the back.

Joy of joys.

-

A cane blocks the hall at chest height.

Sadly, it's attached to Bumblebee.

"Starscream," Bumblebee says. He's leaning back against the wall, one foot crossed over the other and both hands resting on the cane to prop himself up.

Starscream walks all the way up to the cane and stops, without looking at Bumblebee. Catching a glimpse of yellow and blue in the corner of his vision doesn't faze him anymore.

Bumblebee waggles his brows.

Fine then. If that's how he wants to play it. "Sorry, you've used up your lecture quota for the week," Starscream drawls, stooping to step under the cane. The days when he couldn't run from Bumblebee's insufferable moral tangents are long gone.

"It's not a lecture. It's me still being worried about you, and you conveniently keeping your schedule jam-packed so that we can't talk for more than snatches at a time." Bumblebee drops the cane and keeps pace with Starscream. Practically brushing elbows with him.

Starscream doesn't know if it's better or worse that his proximity sensors can detect Bumblebee these days. At some point during his stint as a disembodied hallucination, Starscream's processor stopped automatically registering the contradictory absence of sensor input as an error. Bumblebee's presence was reclassified from a threat to an annoyance, and Starscream started babbling to an invisible ghost in front of witnesses, and all was well in the world.

Right.

Urgh.

He can't dismiss Bumblebee anymore, alas. At least when the slagger was incorporeal Starscream could ignore him with impunity. "You're reading too much into it. Has it occurred to you that I'm genuinely busy? The world doesn't revolve around you, Bumblebee," Starscream rattles off in a monotone, without pausing between sentences.

Bumblebee pokes his cane up at the side of Starscream's head. That thing can be electrified at a button's press; Starscream waves it away with a curl of his lip. "No, no, I'm well aware that your ego has a gravitational force powerful enough to make the sun look like a lightbulb," Bumblebee says, gravely circling the air beside Starscream's helm with a flourish.  "I'm trying to be your friend, you know. I needed a year away because - perspective. Me time. And I figured you needed…time, too."

Busybody. "To get used to not being crazy?" Starscream mutters.

Bumblebee clicks his vocalizer. "You were never crazy. And you were never alone," he says, bluntly, whapping Starscream on the arm. Again - that does not register as nearly as much of a threat as it should. Ugh. Skywarp used to do that and teleport away; it used to be playful, until they all started trying to hit where it hurt.

Bumblebee keeps going. "Which sucked scrap for both of us, in a lot of ways. The fact that we were forced to be each other's only real outlet made it grate on both sides. But I know what you've done, probably better than anyone else, and I'm back for more. Primus help me."

You'd think Bumblebee would've learned better by now. Starscream smirks, his laugh barely more than a cold huff of air. "Because we're what, friends?" he says, draping an arm over Bumblebee's shoulders and leaning in. Before Bumblebee can react his grip tightens, hard enough to dent thin metal. Starscream whispers the rest through his teeth, grinning for anyone who might walk by. "That's because you're a glutton for punishment. And the nanosecond you talk - I'll know."

Bumblebee grabs Starscream's nose between his index and middle finger. "Got your nose," he observes, blandly.

Earth is a pox upon the galaxy. One day it will die the heat death it deserves, and Starscream will partake of the finest elixir distilled from Orion Pax's pathetic, human-loving, water-based tears.

He jerks away, disgruntled, and Bumblebee pretends to examine his own thumb. "It wasn't a threat, so cool your jets and cut it out. Threaten me like that again and I'll hunt down Rung personally so we can have friendship counselling and you can learn healthier coping mechanisms," Bumblebee says. "Time to cut the scrap. You're just gonna have to get used to having another Autobot for a friend, without the excuse that we're stuck with each other via mystical ghost vision. How awful."

Starscream shudders for him, since Bumblebee lacks the capacity to feel shame. "I don't have friends," he snaps, tossing his head.

He had Wheeljack. Funny how these things always wind up in the past tense.

"Yes, you do," Bumblebee says.

Hrrgh. "No, I don't."

"Yes, y- oh for the love of - we're not doing that again. You only do that when you don't have an actual argument!" Bumblebee yells, throwing up his cane in disgust.

Oh thank slag, someone's calling him. Starscream very blatantly telegraphs the move as he puts his hand to the side of his head - an entirely unnecessary affectation, but it gives him an excuse to walk faster.

Bumblebee smacks his forehead. "You don't have to answer that."

Starscream keeps power walking. "Yes, actually, I do. Oh no, it's already happening, oh no -"

SS: What.
WV: Meeting with the Devisens in half an hour, then Shockwave. Can we talk before that?
SS: I'll find the time. Right now. This second.
WV: Who are you avoiding?
SS: No comment.
SS: Is that why those half-pints have been camping in my inbox all week?
WV: Most likely. Let me guess - you deleted it without reading what they wanted.
SS: I admit nothing.
WV: You can't see it, but please imagine the neutral face of displeasure here.
SS: Duly noted.
SS: On my way.

"This isn't over, Starscream!" Bumblebee shouts after him, as Starscream breaks into a full run.

-

"I'm going to be up front with you, Starscream," Windvoice says, before Starscream's aft can touch the seat. "This is about Luna-1."

He misses Bumblebee already. Oh, what he would give to have been strangled by the horrifying, squirm-inducing headlock of friendship before those words came out of her mouth.

Unfortunately, he can't just walk back out the door. Luna-1 may be the bane of his existence for entirely rational reasons, but this is, in fact, his job. Particularly where Shockwave is involved, since he's a solid - well, Shockwave, on the scale of scientists of ill repute. Starscream leans his elbows on the desk and sighs, feeling distinctly put-upon. "Go on," he says, against his better judgement.

With a shrug, Windvoice relaxes a little in her chair. She pushes back in her chair and stretches one arm over her head; she winces when the joint cracks, and rolls it a few times before letting it fall.  "Well, for one thing, it's attempting to speak with us. I think we should listen," she says, her lips pursed in amusement at his expense. He'd be pettier about that, but no one takes the moon thing seriously. "And for another, Shockwave wants to visit it and Red Alert's response boiled down to -" Windvoice twitches her fingers as she flips through something in her HUD "- 'I'm pretty sure Tyrest's security system would reactivate and shoot him on sight for the greater good, and none of us would be sorry.'"

Can't argue with that one. Reportedly Tyrest drilled one hole in his skull too many, lost it, and used his familiarity with the Matrix and something on Luna-1 to manufacture a killswitch targeting cold constructed 'bots. The fact that people live in that mech's deathtrap of a headquarters continues to baffle and amaze. He catches his hand rubbing his chest - it's worse than a fusion cannon to the chest; he's burning, burning, his spark boiling away through his optics and mouth until all he can see is the yellow smoke trapped behind the optic lenses, and as the pain crests he stops thrashing and begs Megatron to make it stop, as he always does -  

Enough of that. He forces the hand back down against the desk. "Yes, that's fair," he agrees. "This is Shockwave we're talking about. All the more reason not to go. I'm sure I'm far more notorious than him." He fans his hands out and smiles the benevolent smile of the just, without breaking eye contact.

Windvoice presses her hands together in front of her mouth, cycles several vents in an overstated display of patience, and then angles them to point at him. "I don't know what expression you think you're making," she says, "but it's scaring me and I will give you a raise to make it stop."

That is also very fair. Starscream smirks, lacing his fingers under his chin.

Visibly relieved, Windvoice goes on. "If Shockwave can find those who are still missing and he requires access to Luna-1 to do it, we don't have many other options -"

Someone raps smartly on the door. "Energon delivery!" Transmutate sings out as the door opens, a tray with two cubes of energon balanced across both of her arms as she zooms over to the desk. The energon gives one smooth, sloshy bid to escape its confines before settling back in the cubes, and Transmutate scoots them in front of Starscream and Windvoice, beaming.

Windvoice smiles at Transmutate's boundless, chipper enthusiasm as she accepts the glass, cradling it in her palms. "Thank you, Transmutate," she says, before taking a sip.

Starscream grimaces. His fuel levels are…mediocre. Fine enough to function on - but that's kind of thinking that used to make Wheeljack wince. The reminder makes fuel seem even more unappealing as his tanks turn. "Thanks."

Transmutate doesn't budge. She rolls back a little on her heelwheels, arms crossed behind her back, waggling her shoulder stabilizers. The meeting isn't that confidential - and Transmutate's familiar with the bulk of Starscream's work, with the clearance to prove it - but it's still awkward. To have her just. Standing there. Windvoice acts unaffected, sipping from her energon with a meditative air, the cube never far from her mouth.

Finally, Transmutate turns her subtly too-large optics on Starscream, her mouth a moue of disappointment, and Starscream smacks his face. "Oh, for - I'm fueling. Enough!" he insists, snatching up the cube and waggling it at her significantly.

"Your own orders, sir!" Transmutate says, abruptly cheery again as she snaps back to a beaming smile. "Even if it's just regular meals - you're on a schedule!"

And Starscream thinks that Wheeljack never felt comfortable confronting him about it this directly. Just another regret to add to the stack. He feels thoroughly sick by the time he jerkily nods at Transmutate to dismiss her, and tosses the whole cube back in a single gulp to get it over with. Satisfied, Transmutate tosses her flicker of a salute with a wink, and skates at a leisurely pace back to the door.

While Starscream represses his gag reflex, Windvoice sets her empty glass aside. It's sad, how she smiles ruefully and quirks a brow at him, like they're sharing some inside joke. "If going to Luna-1 will actually, literally ruin your life, I'm not going to make you go along," she says, rolling her optics. "But I will need to go, along with whatever escort you'd recommend to keep Shockwave in-"

And she stops midsentence.

She has the oddest look on her face, blank and confused at the same time, as she raises her hand and presses it to the cables of her throat. Her brows knit together as she turns that puzzled look on Starscream.

Then, without warning, she lurches backward, shoving up onto unsteady feet as her chair crashes the ground behind her, and staggers like a drunk. "You actually poisoned me?" Her vocalizer shorts out with a gurgle as she stumbles and catches herself on the table behind her desk.

She sounds hurt.

Starscream has a quip - of course he has a smart comment prepared for just this occasion, because someone's first poisoning should always be a memorable life lesson about constant vigilance - and she should really know better, honestly -

But the extra fraction of a second it takes for his processor to respond rather ruins the moment. His chest feels uncomfortably warm, now, the vague burn of whatever he just poured down his intake fighting his backup systems for the right to dissolve his throat into sludge. His knees stutter when he belatedly tries to stand, and he rams them into the front of the desk instead with a clang that makes his very-distant processor throb.

Well, frag. That's working very -

Windvoice half-collapses again, but succeeds in grasping the handle of the Forge hammer before her eyes flash white in a forced shutdown. She takes the hammer down with her as she slumps. Her optics stay dark.

- fast.

Starscream lets his mouth fall open as he stares down into his empty cube, feeling vaguely betrayed.

Transmutate leans over sideways and taps Starscream's face, her expression comically serious considering the fact that she sticks one leg straight out to keep her balance. "See, I kinda had a good idea of how to dose you after I saw how your system processed normal stuff. Probably something to watch out for in the future," she says, matter-of-fact, stacking the two cubes to stow them in subspace. "Just think of it as a nice nap, sir." Then, humming a song, Transmutate skates over to Windvoice's side and check her pulse, nodding her head to the beat.

She looks very long. And teal. And…something. His thought process trails off into a void. Her huge optics shine a brilliant red as she pats Windvoice on the head and straightens to smile at him.

She really is a better assistant than Rattrap was. In every possible way.

And she's supposed to be on vacation.

"Proud of you," Starscream slurs, his voice little more than a croak. And then he's out -

---

Thesis: I swallow a bee for each ill deed done.

I am a hive walking. I strain to hear you over the regret.

- Waxwing of Tempo, << v.a.v.>>

---

The world moved on.

Arcee used to feel like a relic. Cybertron thrived. Forgot the old Primes. Nova reached toward the stars, and Arcee was left detached. Aimless.

She hasn't in a while now; her perspective shifted, over the years. The Autobots wanted her violence, and they got it. War always suited her best. By the time Galvatron returned, he was the relic.

(Of all the terrible decisions Orion made on Earth, she can't say killing Galvatron was one of them. Galvatron made his choices, fought just as hard to conquer and enslave as any Decepticon, and one day Arcee will stop hating that he became what they used to fight. That he made it so hard to grieve him.

No. Optimus annexing Earth against its will more of that old, sour taste in her mouth, long before Optimus refused Galvatron's surrender. The same flavor of that old, stupid, stubborn hubris that made Prima think the Thyatirans would be grateful to be colonized.

And yet -)

Yet -

She missed something. It's staring at her right in the face, in the way that Waspinator won't. Can't. The facets of his optics skitter away, as though eye contact would overwhelm him completely. Aileron glides down to join them in the tank after a while, scrunching up her face as the partially filtered energon seeps under armor. Her presence settles Arcee internally - provides a counterweight for the sucking drain of half-pinged memory.

But Waspinator can't give a straight answer to save his life. The buzz of his wings and thoracic vents deepens as he speeds up, faster and faster, until a droning hum underlies every word of what Arcee realizes is a rambling play-by-play of everything he's done in the past year. A lot of nonsense about playing cards at Maccadam's, and a lot of nothing about Airachnid's movements. He vibrates so hard with anxious stress that Arcee doesn't think he's faking it; it just seems to be his default state.

Acting or not, he's not getting to the point - and Arcee's patience is a nonrenewable resource. She hauls Waspinator upright. "Take me there," she orders, shoving him toward the edge of the tank. "Show me where you've seen Airachnid."

He shields his face with his claws as he collapses back to his knees, cringing. "Waspinator can't! Not again! Not again!"

Aileron sloshes past Waspinator and hops onto dry metal with a huff. "This guy doesn't know anything, Arcee," she says, as she shakes her leg. Energon splatters against the floor. "We'd find her faster if we search the whole city on foot, at this rate."

Tempting. But Titans tend to be bigger on the inside. Arcee plants her foot between Waspinator's fluttering wings and shoves.

When he resurfaces a moment later, ventilation system spluttering and wheezing, she lays the burning blade of an energy sword five millimeters from the side of his face. It fizzles, arcs sparking between it and the energon pool. "Do you need a better incentive?" she asks, frowning.

Waspinator huddles underfoot, refusing to uncurl from his crouch. "Waspinator is not supposed to go back!" he insists. Misery bleeds from him as he hunches up further. "Arcee can't go again! Is forbidden!"

Two things happen simultaneously: Arcee's processor clicks, and Waspinator bolts.

"Hey!" Aileron shouts, too late.

He doesn't make it far. Arcee moves without thinking - catches Waspinator by one transparent wing and slams him up against the wall of the tank. He screams again and thrashes, scrabbling at the wall, and her next instinct is to start breaking limbs until it stops.

Except.

"Again?" Arcee repeats. The word feels foreign in her mouth. Hollow. Neocybex does that, sometimes, when her processor wants to default.

And it's definitely chugging now. Even as Aileron races around the edge of the tank to keep her weapon trained on Waspinator, Arcee's mind tries to extract something old. Old enough that it's like trying to unearth a corpse, the disintegrated metal little more than dust.

Query: where has she seen Waspinator before?

A microsecond's worth of visual sensor input - Waspinator there and gone as Arcee speeds down the road. Part of the scenery at Blurr's place.

"Let go! Please!" Waspinator squirms, carapace scraping against the wall as he tries to claw his way up. Aileron shouts another warning for him to stand down. Arcee slides the sword away, too lost in the insistent, inexplicably urgent memory search to feel disgusted by the groveling. On autopilot, she pins one of his arms and positions the other, hands poised to snap the main strut - but - "Waspinator won't tell!"

No. Older.

Shockwave's move. The Necrotitan and Jhiaxus and Galvatron and Nova, and everything that came with them. Waspinator a hapless minion, on file as being too dim to be considered actively malicious without someone giving him orders.

Waspinator thrashes so hard he almost succeeds in knocking Arcee off and snapping his own wrist with her hands. Arcee's tempted to let him. Energon splashes wildly, dousing Waspinator and overflowing the tank to sluice over the floor. It's too de-energized to glimmer in the ambient light.

No. Older.

Spark stasis - peace. The war she largely ignored, until Jhiaxus resurfaced. At loose ends, disaffected, uninvolved in society after Galvatron's departure, through most of Zeta, Sentinel, Nominus, Nova.

Jhiaxus. Galvatron, in the Crystal City.

Older. A dull ache pulses in Arcee's processor, deep in the memory cortex. The memory fatigue wouldn't be this difficult to defragment if she hadn't tried to forget. There was nothing left for her there.

Waspinator won't stop sobbing. "Solus's forge, calm down!" Aileron shouts over the din, throwing up her hands in exasperation. Aileron has a trigger-happy temper. Arcee needs to focus.

"It always hurts," Waspinator whimpers, claws gouging tracks in his own helm. "Hurts to think about." His antennae sensors flatten against it as he pries his head back and cracks it against the wall again. The buzz in his voice keeps rising, a drone that pulses in time with Arcee's headache, because she missed something she couldn't afford to miss - something so minor, so long ago -

One chipped optic scraping against the wall, Waspinator wails.

Arcee hauls him back against her torso, wraps one hand around Waspinator's chin for leverage, and twists his head sharply to the side.

Her elbow cracks against the wall with an audible crunch.

The silence hangs askew, like a snapped neck.

Despite everything, Aileron's still a Camien. She stumbles, trips backward over her own feet, and stares at Arcee over the jumble of her knees, optics blanched.

When she finds her voice, she sounds young. And scared. Which is the correct response to have, to a monster as old as - "A-Arcee."

Waspinator dissolves in Arcee's arms as she lets her slack hand slip away from his face. His vocalizer glitches as he clutches at her arm, weeping in relief.

Feeling vaguely numb, Arcee lets her elbow fall. The joint grinds in protest, crush damage alerts lined up neatly in the corner of her vision.

Ringed by a dent in the shape of her elbow, the smashed remains of a fly are smeared on the wall. A tiny smudge of pulverized grey armor, smaller than the tip of a finger, right in Waspinator's earlier line of sight.

The broken shards of its spycam glisten with green visceral fluid.

And Arcee wants to go back and shake herself for not making the connection, because who else could have? Who else had all the damn pieces? Prowl wasn't even alive when Arcee left the Darklands and visited the Titan-city of Quintus Prime.

Aletheia. The Chela of insectoid Cybertronians. Isolationist, serenely undisturbed by the turmoil in the Darklands, a hive of activity in the furthest reaches of the iron desert. A hive of towering spires and rosy gold tiers that never stopped - whose internal hierarchy, closed to outsiders, didn't falter even when the Covenant's pact required Quintus to discontinue outright slavery.

Waspinator changed his paint, not his frame. Traded out the uniform black helm and torso of the border guard for softer greens and yellows over the years. He dithered and blushed and stuttered, bumblingly shy and hopelessly enamored, and every time Arcee came to spy on the city, Waspinator let her through.

How many times, before they caught him?

She never saw a single arachnid. Not a one.

That she remembers.

She hasn't felt faint even once in her entire long life, and she's not about to start now. But slag, she feels close, as the final shoe drops.

"Bombshell," Arcee breathes.

Then, more eloquently - "Fuck."

She hoists Waspinator up under an arm and leaps out. "Ar-" Aileron starts; she cuts off when Arcee hoists her up and tucks her under the other arm. "Arcee, wait! Where are we going?"

No time to get out cleanly. Whatever reprieve she won by pretending to kill Waspinator on camera won't last if Metroplex is infested. "Why were there spiders on Eukaris at all, Waspinator?" Arcee throws Aileron ahead of her, and the Camien lands in a run, pushing up mid-stumble and racing to keep up with Arcee as she bashes through the far door.

"Waspinator is not allowed to know anymore," Waspinator says, optics wide as Arcee pounds her fist against the wall. He's still shaking, but it's irrelevant as long as he doesn't start thrashing again. "Waspinator failed. Was punished for letting someone into the hive."

At the far end of the hall, the door slams aside to reveal a maintenance hatch, stippled light streaming through from high above. Metroplex caught on.

Aileron hisses. "I don't understand."

Too many gaps. Gulfs of time unaccounted for, where Quintus could've been anywhere. Long stretches where Arcee didn't pay attention, content to let the world slip by her. Arcee wanted to stop caring about the Primes; conveniently, they all vanished.

Waspinator tries to slink free when they reach the maintenance shaft. Arcee clamps down on him and starts climbing one handed. He goes limp with an unhappy buzz. "Think, Aileron. Who followed Quintus Prime?"

Waspinator flinches like he's been shot. "Don't say the name. Don't think the name," he insists, chanting.

Arcee hears Aileron stop dead at the base of the ladder, but can't glance back to see what's holding her up. Not enough time. Even with Metroplex opening doors, it could take an hour to reach ground level, and no one is answering their damn comms.

It's not paranoia, Prowl always said. Well, turns out it had been, in his case. But a sense of dread coils in Arcee's chest, strong enough that even she can feel it.

"The insect modes. Arthropoda." Aileron's voice echoed in the tight space, horrified. "The arachnids -"

They should've seen it from the start. Someone should've noticed. But Arcee didn't care about Cybertron when they initially reached out to the lost colony Titans. She would've brushed off anyone who bothered her about something as pointless as that. Alpha Trion, lorekeeper and historian, fawned over Orion and rambled about all that Prime nonsense on Earth instead of paying attention to Starscream's reign. And Starscream, his head too far up his own aft to care about ancient history. "Those Fateweavers should never have been on Eukaris at all," Arcee says, as Aileron clambers after them. She gives Waspinator a shake to snap him out of his chant. "There were barely any Cybertronian insect modes left in the war, were there. Not until the Insecticon swarm."

And no one thought anything of it. Why would they? Between them, Onyx and Quintus spirited away millions.

They hit the top of the ladder. Waspinator twists around, burying his head under her arm. "Hurts to think. Hurts to remember," he repeats, and slag. The implications of that. Of Waspinator's scattered history, little more than a footnote in Prowl's files.

The maintenance shaft opens on the edge of a vast cistern, the glow of energon drenching the vaulted ceiling and pillars with pink. Not the same route they took down. Arcee bares her dentae when she sees two doors hanging open - one ahead, and one to the left. Both could lead up; both rooms beyond lie dark, an ambush waiting to happen. She pounds on the wall, but slag and the Speaker only know how aware Metroplex is down here. Neither door so much as twitches.

Nothing registers on proximity. EM fields only reach so far, and the live energon here emits a faint, ambient buzz. No snipers in visual range. Audial tunes down the faint plnk of falling energon in the distance, the sound of Aileron's small thruster bursts as she skips the last few rungs, Waspinator's belabored vents, until the world's unnaturally quiet. Arcee runs almost silent even without the full complement of stealth mods activated.

They're not alone.

Arcee draws her gun this time. "Try," she orders. Signaling with two fingers, she gestures for Aileron to stay close as she steps back against the wall. She can kill anyone. Before things get messy - now that's another story.

Well. It'd be messy one way or another. But she's vaguely attached to Aileron's continued existence, which complicates matters. Earth was annoying like that.

This time, Waspinator tries. "Waspinator ran and hid. Didn't want to be hurt anymore," he says. Yellow antennae swivel up and down in nervous flicks as he peers through the first open door from under her arm. "Doesn't know when Master left. Drones didn't run, didn't hide in time, like Waspinator did. Left behind to guard access to the core."

He's not using [drones] in the sense of non-sentient machines. Quintus Prime's meticulously crafted, tiered synonyms for [slave] used to infuriate Megatronus in the peace talks. This variant has subglyphs for _{[domestication]} and _[compulsion]. Same slag, different day.

Nothing through the first door but an empty corridor leading to another maintenance hatch. But Arcee can't shake the feeling they're being watched. She edges to the second door instead, scanning on all frequencies.

Lobotomized Cybertronians, guarding a dead core. Quintus Prime, most likely dabbling with mnemosurgery before there was a word for it. Arcee dislikes the picture she's piecing together here. "Until Megatron brought them to the surface and experimented on them. Bombshell was a sleeper agent, not a success," she finishes. A vicious, sadistic mech with a penchant for mind-control? Of course.

Common consensus held that the Insecticon swarm overrunning the planet was an unintended side effect of the Decepticons cloning and torturing them. Or Megatron triggered something in the drones that Quintus Prime intended all along. An army waiting underneath their feet, all through the long war.

 "I would just like to state, for the record," Aileron says, loud enough to put Arcee's sensors on edge, "that I have no idea what you two on about."

Waspinator's antennae droop miserably. "Hurts. Always hurts."

Arcee hits the light switch with her elbow and sweeps the room. Empty. Aileron follows and reaches out, one hand ghosting over Arcee's arm.

And someone steps into the room after Aileron.

"Damn!" Arcee kicks Aileron's feet out from under her as she spins, clearing the line of fire as she rotates. Waspinator shrills, legs flying out wildly to the side, and Arcee fires once.

With a VVOMPH, the room erupts in curling smoke, so cartoonishly thick it feels heavy and claggy to the touch as it envelops them in a cool wave. Arcee keeps firing at the faint shadow of the figure while the smoke floods the room. Arcee's ventilation system shutters automatically; Waspinator and Aileron both gag on the dense smoke, the vibrations weirdly muted. For a second, Arcee loses track of the room - wall, columns, open door and all - and no smoke bomb should be able to muffle sensors that completely.

When the smoke finally streams down and coagulates on the floor in thick, billowing coils, the assailant is gone. The only trace of them that remains is the smoke itself and a few scorch marks across the cistern's wide expanse.

"Arcee?!" Aileron bumps into her as she rises, smoke wheezing from vents all over her stocky frame. When she leans a hand on Arcee's arm to finish hacking up half her ventilation system, Arcee allows it. "I think I clipped him."

And Arcee doesn't miss.

Yet there's no sign of a direct hit.

They're being fucked with. That, or delayed. "Gone now." Arcee glowers sourly down at the smoke weaving between their ankles.

-

Reaching the streets of Metroplex only takes another half hour. Once they hit the main road, Arcee stops pretending to care about subtlety and toss Waspinator so he can fly himself, then transforms to veer toward the central cluster. Aileron flies hard over her, nearly ploughing through two bright blue fliers who don't clear the way in time. After a wobbly transition, Waspinator zooms after them on the wing, sticking to Arcee's tires so closely that his insect limbs scrape and spark against the road.  

A response ping finally shows its face in her comms - Ironhide, in dull red. It's not flagged as new or urgent in her HUD, which irritates her. Still nothing from Starscream or Windvoice.

IH: Arcee? What's up?
IH: You there still?
IH: Keep me posted, I guess. Things got a little crazy here.
RC: Skip the ultraviolet. We could be dealing with cerebroshells.
RC: Tell Starscream to answer his comms.
IH: Mech, I'm not his keeper. Though I'm tempted to stick a tracker in him and Windvoice and save myself the headache.
IH: You sure?
RC: We're bugged, Ironhide. Flymode spycams, at the very least. This goes deeper than we knew.
IH: Slag.

The comm cuts off.  Still nothing from the people in charge of the place. Arcee's going to have to take drastic measures, and no one wants that. No one. Arcee shifts lanes and a motorcycle screams in abject terror before flinging themselves out of her way. Her tires burn as she hits the brakes and swings around to hang a hard right at the intersection. A section of the street surges up under her in a smooth curve, funneling her the way she needs to go.

This would be easier if Metroplex functioned even half as well as he did during the war. But it'll do.

Still no answer by the time they reach the main government building. Aileron swings around the upper floors, scanning for Windvoice in the Speaker's office, but reports nothing when she pelts back down. Arcee doesn't stop: she transforms a meter before the front door and slams through, into the frenzy of activity of the lobby. Ironhide's security forces comb through the crowd, cutting through the clamor to direct people where they need to go. A Camien recruit steps out to head Arcee off with a frown on his face; Arcee activates stealth and leaves him resetting his optics in cross-eyed confusion. When Waspinator dithers, his head instinctively craning around in response to a shouted command to stop, Arcee seizes him in a headlock and drags him along.

The fastest route to Metroplex's processor leads, technically, through the vents. Arcee suspects they're being watched, one way or another, and heads the normal way down instead. If Windvoice isn't at the processor chamber herself, none of them can damn well complain if Arcee skips the middlemech and gets this done.

The lower reaches of the complex clear out fast - the space bridge sector seems deserted as they cross through it. Arcee's less than familiar with the usual flow of traffic in this sector, since she's been off-world, but it saves them the trouble of dealing with security when she's on a mission. Once again doors wait open for them without the need for access codes. Waspinator gets twitchier as they go, wide optics scoping every possible surface. Aileron makes some odd gesture in front of her chest in respect at the first threshold they cross, but stays alert. Smart.

"They'd should've answered by now," Arcee mutters. It's possible that Windvoice simply disregarded a ping from an anonymized comm signal, but Starscream should know bet-

She turns onto the crossroads of two halls, and stares.

Transmutate twitches and stares up at Arcee - then back down at Starscream's unconscious frame - and then back up.

"This is not what it looks like," Transmutate says, faintly.

She cycles in a deep vent. Arcee holds up a hand to preempt the wordvomit of one of Navitas's get. "I'm sure he deserved it," she says, to get that out of the way. Starscream's remarkably not dead, considering what stress he must put an assistant through on a daily basis. The fact that Transmutate made it a year without attempting to assassinate him would be a new record.

Inconvenient timing, though.

Transmutate swells with emotion anyway and lets fly, her optics beginning to screw up and spark with emotion. "He's supposed to sleep on a regular schedule! He told me to make sure he did!" she sobs, brandishing both hands wildly at Starscream. "But he just keeps running around and doing things instead of getting some rest, and -"

Then Transmutate blinks, belatedly processing what Arcee just said. After a few more blinks for good measure, the tension loosens in her shoulders, and she glances around at the three of them with a puzzled expression. "I - really? Um." She sneaks another peek down at Starscream, hands folded anxiously in front of her face, and then straightens to attention with a bright smile. "Sorry about that! How may I help you?"

That's already more than Arcee cared to know. "Where is Windvoice?" she says, stepping over Starscream's sprawled legs to move on.

Transmutate claps her hands together and points, sunny and eager. "Processor chamber! Sorry, she may be plugged in and not receiving messages. I can ping you directions!"

Arcee grunts and keeps walking.

Aileron hurries after her, with one last dubious look at Starscream. "It's enough. Thank you," she says, awkwardly, the words already in the distance as Arcee picks up the pace. Aileron sprints to catch up with clanging footsteps. "If there are more of those things spying on us, they must know we know by now," she points out, when they approach the processor sector. A few mechs with pale painted faces try to intercept them, but Arcee slows for no one.

It's one of those exchanges where they state the obvious. "We need to shut them down," Arcee says, evenly, and physically moves a cityspeaker apprentice out of the way before striding through the door.

The figure waiting before Metroplex's processor is an unwelcome sight.

Shockwave is white, blue, and green today, his hands folded with his back to them as he stares at the brain module. Apart from one cityspeaker, her optics lined in the full mask of Caminus's facepaint, he is alone.

 Arcee narrows her glare. "Shockwave."

He turns his helm just barely enough that the unblinking edge of his single optic watches them. "Arcee," Shockwave says, perfectly polite. He inclines his head further still, amusement in his voice. "Waspinator. Always a pleasure."

Waspinator cringes back behind Arcee, vibrating with an audible hum that sets her teeth on edge. "I was told Windvoice would be here," Arcee says, flatly.

Before she finishes, the cityspeaker shakes her head hard enough to make the useless decorative bits of her helm clack, one hand pressed to her mask as she turns back to the flurry of glyphs dancing around Metroplex's processor.

Shockwave turns around with a diffident shrug and a measured pace, unconcerned. "Alas, I was told the same," he says. "It would seem our paths were meant to cross."

Too droll, too knowing. Jhiaxus taught this one. In hindsight, that explains so much. Shockwave surpassed his master in twistiness long ago. Arcee takes two quick steps to close on him and rests the gun right on that unblinking optic lens. "Enough games," she snaps.

Shockwave cocks his helm to the side, unfazed, observing her with the kind of abstract curiosity that makes it very tempting to just rip his head off and be done with it. There are other scientists Arcee can browbeat into doing what they need.

"Nice Windvoice is gone," Waspinator says, suddenly. He peers around Arcee, head tilted almost ninety degrees to the side as he inspects one of the projections. "Went to Devisiun. Metroplex is worried," he adds.

Arcee pauses, squinting at Shockwave for a solid five seconds while that processes. Then, with one last warning glare for Shockwave, she stares down at Waspinator. The light of Metroplex's processor reflects in the facets of his optics. "You can read that?" she says, dubious.

Shockwave rolls his neck - the only reason he still has a head on his shoulders is because Arcee doesn't twitch on the trigger - and watches Waspinator with that same amused, methodical lilt in his eye. "Waspinator once forged a unique bond with another Titan. He was able to assume control of its dimming spark and complete a partial bridge when it was trapped in the interstices. Such a rare talent…leaves its mark." He draws out the last bit, reaching out with an unfolded hand.

He looks at Waspinator the way Septimus used to look at people - like a particularly entertaining toy. Arcee considers shooting him just on principle. She's less than enthused by the logic of keeping someone like Shockwave alive because he can be used.

She compromises by stowing the gun, seizing Shockwave's hand mid-motion, and perfunctorily bending all the fingers back just short of snapping.

Shockwave stills. His focus returns to her, slowly. Still lazily amused.

Waspinator shrinks back. "Waspinator just wants to forget. Doesn't want to think about it anymore," he mutters, creeping around behind Arcee until he's completely out of optic peripherals. Drawn as though by a magnet, a few scattered glyphs trail away from Metroplex's mind, pale pink and gold with an interrogative subglyph Arcee can barely make out. Waspinator whimpers and ducks behind Aileron instead. "Don't think her name," Waspinator insists, wings buzzing in even deeper agitation, as Aileron tries to keep her gun pointed at Shockwave and edge away from Waspinator at the same time.

Windvoice on Devisiun, and Starscream unconscious. Ironhide'll be busy corralling the people who could do the most damage if they're 'shelled the way Prowl was.

 Arcee's jaw tightens until it creaks. "Fine. You," she says, releasing Shockwave's hand.

Shockwave curves his optic in a tiny smile. "Me."

It takes a very strong sensation to reach Arcee's processor from her spark. Right now, the revulsion crawling under her armor makes her want to claw it off and decapitate him with the leading edge. That would definitely take care of the problem. Arcee is a mech of simple needs. "Quintus Prime is spying on us," she says, staring Shockwave dead in the optic. Much like Cyclonus, he's less unreadable than the rest of the population - but in an abhorrent sort of way. And the more Arcee talks, clipped, the more convinced she is that she's not telling Shockwave anything he doesn't already know. "He was Airachnid's real Prime, and Bombshell's. Cerebro-shells wouldn't show up under ultraviolet, and this city is probably infested with spies."

"Or he could simply have been keeping an eye on a defective, fugitive servitor," Shockwave muses, too easily. None of this is a surprise to him, and it hasn't been since they walked through that door. He steps over to the communications terminal, tracing the keys with one of the fingers Arcee bent back as he reaches for his subspace. "But as it happens, I am familiar with the signal necessary to forcibly neutralize Bombshell's work. Insurance, one might say. If we wish to clear the entire planet, Metroplex should be sufficient to broadcast the signal, with the appropriate boost."

"Too easy," Arcee says.

Shockwave settles himself behind the terminal. "Oh, quite. Someone is almost certainly pulling your strings," he says, withdrawing a set of tools from the subspace of his broad chest and laying them down in a precise, perfectly aligned row before him. "And they've arranged things quite neatly so that you don't really have any other choice." A pause, and then another crawling, lensing smile. "But it wasn't me."

Arcee almost believes him. Mostly because this is so blatant not even he could expect to get away with it. But Shockwave's playing some game on the side. Feeling distinctly grouchy, she turns and stalks away, because the alternative is just shooting him and finding the next scientist down the ladder. "And just what in the pit is Windvoice doing on Devisiun?" she mutters. Frag Starscream's naptime. They can all sleep when they're dead. Backtracking to hunt down Transmutate will be annoying, but marginally less so than dealing with Shockwave personally. Arcee sends a head's up ping to Ratchet, and jerks her head at Aileron. "Come on. We're getting Starscream; Shockwave can be his problem."

She makes it two steps out the door before Waspinator works up the courage. "Starscream is gone, too," he says, raising a timid hand. "To Devisiun."

Arcee stops dead.

Aileron frowns. "But Starscream was unconsc-"

Then her mouth snaps shut, and she blinks.

…Dammit.

"I want it on the record that saving these people from themselves is not my job," Arcee says, at last.

"Duly noted," Shockwave says, engrossed in his work.

---

Do you walk in the valley of kings?

- Flipsides of Devisiun, <<glitter & gold>>

---

"'Freedom a mech may have; he shall not peace,'" Liege Maximo murmurs. The metal feels cool under his knuckles as he taps his hand against the wall at his back.

Epithet of Tempo, he thinks. But it's been a long time, and he was never more than a casual peruser of poetry. But it would've been difficult to avoid art entirely when Vigilem and Caminus lay intertwined in citymode. In the end, he probably read more than Solus herself.

He lets his hand fall, flexing the darts between the struts of his hand as he considers the two guards who've accompanied him to one of the crystal gardens. Nominally, they're here to fend off any who might take justice into their own hands, now. But Liege has seen the guardedness in the Speaker's eyes, and the more open mistrust of her lieutenants. It is a matter of politics; nothing personal.

Except in the ways that it is.

Vindication might have felt more satisfactory, in another time and place. If he could have persuaded himself that this new Cybertron deserved to burn for the sake of vengeance on what few remain.

(It wouldn't take much, he thinks, as he shutters his optics, tips his audial back against the wall, and lets the faint sound of chaos erupting in the heart of Metroplex wash over him. The fractures are still fresh. Speaker Windvoice can't heal the deepest wounds by willing it so; she can only provide the calm and stability needed for the torn protoform to slowly knit together again.)

Instead, it simply feels like release. The air is clear and rich with the hum of the city, two moons wax in the blue sky, and he is free. He can sit here, the gravel rolling under the seams of his foot, the crystals cut and shaped in a way that reminds him horribly of home, and no one will call him away to mediate another dispute between Amalgamous and Quintus. The chain binding the Covenant no longer weighs on his thoughts, a fragile, fractious balance of rival powers in need of constant tending and arbitration. The Vigilant to whom he once owed a duty of care are no longer his responsibility, by their choice and his own actions.

Unfortunately, he has never been one to sit idle. Languishing in his cell for millions of years, the only grace that kept his mind and frame from rusting from lack of stimulus was Vigilem.

Meddler, he can almost hear, with that old, gruff fondness. But the memory of Megatronus's voice fades a little more each year.

[Devisiun,] Vigilem murmurs. [Fusion is gone, Nexus dead. Why there?]

Long range communications have truly evolved beyond recognition. 

Liege reads the exact moment that his guards receive new orders; they stiffen fractionally. Tankor and Tankor exchange glances, and then shift their weight towards Liege.

He rises to his feet, slow and poised, his fingers laced over his chest and horns canted back. The frame language of conciliation has not changed so much as to be unrecognizable, he's found - the Cybertronians of the modern day simply boast kneejerk reflexes born of both technological advances and a collective predisposition toward hypervigilance. Once-leader, now-lieutenant Starscream is not an outlier; he is the quintessence. "Something is amiss, is it not?" he murmurs, with a small, quiet smile. "I will go to my rooms, if that helps. I would not keep you from more pressing matters."

It helps. The Tankors escort him to the apartment allocated for his use upon his release from custody, and before the door clicks shut on his back they've taken off down the road, tires squealing.

Liege Maximo lingers for a moment, taking in the stark, utilitarian quarters. He rests a palm against the outside wall.

Surveillance methods have also progressed beyond recognition. He has no doubt that someone sees the exact moment he snaps his fingers and taps his heels together, and reappears on the street outside. It'll be a mark against his good behavior, and under most circumstances he'd never consider committing such a faux pas with his position as precarious as it stands.

But at the moment, no one is in any position to stop him from walking right out of the city and into the fields beyond. Vigilem stoops with a hand on the ground for Liege to stand on, and lifts him in a familiar rush to the Titan's chest. [She will be in danger,] Vigilem says. His tone is light; the rapid shift of his internals is not. He deposits Liege within the spark chamber in a shuffling wave, and Liege lands lightly before the space bridge before he completes his first step. Vigilem times it perfectly, but that cannot belie his genuine urgency. The bridge already burns with the light of stars.

Vigilem loves her. Liege would feel wistful, but he already knows the measure of Vigilem's love. That will never change.

"Let's find out," Liege says, and lets his horns arch up and the plates of his back flare out to lift his cloak before he steps through the gate.

He walks into a barrage of light and sound. Not a single bright, blinding flash, but a flood of sensory input.

Neon signs and massive screens shimmer in coruscating, vibrant pinks, reds, blues, and greens, filling all the available centimeter of the interlocking skyscrapers. A bright pink, oversaturated bot with a reflective visor dances on a center screen several hundred meters taller than any mech has a right to be, pressing a finger to her lips with a smile before blowing a kiss that explodes in a rainbow burst. Dozens of different musical tracks pulse through the streets, out of sync and alien to his ear, and overhead automated trams whistle along hundreds of different antigravity lanes.

A matched set of Devisens gawp at him from where they're sprawled on the steps that lead down to the space bridge. "You're not supposed to be here," one twin begins and the other finishes. "Traverse Station's closed for the day!"

Liege Maximo massages his wrist absently, and lets one heel tap the other as he steps up toward them. His soles land at the top of the stairs, bypassing the stanchions to land on the edge of the thronging sidewalk. No one here stands taller than his chest - a refreshing change - and they're in constant motion, twins of all configurations cheering and chattering as they part and close around him in a ceaseless flow of foot traffic. A few raise their hands to the side of their helm and take snapshots of him with flashing cameras before darting out of sight.

"No need," Liege says, waving a hand, before the guards below can scramble after him. "I am familiar with Fusion's layout. I can show myself around."

"That is so not the point!" one protests. "Do you even have, like, papers?"

"I'm fairly certain Nexus never revoked my free passage within their city." Primarily, Liege suspects, because Nexus died thinking him exiled and imprisoned.

Funny how life works out.

Chapter Text

---

Sing in me, O Muses, and through me tell

Of the living^{[alt - seething]} moon who went too far

Of those who rose up and traced the constellations in its wake

Of the Matrix whose step rekindled the quiet stars ^{[note: allegorical referent]}

Of the reckoning ^{[alt- proto-Cybex name designation?][note: [kensēō] requires further contextual analysis]} and remembrance^{[alt - mneme, informal mode]} of those lost lights

Of Ōrāre, sweet Muse of Voice^{[alt - speech; song; communication]}, whose voice die not until the whole world dies

Of distant speakers now silent and still.

- Eucryphia of the Citadel of Light, <<The Hyperuranian Suite^{section 5: pulse of thy remembered song}>>; trans. Repository of Tetrahex

---

It moves like a nightmare - slithers through the window, then pauses upside down, the fingers of its forward prongs skimming the floor too lightly to bear any weight. Its head cocks to the side as it scans the room with dead, unlit optics. On one layer of the dream world they're stuck in, its frame is a deadened grey; on another, the overlap making Wheeljack's head throb, a pale, shocked white. The two images flicker as his processor struggles to reconcile them.

Then a pair of tentacles drift in through the window after it, one detaching its sharp-pronged grip on the outside of the window as the nightmare lifts itself upright in another slithering motion. Its chest is a cratered mess, like someone cracked open a spark chamber and just - wrenched the metal wider and wider, until it snapped.

But despite the way the dead frame is twisted and mutilated, it's still lit from within by sparks.

Too many. Yet only five or so, orbiting each other. No support system to keep them cold, stable, or otherwise contained. They just drift along as the nightmare stoops forward to sweep the room. The sharp prongs of the tentacles puncture the floor delicately and lift the nightmare over Prowl and Whirl like a pale shadow.

It stops over Megatron. Of course.

Wheeljack groans, cursing himself out internally. But it's hard. It's hard, and he's just not the kind of person who can sit around and watch someone get eaten by something that looks a hell of a lot like a sparkeater. Saving people is a slippery slope. And also, he might still need Megatron's weird chest situation intact to get them out of here.

Rolling his optics to the ceiling, Wheeljack reaches out to the side. This whole place is all in their heads. And in Wheeljack's head, there's the memory of a lamp that he once modded to be a shock stick. One of those projects he slapped together in his free time on some forgettable base, three campaigns ago -

His hand closes around the metal pole. For a fraction of a second, his fingers overlap with someone else's, slim and much smaller than his, as she passes it to him and draws back.

So. He's still got Mnemosyne's attention. Gonna have to reserve judgement on whether that's a good thing or not. Wheeljack hefts the lamp back over his shoulder, finds the familiar button where his hand falls, and presses. Then he swings and clocks the nightmare upside the face.

Contrary to all his expectations, the impact jars his hands with a solid crunch. Like he actually hit something with mass. The force smashes the nightmare away, its limbs flying wide. It stabs a tentacle into the wall to catch itself in one abrupt motion. The electric zap crackles visibly between the sparks, the outer coronas full of branching filaments. It lifts its blank optics -

And stares right past Wheeljack. Scanning without seeing. Dismissing Prowl and Whirl again, skipping right past Wheeljack on the second sweep.

It lunges for Springer instead.

This time, Wheeljack puts his back into it. He slams the pole up under the thing's chin and its head snaps back hard. The nightmare wavers and dangles in midair. Its limbs twitch, the rest of its body limp like its spinal strut is truly snapped. A bolt of alarm hits Wheeljack right in the chest as one tendril twitches toward him and the nightmare's face jerks to stare directly at him. The thing's jaw is split raggedly down the middle, the two halves agape, framing a torn intake that's just a hole feeding straight to its hollow chest cavity.

But then it convulses again, stabbing that same prong into the ceiling, and drifts back toward Megatron. The smooth, creeping glide cuts through the layers of the world without a ripple.

"Will you stop that?" Wheeljack asks, exasperated. He twists his hand on the pole to amp it up another notch. He can do scolding, easy. But this thing is creepy. He bashes it again, hard enough that the decorative light fixture sails across the room like a Frisbee. The nightmare staggers back, every part of its body dangling except tentacle limbs supporting it and its blind, scanning head. It aims for Springer again.

Fixated on him and Megatron - why? Wheeljack grimly steps over the unconscious frames on the floor to get another angle and whack it across the head.

Its head whips around again, too loose on its neck. Wheeljack would almost feel bad about hitting something that hard - but the nightmare just…moves that way. Creeping, too smooth, like all its struts were disconnected from their sockets long before he started using it for target practice. "Just - cut it - out?" he pleads, wincing with his optics as he smacks it away from Megatron.

He finally decides that, of all the incredibly dangerous, hair-trigger people lying unconscious in this room, Springer is the one who's least likely to kick Wheeljack's aft. So, the next time he has to rush over and whack the nightmare away Wheeljack takes the opportunity to nudge Springer. This mostly involves mashing his heel on half of Springer's face, 'cause the nightmare takes his momentary distraction to try to slip outside his reach, but. Uh. Springer doesn't wake up, anyway. He won't notice. "Now would be a good time to wake up, people!" Wheeljack calls, raising his voice. He swings again -

And the nightmare whips back out of range.

This is the first time it actually dodged, instead of just getting smacked around. Wheeljack stumbles, but lets the pole fall in front of him as the nightmare eases itself back toward the window in smooth, unsettling jerks. He moves forward and stops in the center of the room for better coverage.

But hey - whatever it is, maybe Wheeljack made it think twice! It's like Perceptor always says: you really can't go wrong in a warzone with sufficient practical application of the sciences. Which mostly involves hitting people a lot at calculated angles, with a microscope's attention to detail.

(Perceptor switched gears from scientist to sniper the same way he ran experimental data - thoroughly.)

The nightmare pauses in the window frame, an eerie echo of its pose when it first showed up.

And a second head snakes through the window.

Ah, frag. Figures. Wheeljack slides his foot back and starts tapping Springer in the face again. "Now would be an even better time!" he says, louder still, as a second stalking nightmare pulls itself into the room. Suddenly, with two sets of tentacles snaking through the air to find bracing points, the room feels very crowded.

"Something's wrong. It knows how to find you," Mnemosyne says, behind him. "It can see you again."

The third nightmare drops through the ceiling without a sound. No warning - just a rush and then an impact that flattens Wheeljack against the floor. One of the sharp pronged tentacles stabs into the metal right over his left audial, the rest of the limbs slamming him with dead weight. The back of his head hits -

-

- the autopsy slab.

Magnets in the slab keep him locked in place. An iron band wraps around his forehead, sticky with some unknown fluid; it scrapes against his temples when he tries to turn his head. One size fits all, probably. A machine hangs from the ceiling overhead: a round, turret-like base that covers half the space above, with coiled cables as thick as Wheeljack's arm feeding from the mechanical arms to a glass-encased orb in the center. It's a multi-purpose tool writ large, with needle-sharp prongs, clamps, nozzles, and enough range to reach everyone strapped to a torture slab in the room. Grime streaks the dark walls, the kind of stains you see in the worst places, when you get there too late to do anything except scrape what's left of people off the floor and break out the incinerator units to make the place sanitary. Places like Grindcore. Garrus-9. Doruka III. The entire planet of Babu Yar.

The worst places weren't always Decepticon places.

The edge of the band carves a deep line into Wheeljack's forehelm as he forces himself to turn. Digs deep enough to slice into capillary lines and pain circuits he can't turn off, the edge serrated in a way that could be deliberate, could just be chips of old damage. On his right, he has to blink at the body twice before he recognizes the black and white and grey frame under the shifting, crawling mass of tiny bodies swarming over it. Spiders pour down Prowl's intake and empty eye sockets. A dozen data plugs are slotted into the sides of his neck and spine, plugged into ports that have no business being accessible and downloading reams of data to a waiting black memory stick. There isn't much left of him except that, his torso, and the empty sockets where his arms and legs should be.

Whirl's not in much better shape. He's not in much of a shape at all. He's impaled on the wall, his limbs dislocated and nailed into place. "What time is it?" he slurs, his head bobbing unsteadily as he struggles to look around. "I can't tell -" He coughs out a broken, disjointed chuckle as his lone optic glances around ever more frantically - and then stops midturn, neck twisted up so that he's staring at the far wall. Slowly, he unwinds it, returning to his original position. "What time is it?" Whirl slurs again, in the exact same cadence, almost plaintive. His head lolls, and this time Wheeljack makes out the missing section where someone drilled through his processor casing.

"Which moon?" Megatron mumbles, on the far side of Prowl. His optics aren't off, but he's not looking around, either. The inner workings of his open vocalizer, slick with oil, work and gurgle as he speaks; the needles stuck through his throat flex and shift as he talks around them. There's no sign of Springer, and Wheeljack feels his spark sink, the memory of the sparkeater fresh in his mind.

"There are defenses in place, now, after last time," Mnemosyne says. She sits on a stool between Wheeljack's autopsy slab and Prowl's, the memory weave of her headdress loose around her arms. The fern green of her armor stands out sharply against the hazy purple murk of the torture chamber. "They know that you're working to wake up. They have teeth."

Prowl seizes with a choked sound, his back arching off the slab. Mnemosyne lets a hand drift from her lap to touch the flat surface of the memory stick loaded with Prowl's memories with a faint frown. If Wheeljack is confused by all this random crap, he can't even imagine how confused Mnemosyne must feel making it all happen.

Wheeljack pings the scanner embedded in his wrist. It was always a risk - that no matter how hard he concentrated, he wouldn't be able to install his scanner in his real, physical arm. This place is one dream after another, hallucination layered on illusion, and just because Wheeljack thinks an emergency override in his mind doesn't mean his hands were free to follow any of his instructions.

He's starting to think he failed.

A hand grasps his wrist and sinks sharp claws under his armor, pinning his arm down.

A trio of mechs clusters by his side. The one that matters is in an old frame: sleek and angular, red and black. Starscream pretends to inspect his fingers as he walks away, leaving the nondescript purple scientist to peel up the outer armor of Wheeljack's arm and briskly separate the layers of cable, wire, lines, and circuitry underneath the scanner. It doesn't even hurt yet - but that's not the point of this nightmare.

Starscream's relaxed - no, bored. Disinterested.

"Don't call me down here again unless there's something for me to care about," he drawls, flicking his hand in a dismissive farewell as he strolls to the door. He doesn't even so much as look at Wheeljack; he might as well just be some random Autobot on a slab.

It's a trap, and Wheeljack knows it. None of this is real, no matter how gritty the cold slab feels under his back. "Star-" he blurts out, anyway. Too loud in the din that fills the room.

Starscream stops in the doorway, head cocked to the side. Just walk away, Wheeljack thinks, with a sick lurch.

But this is a nightmare. So Starscream glances back and flashes Wheeljack a dazzling, cruel little smirk - just between them - and strides out. "Ta, Wheeljack," he calls over his shoulder, careless and cutting, a smile in his voice. With every step that echoes down the corridor, the room feels more horribly, claustrophobically real, and Wheeljack struggles to cling to the fact that all of this is a bad dream. But slag. The scanner didn't work, and even now the nightmare sets to work prying it out of his wrist with a chuckle. Once that's gone, he's not sure he's gonna be able to snap out of it anymore. The panic burns in his chest, corrosive, as he strains against the magnets, and it's so damn hard to think when -

"Oh, none of that now," the scientist says, flicking the side of Wheeljack's face with a third hand.

Wheeljack blinks. The ceiling is still hazy. But the hopelessness clears as he cycles several long, careful vents.

His arm, he realizes, doesn't hurt.

"You have it," the scientist adds. "Just a few finishing touches." He hums as he turns the scanner over between two additional appendages, and then extends a claw to the side without looking.

The pale green and yellow protoform stands out almost as starkly as Mnemosyne against the dingy misery of the room. It's like a breath of fresh air. It's all rounded, unarmored joints and plain arms, the helm so stripped down that Wheeljack can see the narrow connection points of its brain module casing. No alt mode, even. The protoform eagerly trots forward to offer a selection of soldering torches on a tray, its blue optics shining with adoration.

"Though I do see the temptation," the scientist continues, selecting one of the torches. His optics crinkle in a fond smile for the protoform. It beams back at him, so bright and so damn young. Someone that fresh and unformed shouldn't be anywhere near a pit like this. Then the scientist turns to stoop back over Wheeljack's arm, his smile lingering in the corners of his eyes as he plucks the internal wiring apart for deeper access. "The chance to experience happiness, love, closure. I designed such a device, a lifetime ago. But it was scrapped; deemed too kind. Too much of an escape. After the first few prototypes, I turned my thoughts toward unkinder imaginings."

Another appendage unfolds from the scientist's backpack rig nestled between his back kibble. His maskplate is nonstandard, and there's no sign of a Decepticon insignia anywhere on his purple, green, and yellow frame. The arms of the backpack pivot and flex through a test sequence before moving to assist the scientist. He dips the solder pen into Wheeljack's arm with a light hand, still humming all the while. His public ID is anonymized, illegible - the kind of scrap you see in spec ops labs. The ones where Wheeljack politely but nervously hit up his contacts to find a new posting before he got more than a foot in the door.

"But I think - it was for the best that he was taken from me," the scientist continues, sobering. His hands still for a moment, the solder iron hot against Wheeljack's nervecircuits. It itches, not quite pain yet. Then the scientist shakes himself and resumes, solder flowing around the connecting points that Wheeljack half-mangled. "I never wanted him to be alone. But I think his life…would have been worse. Even if we were happy, it would not have been…good." Hands still in motion, the scientist looks away from his work again to gaze wistfully - desperately - at the protoform. A hard, clicking swallow as his vocalizer resets. "And he is good. In a way that I could never be. Even if I can never truly be near him, or speak to him, just knowing that is a comfort. The thought that he was gone - that I would never see him again - and that the world could go on without him, while I was an open wound walking -"

Grief spasms across the scientist's face. But his appendages never shake, not once, as he solders and stabilizes the connecting points between Wheeljack's internal circuits and the scanner. Then, with a surprisingly gentle push, the scientist resets the scanner in Wheeljack's arm. Two blunt arms fold the armor panels shut over it. His optics dim: a sad, quiet smile. "Humans say that one is never ready to outlive one's child," he finishes, as the scanner finishes syncing up with Wheeljack's processor.

"You're not a hallucination," Wheeljack says. This is another person.

The scientist closes Wheeljack's wrist and clasps it between two hands, holding Wheeljack's arm still for a second as the connection sends a shock through his system.

Then the scientist flicks Wheeljack perfunctorily between the eyes. "Time to wake up."

-

Wheeljack sits up.

This is getting repetitive. And annoying.

But he wakes up to reality.

The screen holding back Mnemosyne's mental field beeps quietly in the back of his head. A handy little readout in his HUD informs him cheerfully, in big bubble glyphs punctuated by a lot of exclamation points, that the mental link to the shared dream is being successfully throttled. A [re-engage?] button blinks in the corner of his vision, polite but present.

No thanks. Wheeljack rubs the back of his head as he swings his legs over the side of the berth and stands. "Ow," he says, cheerfully but with feeling, as his whole body creaks in protest. He almost doubles up with cramps. His joints haven't completely frozen, so it hasn't been too many days, but they pop with audible relief as he stretches, twisting from side to side. Not long enough for transformation cog atrophy, either, but he's not gonna test it out in crowded quarters like this.

The room is quiet. Cybertronians of all shapes and sizes lay in recharge around Wheeljack in concentric circles, spreading out to the furthest reaches of the round room. All flat on their backs, limbs tucked neatly into the outline of tables that have expanded and molded around them. Part medical berth, part restraints, with tubes full of pallid energon feeding into chest access caps and cuffs wrapped around lower arms and ankles. Wheeljack spies more than a few familiar faces as he pulls his good arm across his chest in another stretch - Elita-1 off in the far corner, Bolt two rows down, Bulkhead only a berth away from the central ring. There's enough room in between each person for him to walk with plenty of clearance - for someone like Overlord to stalk between the rows - but the eerie stillness of all the bodies arranged around Wheeljack kiiinda makes the thought of transforming willy-nilly seem insensitive.

In the middle stands - well -

"Definitely a lotus," Wheeljack concedes, with a sigh. Like. There's just no denying it. Toe to tip, it's a Lotus Machine. The green-tinted metal curves out, so thin that it's almost transparent, in the shape of five wide, delicate petals that cast a pale, steady light throughout the room. A coiled tower of twisted cables and struts spills up toward the ceiling - becomes the ceiling. Thick stems of metal curve in waves until they meet the wall seamlessly. For such a huge machine - at least as wide as Devastator is tall - the complete absence of sound makes for an unnervingly tranquil atmosphere.

At least he's got eyes on Mnemosyne, he supposes. There's literally nothing else the big, super obvious contraption could be. Wheeljack's seen enough weird science slag in his life - he knows these things. Call it scientific intuition.

He glances down at his wrist again. He really did do a hack job on it; Ratchet would chuck a wrench at his head if he'd sutured fuel lines this clumsily in his medbay. In Wheeljack's defense, he was doing it blind and asleep; the extremely confused memory he has of his workshop in an apartment he never had might as well be the equivalent of performing surgery while under the influence. Of, like. Multiple drugs.

Which is kinda why it's odd that the connecting points feel perfectly soldered.

Also, someone totally cut him loose.

"Alright," Wheeljack says, squatting down beside the berth to inspect the neat lines where his cuffs split along a laser-etched line. "You gave yourself away. I seriously do not care about whatever weird scrap you have with Prowl and Springer, so get out here and do science with me."

This technique has not failed Wheeljack yet. When in doubt, very few scientists can resist the lure of more science.

After about a klick, a tiny, tiny spider crawls out from the underside of the table. Tiny by Cybertronian standards, anyway - Wheeljack recognizes one of Earth's bigger tarantulas when he sees it. One hell of a mass shift must be involved for an alt that small.

"You're real," Wheeljack observes.

"Oh, yes. I am very real," Mesothulas agrees. "Never fear - I'm not feeling very naughty today. You seemed like the one most likely to think his way out of the trap, so I thought I'd…lend you a hand."

Definitely not a good enough reason to use the word 'naughty.' Wheeljack decides to ignore that for his own sake and scan the room properly. The wrist scanner imported a surprising amount of data through the connection to his processor; it's already hard at work sectioning it off and discarding junk data with codes that originated solely in Wheeljack's imagination. Some of that might be useful, but only after it's retested and compared against real, solid numbers. The scanner starts doing that as soon as he thinks it.

He didn't realize just how damn weird things got for a while there. The layers of hallucination, the entrancing cities, the dream-like conversations trying to make sense of it - it all felt logical in context. But now, fully awake, even Wheeljack's conversations with Prowl have that weird, muzzy quality of recharge feedback. None of that made a damn bit of sense.

Feels good to be able to think straight.

Wheeljack rolls a shoulder to work out another cramp, and asks, genuinely curious, "How are you hiding your spark signature, anyway? That was pretty convincing." He walks down the dip of the floor to approach the Lotus Machine. As unpredictable as his dream scanner was, Mesothulas definitely didn't register in this room.

Mesothulas leaps off the edge of the berth and marches up Wheeljack's arm to rest on his shoulder, still in spider mode. "Oh, just a little something I threw together," he says, coyly. "A biodisguise intended to perfectly mimic a chosen organic form. It seems to provide a natural buffer against the effects of this most marvelous room. Do mind yourself if you lean over one of the berths: the effect grows stronger under areas of direct influence. It is how I have been able to - keep tabs on you, as it were. Overlord had no such protection, but he was able to press on."

Oof. "'Marvelous,' huh? Well, that's always good to hear." Wheeljack's too burnt out; he thinks some irony slipped in.

A low, dark chuckle that has no place coming out of a spider mouth. "No need to fret. I am trying to be good," Mesothulas murmurs conspiratorially. Like he's confiding a deep, personal secret.

There's a shallow step down between the rows of still Cybertronian bodies and the base of the Machine. It looks entirely clear, and nothing sounds odd in the way Wheeljack's footsteps echo in the spacious vault of the ceiling, so it's kind of a surprise when Wheeljack bonks facefirst into a wall and rebounds.

"Yes, that security field is vexing," Mesothulas says, two seconds too late. Wheeljack's pretty sure he let that happen on purpose.

Rubbing the front of his mask as the biolights fritz, Wheeljack takes a step back and squints at the thin air. The force field's pretty much invisible, which is impressive; almost any kind of force field strong enough to physically repel a Cybertronian-sized person registers on optical sensors on some level. Mostly depends on the quality of your optics and the kind of energy behind it. Plasma windows tend to turn neon. "You've been through the room. Seen the mechanism to shut that down?" Wheeljack asks, stifling another sigh.

Mesothulas rubs his forelegs together as he skitters up. Wheeljack's paint crawls as the scientist climbs up his neck and perches on top of his head. "Unfortunately, it lies within," Mesothulas says, indicating the Lotus Machine. "The shield extends through the floor and the ceiling, as well, preventing access through alternate routes even for one of my size. There is an energy signature scan to acquire access, but given the unknown nature of this facility and your captors, I thought it ill-advised to remove my guise and alert the system to my presence."

How did you get here in the first place, Wheeljack thinks, but doesn't say. "Yeah, probably not a good idea." Wheeljack raises his own arm and waves it hopefully in front of the empty air.

Not even a rejection notice from the security. His scanner's projections aren't as fancy as Windvoice's, but it does its best, sketching out a basic diagram of the invisible shell around the Lotus Machine. It's like a glass bowl around the central machine, with a second layer of five sharp petals rotating slowly around the step.

Wheeljack rests his hands on his hips and lets that exvent loose with gusto. "It can never be easy, can it?"

"Of course not. That would be no fun at all."

Wheeljack rolls his optics, confident that the spider can't see it under his brow. "Alright. Let's take a crack at it."

-

"We've failed," Mesothulas announces in good spirits, about thirty minutes in.

(He's clearly never worked in a lab with another person before, and has zero concept of personal bubbles. It's a little overbearing. Someone - probably Wheeljack, knowing his luck - is gonna have to work on reminding him to respect that. Yeesh.)

Wheeljack adjusts the settings on the frequency tuner, and huffs when the security scan ignores yet another iteration on an energy signature. He started with a spark simulation just to see if it'd get a response, but hell. At this point, he'd be proud to set off an alarm or three. At least that would be a reaction. He's worked his way through everything from the Matrix resonance to the energy signal used to contact Unicron, but he's starting to think that the creators of this security system are either way above his level, or really don't care about anything. At all.

Which could be a good thing or a bad thing. There's nothing in this room except unconscious bodies and the Lotus Machine, quietly projecting its mind trap.

"We haven't failed, we just haven't succeeded yet. Positive attitude." Wheeljack strokes his chin, flipping through a mental checklist of all the different signatures they've replicated, using what little equipment they have on hand. Normally his time estimates are rounded up, but this thing isn't giving them much to work with. "What does it want…"

"Something personalized, I expect." The spider crawls around Wheeljack's wrist to tap the unseen force field with a furry appendage. "Running all the possible energy signatures in the universe seeking a match, alas, may take more time and equipment than we have. We have more pressing matters to attend to. Turn around."

Wheeljack turns body first, his head slow to follow; he frowns at his scanner, half-distracted, then reluctantly tears his eyes away from it. The room is so quiet and still that it doesn't register for a second that one of the mechs in the innermost ring is now just a body.

"Definitely harvesting the sparks intact," Mesothulas muses.

"No, no, no." Wheeljack runs. Tiny claws clamp down on his hand; he tunes out Mesothulas's grumbling as he sprints across the ring.

The dead mech isn't someone he recognizes - a colonist or a neutral, maybe? The metal coils of the ceiling retract like the tendril of a living thing. A transparent tube full of pale blue fluid runs along the side of the metal arm, recoiling in time with the tendril, and through the bubbles of energized liquid the mech's spark sucks away into the ceiling. In the time it takes Wheeljack to run maybe twenty paces, the neutral's frame is grey and the ceiling is closed. His knee slams into the side of the berth and throbs as he jerks to a stop, half-falling over the body as his mind races.

Too late, too slow. The damn thing works fast. "Let me see, let me see," Mesothulas says, scuttling off Wheeljack's hand, and Wheeljack - shakes it off. Puts on his autopsy game face, and pulls back for his own inspection, while Mesothulas crawls onto the mech. He's seen enough grey bodies to know when to compartmentalize.

The dead mech's chest split open - fatal extraction of the spark. It looks almost…melted, from the inside out. The rippled metal unfurls from the center in five rough curls, the edges already crisping to a brittle, jagged edge as the metal finishes depigmentation. The hollow spark chamber is a neat circle at the center, the innermost energon lines all scorched. The frame's not gonna be salvageable without extensive surgery. If Wheeljack hadn't just watched the spark get slurped up by the ceiling straw, he would've called it a fatal overheat or energy surge. He's not in the mood to crack open the brain casing, but he'd bet anything it's fried through and through.

From above, looking down, it's impossible not to see that the wound looks like a flower. A spark flower, rounded petals and dead circuits and all. When Wheeljack scans the room again, the edges of the table digging into his palms as he steadies himself, he sees at least four other bodies in similar condition on this side of the wide chamber. No one else is awake in here; none of them will see it coming. Whether it happened before he snapped out of the machine's dream world - the sparkeater was a little on the nose - or just so silently he didn't hear it happening a few meters away, this place is killing them. Or stealing them.

He pushes back, bending and letting his head sink forward between his arms as he rests them against the slab. Slag, he's tired.

"They go to great efforts to retrieve the spark intact. Lull the victim into a sense of peace and happiness, and then draw the spark free without the risk it will snuff out in panic or fear," Mesothulas continues. He's transformed into root mode, still miniaturized, as he walks around the dead neutral's chest. "Too great an effort. Spark extraction really isn't this difficult in a controlled environment anymore. It's like they're approximately three million years behind on modern extraction techniques. This is incredibly convoluted." He sounds amused and offended at the same time.

Wheeljack grimaces at the floor, then pushes back up, resting more of his weight on one side as he surveys the dead mech. He feels woozier - unsteady - and he shouldn't be leaning over the berth, should he. Damn. Mesothulas did warn him. Rerun, he sends to his scanner, and his wrist chirps an affirmative as Wheeljack takes a step back. Just to be safe.

Woozy or not, he has to make a call. He can keep trying to fool the security to access the Lotus Machine and Mnemosyne's body directly. He can exit the room and maybe shut it down the old-fashioned way (read: with hastily improvised explosives). Maybe Mesothulas can be trusted to keep working to save Springer - but how many more people die before Wheeljack snaps another mech out of it?

Or he can go back under and consult the most concentrated collection of terrifyingly smart people this side of the Milky Way.

Option two sounds reeeally good right about now. But Overlord is out there somewhere, with Chromedome and whoever built this trap in the first place. The second Wheeljack tries to leave, this gets a thousand times more complicated. Ugh.

"So let me get this straight," Wheeljack says, after taking a moment to resign himself to the inevitable. He arches a brow down at Mesothulas. "You're familiar with the science behind positive-reinforcement prisons, safe spark extraction and stasis, and concealing spark energy signatures?"

"I dabble," Mesothulas says, modestly. Shifting back into his spider mode, he slips into the rapidly cooled spark chamber, the soft click of spider claws chilling in the tiny echo chamber.

"No, you don't," Wheeljack says. He feels so damn tired.

But he knows a focus when he sees it. Applied science is an interdisciplinary affair. With so many years of war to work with, most people tend to branch out and pick up expertise in a few fields. Mesothulas, though, is one of those where the direction is pretty clear.

Wheeljack never bothered to look up who came up with spark extraction. It was a long war, and it was the closest thing to humane they may ever have come, and they had so much else to do. If he had access to the Autobot databases right now, Wheeljack would guess that the source of that particular innovation got rolled in under umbra-level spec ops classification. Mesothulas is clearly one of Prowl's older assets. With bad blood between them, that's a recipe for a lot of messed up slag.

"Killmaster put you here, in a facility you could have built more efficiently with your hands tied behind your back," Wheeljack says, flatly. He starts walking back down the row. When Mesothulas doesn't answer, Wheeljack arches his brow higher. "Am I wrong?"

No response. Probably for the best, since Wheeljack can feel himself slipping as he gets more tired. The last thing they need is for him to start flashing his inner Starscream.

Megatron's easy to spot - even if his signal and his effect on local gravity weren't a giant flashing siren, he's one of the larger people in the room. You don't fight a warlord for an age without learning how to instinctively pick him out in a crowd. The real Megatron looks exactly like the one in the dream: medical crosses on his shoulders and a drill and a medkit strapped to his arms. Feels weird just looking at him. Even flat on his back, hands pinned by his sides, Megatron has presence. Walking up to him feels like approaching a throne or a dais. Nothing sets this slab apart from any of the others except who inhabits it, but that's more than enough.

Finally, Mesothulas answers. Long enough of a pause for Wheeljack to settle his internal debate with a shake of his head and start cutting Megatron's hands loose.

Then a low chuckle rises from within the chest cavity. "Perhaps I merely wanted to see if I could achieve the impossible," Mesothulas murmurs. "To measure guilt; to gauge the topography of a soul's hopes and dreams. To understand the nature of what we are, and apply it. The creation of a single true thing."

Oh.

Oh boy.

Wheeljack stops before he can cut Megatron's hand off by accident. Then he stares across the ring, at the green and yellow frame two rows out.

Either Mesothulas is bluffing, or he created Springer from scratch. The Lotus Machine offered him the dream of a Springer - no, of an Ostaros - that never left his side. Instead, he's stuck to the real Springer, playing the role of a hallucination and an advisor. The little spider on your shoulder, whispering secrets in your ear.

If Springer never left Earth, Mesothulas didn't either.

As though the stretching silence is an indictment, Mesothulas's voice tightens. "And he is good," the agitated hiss insists, rising in volume and ferocity. "From the moment he ignited, he was more than any of my work. He is not an abomination. I love him, and he is not."

"Because he's your kid," Wheeljack says, automatically, in English.

It rolls off the vocalizer more naturally that way. Earth languages accommodate that concept by default. It's integral. On Cybertron maybe the closest one equivalent would be mentor or creator, creation or successor.

But just 'cause the words aren't there doesn't mean the feeling isn't real.

Slag. Wheeljack and half the medical corps have patched Wreckers back together more times than he can count, and none of them could ever tell the difference. That's about as real as it gets. Synthesizing the photonic crystal wouldn't be hard, the Senate cracked that one ages ago, but the spark energy itself - that always came from Vector Sigma's pulses or the Creation Matrix. If Mesothulas managed to recreate that and ignite a spark from scratch - that's beyond mind-blowing. That's a new paradigm. Wheeljack's brain buzzes with the possibilities.

Later. He can't cajole Mesothulas into walking him through the math and the setup right now. Sure, the last time Wheeljack tried to collaborate with an almost-neutral scientist, Killmaster zapped them all to kingdom come.

But hey. They're not dead yet. And the more pieces and coincidences come together, the more Wheeljack wonders about that. Wheeljack is familiar with the calculations that go into Killmaster's space stuff, and he thinks that biodisguise or no, Mesothulas is exactly where Killmaster wanted all of them to be.

Assume that and work from there, and this picture gets a heck of a lot weirder. Weird in a way that makes Wheeljack's audials perk up.

Wheeljack shakes his head. "We don't have the parts we'd need to modify everyone in here," he says, shooting the ceiling a suspicious look. "So I'm gonna try to sort some things out from the inside. Kick me if there's a change."

Silence.

Wheeljack checks. No sign of the spider across the room. Just an empty slab and a section of the floor automatically cycling shut. The dead mech's body disposed of without a sound.

There's a lot of places someone that small can hide. Inside armor, under tables. Carefully, Wheeljack takes a step away from Megatron's berth, so that he has a clear space around him. "Mesothulas?" he says.

Something cold runs down his spine. Maybe, uh. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten lost in the science for a minute, there. It might have given the wrong impression. Also, it occurs to him that Mesothulas might not be…entirely stable.

Then with a faint click of feet that were too quiet a second ago, Mesothulas appears on the far side of Megatron. Even with Megatron laying down, Wheeljack would have to stretch half his body across to reach Megatron's opposite shoulder. It's like watching an ant cross a mountain range. Mesothulas crawls toward Wheeljack, still ominously silent.

Wheeljack cradles his wrist, and waits. Mesothulas has too many tiny, tiny eyes for him to know what to make of the spider's glittering stare.

"Why him?" Mesothulas finally asks. His vocalizer croaks, but the note of interest seems genuine. No horror, no protest, because the thought of dealing with the Slagmaker doesn't affect Mesothulas on any level. It just doesn't matter to him. A neutral party in the truest sense of the term.

Wheeljack refrains from mentioning the ominous silence and stare down. He already knows or has inferred more about this situation than he wants to know, period. If Mesothulas thinks Wheeljack's suddenly gonna be up in arms and offended by Springer's existence, he's gonna wait a lot time. Wheeljack has priorities.

Frag, Wheeljack just wishes he had an equally neutral answer. That he wasn't second guessing himself, tank churning, as they speak.

"Because when life hands you lemons," he says at last, still in English, "you make lemonade. Or I guess, just…bite the lemon raw?"

Okay, that one might have gotten away from him. He never snagged the full immersion cultural context download, and to be frank, humans are weird. He trails off with a wince.

After a long, long moment, the spider rubs his forelimbs together in anticipation. "Oh, we are going to have fun, aren't we," Mesothulas cackles, delighted. "Go, Wheeljack. I shall continue preparations here." Then he flings himself off the plateau of Megatron's chest with wild abandon and scuttles toward the Lotus Machine.

…There is absolutely no way this could go wrong. Nope. None at all.

Wheeljack flips the switch in his head with a blink, and drops.

---

Take your punishment like a Decepticon.

- Megatron of Tarn, to Starscream of Kaon

---

Awareness floods back in.

Too fast. The best medics (in any sane person's opinion) aren't gentle about booting one up and shoving one out the door. Being unconscious is a liability in a war zone. Better to wake up with an aching brain module than be dead weight. There's always someone else who could use the spare parts.

But no.

Starscream wakes up, smooth and crisp. Refreshed. As though he actually completed the three recommended full recharge and defragmentation cycles required for his frame type, like it says in every generic medical packet included in every cold 'con's brain that he's never bothered to read.

He feels - well rested.

Something is horribly wrong.

He opens his eyes, and it takes only a fraction of a second before the familiar shapes resolve themselves into people. He's at a table with Windvoice, Onslaught, Blast Off, and - of all people - Jazz.

All of them, by the feel of it, cuffed to their chairs.

No part of this is inspiring good feelings. In fact - Starscream thinks, as Onslaught twitches and mutters, on the verge of waking - this is a nightmare. Any second now, Megatron will take his place at the head of the table and Starscream will be able to rest easy knowing that this is just a bit of bad recharge feedback.

Megatron fails to materialize. Blast him.

"Rise and shine!" Transmutate says, her singing voice tight as she pats the back of Starscream's head, a rapid thump of fingers against the base of his helm. He irritably jerks his head away. She wheels around the long conference table to check on Windvoice next, carefully lifting her slumped head and angling under her jaw to reach a line. There's something - uncomfortable in watching Windvoice's head loll to the side, limp, the Lathe half unfurled.

When he left off, Starscream was in a much better mood with Transmutate. Now she's made the critical error of not disposing of him while she had the chance, and he's forced to be disappointed in her. Poor form. The sense of betrayal is mild next to that. Trifling, even.

And he has more immediate problems. Namely, how to kill Onslaught and Blast Off before they wake up and ruin everything. The room contracts in his field of vision, the edges pulsating, too small to contain Onslaught's presence and Windvoice's ears and Starscream's terror all at the same time. "Where are we?" Starscream snaps at Jazz, the only other person currently conscious at the table, feeling distinctly cranky about the whole affair. He can't even blame it on a poison hangover or a migraine - he is suspiciously refreshed.

"Devisiun," Jazz and Transmutate answer at once, their irritatingly chipper voices just a beat out of sync. Transmutate's expression tumbles, crestfallen, when she realizes that Starscream wasn't addressing her.

Jazz rolls his shoulders, just a tad more flexible than he should be with the cuffs locking his arms behind his back. For someone who vanished off the face of the planet days ago, he appears to be in working order: armor drawn in and compacted to appear smaller, legs folded like a pretzel, lounging so insouciantly that one might overlook the fact that he has several extra loops of loose metal chain binding his arms and torso. "The planetary capital, Sion. Lemme guess - you didn't get my head's up?" he drawls, mouth quirked ruefully.

Oh, fantastic. Exactly what Starscream wanted to hear.

Except not, because none of this makes any sense whatsoever. The only thing this explains is why the conference table is so slagging short, even after he ruthlessly curtails his brief segue into utter terror.

To be fair, he can't complain about their accommodations. He visited Sion when he recruited the Devisens behind Windblade's back, but he doesn't recognize the room. A long expanse of empty, iridescent purple floor stretches between them and the nearest door - Devisens have never had to scrimp for space. The room is spacious, dominated by the vast, concave dish of a window that forms a curving wall; the glass is tinted lavender, with a barely detectable privacy tint and a sprawling view of the open white-silver bowl of a concert arena outside.

The view over the rim of the stadium is unhelpfully vague - a few piddly skyscrapers against the meticulously moderated sky. The atmosphere is a creamy orange-pink, at the moment, but that doesn't hint at the time of day. Devisiun is thoroughly cyberformed and the sky's full of frivolous atmospheric mods to make it prettier. Cybertron built orbital weaponry and bombed itself to slag, while places like Velocitron and Devisiun solved the alternative energy crisis and manipulate nanite-laced cloud cover to make art.

Grimacing, Starscream tests the cuffs. They're Cybertronian make. Which means either they're too much for the incredibly dangerous saboteur at the end of the table to slip out of, or Jazz is faking it for reasons of his own. Those extra chains look entirely decorative. "I think I would have noticed you in my inbox," he says, accusing.

Jazz's visor flickers as he sighs. "Had to hack the code for Vanquish and Fireshot's comms. Devisiun's been on lock down. Nothing gets in or out without heavy scrutiny. Would have headed home as soon as I got my bearings, but things are pretty fragged here, not gonna lie."

"No, really?" Starscream lets more sarcasm slip out. This is the first he's heard about Devisiun on lock down, and that's disturbing. There was absolutely nothing like that in any of the representatives' annoying requests for publicly available schedules and meeting agendas and oh for the love of - "You're the reason they've been spamming us with a hundred messages a day!" Starscream screeches, incredulous, loud enough that Transmutate glances up anxiously from Windvoice's side. Windvoice, who is onlining with the same alarming speed, her optics only dim for a fraction of a second before she frowns and shakes her head to clear it. "No one could possibly read all of that!"

Jazz tilts his audial horns away with a stoic, long-suffering grimace. "They probably sent their own messages as cover, to be helpful. They haven't had a lotta room to maneuver here." A pause. "It was in a Decepticon encryption."

Of course it was. Show off. "If it was one of Soundwave's ridiculously overcomplicated ones, no one memorized those," he says, flatly, distracted by the fact that Transmutate has failed to secure his feet in any way.

For slag's sake. They could just walk out of here. Hunched up and humiliated in front of an audience of slag knows how many Devisiun half-pints, with a chair where their aft kibble should be, but still. This is his assistant! This is embarrassing!

"Should've guessed," Jazz sighs. "Anyway, the bullet points: Airachnid is here, Onyx Prime just arrived, Vanquish and Fireshot have been doing their best to work around some nasty shadowplay triggers the past week or so, and someone other than me has been trying to reach you through Transmutate. From the look of it, they succeeded." He waves a cuffed hand. "So I invited myself."

Lovely. Onyx couldn't have stayed put on Eukaris for five minutes?

And Airachnid. Separately, the Prime and Airachnid are two very different kinds of threat; if they're both scuttling around the place, this is more than a kidnapping. This is a disaster of city-leveling proportions.

Windvoice's hands are cuffed loosely in front of her - he and Transmutate need to have a serious discussion about her bondage techniques if she's going to continue in his employ, which is the worst possible way to phrase it his processor could come up with - and the smith's hammer wobbles across her lap as she tightens her slack grip. The glyphs of the Forge's handle pulse with a renewed flare of power when the curtain of her holovisor sweeps over Windvoice's face. She takes in their present company. When her eyes reach Starscream, he does his best to look innocently confused.

Which he is. It's not an expression he gets to wear often; he's out of practice. Appalled and insulted suits him much better.

One of Windvoice's brows wings up to a very precise degree of skepticism. Then she frowns, her sharp gaze cutting across the room again. Processing who's here, and who's not, as Transmutate moves to Blast Off. Resting on Starscream again, slowly, as her expression slowly resets into something - remote. Not quite disappointed. Too calm, too perceptive.

Slag, slag, slag. Something sickening throbs in Starscream's gut. Windvoice knew too much going in, and she's not stupid. Never that.

"She's going to be here any minute, boss," Transmutate interrupts. "Just act natural, okay? I'm so sorry about all this." Her quick, clever hands sink the next dose into Blast Off's neck before Starscream can protest. Slag, no. Leave the slagging Combaticons out of this as long as possib-

But Transmutate spectacularly fails to read his mind. His panic is ratcheting up again in uneven, nauseating spikes as the implications of this group of people settles over him like a greasy film. Onslaught is a coin toss turning in the air; all Blast Off has to do is open his mouth. It won't take much more pressure to make him crack - not when Starscream's already taken a hammer to him.

Airachnid doesn't even need to be in the room to ruin everything. Probably by design.

Yet as far as betrayals go, this one is still rather…lukewarm. Mostly because so far as Starscream is concerned, any coup that he's alive to witness is a coup that has already failed. He's petty that way.

"…Starscream. What's going on?" Windvoice asks, her voice calm. Controlled. She flexes her wrists and hands, but through the visor her expression has gone cool. The way she shifts to assess the room, lingering on Blast Off and Onslaught, isn't subtle. Starscream clenches his jaw against another dangerous surge of panic.

Panic would make things horribly simple. For Starscream's mind, it's not a very arduous leap from 'you're about to be compromised' to 'kill everyone in the room.' He's made it so many times before. There's a tiny, wailing part of his processor that could argue that it never works how he wants it to, someone always gets away, and then it all deteriorates further - but the voice that's either Wheeljack or Bumblebee (depending on how annoyed he is with it on a given day) doesn't have a lot of clout. His body feels too hot and too cold at the same time.

"Welcome to Devisiun. Your guess is as good as mine." Starscream forces a laugh as Blast Off stirs and Transmutate pats her hands on his shoulders like an anxious drum, her head flipping from Starscream to Onslaught and back again. Hesitation. Starscream jerks his chin at Transmutate for Windvoice's benefit. "I didn't poison you, by the way. Just so we're clear. For all I know, you've hijacked my assistant and had her poison me, just to mix things up. I would applaud your ingenuity, but we're all a bit tied up at the moment." While Windvoice's jaw drops, Starscream shuffles in his chair to face Transmutate. "And seriously, you didn't disarm her while she was out? 'Sorry' isn't going to cut it for that one, Transmutate."

Transmutate holds up both hands in genuine distress. "Don't look at me! I couldn't get it out of her hands! You either have super strong arms or awesome hand magnets, Speaker!" she adds, smiling at Windvoice.

It's unfair that he's so used to Decepticon standards for betrayal; he keeps expecting Transmutate to reveal a hidden integrated weapon, or unveil a significant color palette change in keeping with the law of chromatic determinism. But she's still her insufferably plucky self.

Windvoice's brows shoot for the stratosphere. "Uh…huh."

When her eyes dart to Starscream again for an explanation, he shrugs.

"Well, at least this is a learning experience for you," he decides, folding one leg ostentatiously over the other to see if Transmutate will take the hint. She's acting so normal that he can't tell if this is general inexperience with kidnapping people or if it's deliberate. "I've told you a thousand times not to take drinks from strangers. Or associates. Or trusted assistants. Or me. Do you ever listen?"

"I'm taking it under advisement," Windvoice mutters, with another dry roll of her eyes. A slim foot kicks him in the shin underneath the table, so at least someone is paying attention around here. Starscream twitches.

It's not enough to distract from the sudden dip of Blast Off's head. His maskplate snaps back with a sharp click as Blast Off catapults straight from sleep to panic attack, all vents blasting. Transmutate tries to grab his shoulder, alarmed; Blast Off flinches so hard the chair groans. His visor crackles with static. "I'm sor-!"

He cuts himself off. Or his vocalizer glitched on him: Starscream recognizes the choked grimace. Blast Off's exposed mouth sports a fresh cut on the lower lip, with a crust of mostly-dried, oozing energon down his chin and a streak of black paint across his dark cheek. He looks terribly distraught. Transmutate, naïve colonist that she is, reaches out to steady Blast Off's shoulder again, her red optics wide as saucers.

Blast Off shuts down the ventilation system and snaps his mask shut as he pulls himself together, shuddering with the force of aborted exvents. When he sees Starscream, Blast Off laughs. It's an ugly laugh. "Wow. Just. Wow. Just who I want to be handcuffed in a room with," he says, voice ragged. Sounds like he put his vocalizer through the ringer - which doesn't give Starscream much context for how Transmutate managed to drag Blast Off and Onslaught back into this.

Too many variables up in the air. Just because Airachnid might be in cahoots with Onyx Prime doesn't mean she doesn't have her own agenda. Onyx, Starscream suspects, wouldn't care about the explosive combination of people in this room. Airachnid would get a kick out of it, without question.

But Jazz implied someone other than Airachnid wanted Starscream here. So who's the third player out to ruin his life?

Onslaught shifts again in his seat. Starscream tenses, but the Combaticon subsides again. Still out. Even unconscious, he dwarfs the Devisen furniture. Starscream's 80% sure the loops of his arms cuffed behind his back are the only thing holding him on that tiny chair.

"Right back at you," Starscream snaps, after an awkward pause. No one else in the room froze like he did when Onslaught stirred. Starscream raises his voice archly to cover it. "Remind me why we couldn't be kidnapped in separate rooms, Transmutate? Actually, start from the beginning - why were we kidnapped at all? Your initiative fills me with pride -" Transmutate claps her hands together with delight "- but bringing those two into this? Unacceptable."

A 'tch' escapes Blast Off. He shakes his head in a tiny, tight arc - like he can't bear to shake it that extra centimeter and risk seeing Onslaught.

Windvoice still looks exasperated, but - thank slag - she seems preoccupied by the calculations streaming down and across the Lathe's screen. "Enough, Starscream. You can critique Transmutate's kidnapping technique later," she says, somewhere between stern and distracted.

Transmutate twitches, her audials swiveled back. "I didn't bring them here. Sorry! Onyx Prime's ship is really fast. I do enjoy constructive criticism, though!" she says, earnestly. She flips out a datapad and taps the screen five times in rapid succession to wake it up, beaming at Starscream.

The longer Transmutate is focused on him, the more time Starscream has to strangle the screaming indecision in his processor and figure out how he's going to deal with this catastrophe. "First off - Jazz is above your paygrade. He's here because he wants to be. Jot that down," Starscream says, indicating the datapad with his chin.

Jazz nods. "Yup. It's a complete coincidence that I'm here."

The chain over his left shoulder sags a little. Jazz shrugs it back into place with a perfectly blank expression.

"Got it, boss!" Transmutate scribbles that down in a rush. When she's done she looks back up, attentive. "What else?"

Before Starscream can open his mouth and unleash the floodgates, Windvoice cuts in. "Transmutate, please. This is Devisiun? But if Starscream really didn't arrange this, which I'm still not ruling out -" Starscream rolls his optics. She ignores him. "- then why exactly are we here?"

The timing is so spot-on that Starscream strongly suspects that the person in question waited outside the door for just such a moment. He recognizes melodrama when it's inflicted on him. Shock ripples through his spark as someone deactivates stealth and registers on his sensors, and he tenses as the door folds open -

And Flipsides walks in.

"Because it's show time, bots!" she proclaims, with a dazzling, radiant grin.

Literally. All of the lights in the room whip around to provide a brilliant spotlight.

Oh, he is going to murder them. Starscream swells up, and opens his mouth.

Flipsides snaps her fingers and points a finger pistol at him, still smiling like a beatific sun.

Starscream freezes. His vocalizer twinges as he swallows a shriek. Reluctantly, he eases back against the chair with a baleful glare.

Flipsides presses two fingers to her mouth and blows a kiss across the table. Transmutate waves back so fast her hand is a blur, enchanted. Without her other half Flipsides is only as tall as a sitting Jazz; she's in full Rosanna mode, all pink armor with neon blue flames licking her heels, speakers exposed in her shoulders, a rainbow sheen to her visor, and a bright purple Earth heart between the biolights of her chestplate. Otherwise, she's indistinguishable from a hot pink memory stick in root mode. Metal beads and mirrors jingle and clack around her wrists as she twirls and strikes a pose, one heel twisted up as she throws a peace sign. "Welcome, all. I hope you're enjoying your behind the scenes, all-access sneak peek at my celebrity suite!" she exclaims, sashaying around the conference table. Jazz's visor is the only set of optics not following her as she hooks her arm with Transmutate's. "Hey girlfriend!"

Her bright stage voice sounds incongruous while announcing all this to a captive audience. Transmutate smiles and stoops to kiss Flipsides's upturned cheek. "Hey Rose!"

First Soundwave, now Transmutate. This is a travesty.

JZ: hey screamer
SS: And of course they forgot to jam our comm traffic.
JZ: convenient, right?
JZ: just want to say - this is convoluted, even for you
SS: I'm flattered. But also I'm not responsible for any of this.
JZ: …
JZ: omp
JZ: this really is convoluted, even for you
SS: Oh, whatever, I'll take the credit. Fine, yes, I have my talents. No need to applaud, I have an extremely healthy and flawless self-image.***
SS: You're the one who's been up to your nosy neck in whatever's going on here. You must know what's happening!
JZ: when a mech like that's involved? suddenly i don't know jack about scrap
JZ: guess we just kick back, relax, and enjoy the show
JZ: B)
SS: I hate all of you.

Ugh.

Problem: Starscream's undercover operatives on Devisiun were apparently wooing his assistant in their spare time.

Solution: pending. He wishes his hands were free so he could rub his face.

Meanwhile, Windvoice watches Flipsides, wary. "We haven't been introduced."

Flipsides skips away from Transmutate and offers a hand that Windvoice, hands full of hammer, can't accept. "Rosanna, current reigning popstar of Devisiun, at your service, lady Speaker. Most number one hits on the Sion Hot Pop Charts, a cumulative two years and counting as the most played and most viewed on the cybernet, and defending champion of the Pan-galactic Music Awards in the Synesthetic Division," she rattles off, tossing the ornaments that hang from her helm as she inspects herself in the mirror on the wall. Like everything else, the mirror was hung with Devisens in mind; as Flipsides uncaps a tube of iridescent, glitter-encrusted blue paint and applies it to her mouth and the line under her visor, considering herself in the reflection, Starscream double checks that it is a mirror, and not Rosanna.

This is probably what he gets for not demanding more details from these two in their sporadic reports. In the transition between his abdication and Windvoice's rise, Starscream scrambled to keep track of his assets and acquire those connections that Rattrap hadn't sabotaged beyond repair. He'd focused his efforts on countering the threat posed by Elita-1, the Mistress of Flame, and Optimus Prime, and neglected to keep on top of other areas.

Not that his foreign intelligence network was very good before that. The overlap in the Venn diagram of Decepticon agents willing to work with Starscream and those who are actually competent is a thin line. Practically non-existent.

Now, while he's been mopping up at home, Rosanna and Flipsides's definition of deep cover expanded to include becoming intergalactic popstars and letting Airachnid run wild on their watch. Slag, for all Starscream knows Flipsides is as compromised as Vanquish and Fireshot are. Transmutate, too. There's no way to tell unless someone has a UV light handy.

Starscream pauses. Then he rescans the overhead spotlights trained on Flipsides.

Interesting.

Windvoice blinks, uncertain - and kicks him under the table again, distracting him. "Reigning? Like Velocitron's races? Starscream failed to mention -"

She sounds downright murderous. Adorable. "No, it doesn't work like that. She's being facetious," Starscream says, glowering at Flipsides in the mirror.

Flipsides taps a fingertip against her glittery blue lips and winks back. "You say that. But in fifteen minutes, everyone in Sion's gonna be at today's concert," she murmurs. Then she twists the cap back on the tube and plants her fists on her hips, smiling. "Literally! So - what are we to do with you all?"

Easy. "Let us go and stop corrupting my assistant," Starscream says, promptly. Then, after a thought - "Only I'm allowed to do that."

It would be nice if, for once in his life, the people who are supposed to be working for him would actually, you know. Work for him. Listen to orders. Flipsides giggles, one hand splayed against her chest as she thumps the back of Jazz's chair. Transmutate just looks apologetic. "Yes. Hilarious," Starscream finishes, deadpan.

Dabbing at the fresh paint under her visor, Flipsides makes a show of checking her chronometer. Her smugly charming smile never wavers as she sweeps past Onslaught to complete her circuit of the table and return to the door. "Whoopsy! Sorry, looks like our other guests are here to say hi! And I need to get ready for my performance!" she announces, laying a hand on the panel.

Then she activates the door and steps back with a bow as Airachnid strides in.

-

She's upgraded since Starscream last saw her: added bladed, golden vanes to the front panels of her knees, modded her collar into arching spikes that frame her narrow face, and broadened the flat black panes of armor so that she's more angular. The sharp lines of black paint on her cheeks extend further down, past the point where they could be mistaken for Vigilem's markings, with two horizontal slashes under each optic like closed lids. Fireshot and Vanquish walk behind the gangling, claw-tipped arms of her alt mode, blank as automatons. Fireshot is off tempo, his movements jolting. Maybe a deliberate choice - an attempt to signal that something's wrong, to circumvent shadowplay directives that prohibit direct action.

Too little, too late.

Flipsides lingers beside the door with a smile.

"And here we are," Airachnid says, sweet as treacle, all of her limbs and graceful claws spread wide. Her reflection in the mirror rises to encircle them with waiting arms.

Right. Not quite Starscream's worst case scenario, but it's in the running. He can't trust anyone in this room; they've all been unconscious or out of sight for too long. Blast Off's wheezing again, so fast that he might legitimately hurt himself. Transmutate doesn't look anywhere near worried enough. Jazz is unreadable, an enigma - but perhaps the only person he can rely on, since Airachnid doesn't seem to notice the stealthed presence at the end of the table.

The Starscream in the mirror looks horribly blank, staring over Windvoice's head as Airachnid brings both hands down on his shoulders. His paint crawls. He feels numb as he tilts his head to the side in time with Airachnid leaning in to smile beside his face.

"Airachnid," Windvoice says, frosty as winter. She sits with perfect posture and narrow eyes, hands folded tight over the hammer in her lap, radiating cool antagonism with a control Starscream can't appreciate right now. That is how to respond to an intimidation play, not - whatever Starscream's doing right now. He needs to get it together and do something, but his processor's too busy cataloging the way Airachnid's too-long fingers click against his armor. Tiny, drumming pinpricks.

The fact that Blast Off is worse off is not a mark in Starscream's favor. "Stop this!" Blast Off shouts, wrenching against his cuffs. Terror sparks off his field in uneven, palpable bursts. His visor keeps flaring, pale and flickering, a hairline crack in the glass refracting the light oddly. "I can't do this again, Starscream!"

Does that idiot actually think Starscream is in control here? "What are you looking at me for?! I told you, I'm not responsible for this!" Starscream snaps back. He wrenches his shoulders out from under Airachnid's hands, twisting to get her fully in his sights.

Airachnid smiles. "Oh, Blast Off. You've been so deliciously useful for my research," she says, letting the very tips of her mnemosurgical needles slip out to trail across Starscream's shoulders. "And Starscream. No need to be bashful. None of us would be so well acquainted if it weren't for you. It's been a pleasure working with you, but unfortunately, my tenure as your mnemosurgeon has come to an end. As instructive as it has been to dissect the minds of those who crossed you, I'm afraid that you've reached the end of your usefulness."

And just like that, really, it's over.

"No - oh no." Transmutate cuts herself off, hands cupped together over her mouth.

He's not interested in her desperately apologetic, wide-eyed stare, just like he's not interested in lifting his head to see Windvoice's reaction. Airachnid smiles and smiles, her optics dancing with sadistic glee as she drinks in his cold despair. "Do you know what the most delicious part is, Starscream?" Airachnid asks, tapping the back of his head. "When Onslaught wakes, all of the exquisite work I did to rewrite his mind for you will be gone. All of his memories, all of his outrage…all natural. I won't even have to lift a finger." But she does - she lifts the tapping needle away from his head, and rests her hands on his shoulders once more, like some sick parody of a bracing pat on the back. "You know what they always say: the truth will set you free."

A faint sigh. "So. You really did do it," Windvoice says. She sounds odd. Speculative. Not nearly furious enough.

Starscream wants to explode; he wants to rip off the plating where Airachnid keeps touching him. "Don't be an idiot," he snarls at Windvoice. You already knew. Don't play coy.

Airachnid smiles and winks in the mirror, like it's all a joke. A game. She claps her hands lightly together, the fingers threading, and Vanquish moves to help Windvoice up out of her seat. Windvoice allows it; Starscream catches a sideways glimpse of her expression by mistake - he doesn't mean to lift his burning face, but his automatic reflexes want him actively scanning the room - and sees that she's not even looking at him. "Now. Right this way. Vanquish and Fireshot will escort you to your next appointment," Airachnid says, clearing the way so Windvoice can pass.

Windvoice's tone hardens. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Onyx, of course." Airachnid's sharp heels tap against the dark floor with the same quality as her needles tapping on armor. She rounds the table, stroking the back of Onslaught's shoulder almost as fondly as she did Starscream. "He has a bit of blind spot when it comes to me - but then, most everyone does."

It's all gone to slag. It really has. Starscream whips around in his seat again, and manages to get out, "Windv-" before the door shuts behind her and the Devisen representatives.

But not, he notes, through the blistering humiliation, Flipsides.

"All good?" Flipsides asks, cheerily. She twirls a cable around her finger until it winds all the way around, then starts twirling it the opposite way, without a care in the world.

Airachnid doesn't even glance back. "Of course. Your services are no longer required, Rosanna."

Oh, thank slag. She has no idea who she's dealing with. There may be a way to salvage this yet.

"You seriously needed to hijack a popstar to get to me? That really is convoluted," Starscream drawls silkily, to cover for the way his EM field keeps spiking jaggedly out of control with every twitch of Onslaught's shoulders.

Airachnid comes back around the unoccupied side of the table, smiling as she stalks Starscream down. "Social capital is remarkably effective here. The population centers are less isolated than on Eukaris. In addition to influencing the populace as needed, Rosanna has also been instrumental in subverting dear Transmutate from afar. Sometimes, less is more. I must thank you again, Starscream; I couldn't have visited Devisiun so freely without your orders to the space bridge keepers that I was to be let through, no questions asked. Odd, how they didn't remember you rescinded my access."

Onslaught's vocalizer emits a garbled murmur. Hilariously, Blast Off twitches and freezes at the same time as Starscream: the flinch of someone who recently had a rude awakening.

Starscream snorts. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

Airachnid smiles down at him, indulgent. "Something funny?"

He really has to laugh out loud at that. Starscream lets his helm tip back, smirking at the ceiling without quite seeing it. "You actually think you're walking out of this room alive. After all that?"

Outside, through the window, bursts of color start popping over the arena below. The tinting shifts automatically so that the muted colors come into sharp, clear focus. Onslaught shifts again, a landslide in a tiny chair.

"I know I am. Tenacious as you are, this is the end, Starscream," Airachnid says. "Everything and everyone, falling into place."

"Spite alone keeps me alive," Starscream drawls. He kicks his feet out under the table lazily, sprawling lower in his seat. The disrespect used to drive Megatron up the wall. "All this, just to out one of my old, inconsequential schemes? How dull. I assure you, I've done worse. You're as boring as Rattrap."

Blast Off's too concerned frantically whispering to Onslaught's semi-conscious body to get properly miffed at that one. Transmutate keeps pivoting on an anxious loop, her optics big and round and wide with worry as she keeps her hands clamped over her mouth. Starscream would tell her that sidling around further behind Onslaught will be a less than stellar position to be in when the Combaticon wakes up, but -

"You've been a useful tool - but more trouble than you're worth," Airachnid says, condescending to the bitter end. "Onyx Prime's obsession with Windvoice, on the other hand, is far more fascinating to enable. And soon, all of this will be irrelevant." She leans in one last time to murmur in Starscream's audial, hands tucked neatly behind her back. "They found more than enough in Swindle's mind to ruin you, you know. I just wanted to watch you squirm."

If there's a move to make, by anyone in this room, now would be a fantastic time to make it. Starscream grits his teeth, coldly furious. "Get in line. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I could say the same to you." Airachnid straightens, and takes a half a step toward the door.

Flipsides pushes away from the wall at last. She lets the cable snap smartly back around her wrist and whistles. "Show's on in five, people! Are you ready for this?" she calls, tossing her head with a flip of her hand and a giggle.

"Forged ready, my mech," Jazz says, decloaking his stealth mods at the end of the table.

And Airachnid stops dead in her tracks, back to the rest of the room. She turns her head, inch by fractional inch, her face never quite visible to Starscream in the mirror as she fixes on Flipsides.

"…Rosanna. Why is that one here," Airachnid asks. In the end, it's not a question.

Flipsides sketches a tiny, simpering bow, her visor wide and full of secrets. "Hee. Funny thing about that! See, I don't work for you," she says, cocking her hip to the side.

Airachnid is unnaturally still. Not even a flex of her alt mode's claws. "Then who."

Flipsides hooks her thumb at Starscream. "Ironically enough - him."

His knee shoots up, ramming into the underside of the table and knocking it half over. Then Starscream kicks out to send it flying at both Onslaught and Blast Off. Not enough to hurt them, but he needs every second he can buy. He shoves himself backward with a screech of the chair's legs on metal.

Airachnid dives out of the way, skittering up the wall, and seizes Flipsides with needles already glinting at her fingertips. Flipsides lets it happen, her legs ragdoll limp and her smile full of relish as Airachnid punches in.

He tries the cuffs again. Still locked. "Get these off!" Starscream shrieks at Transmutate.

Her hesitation barely lasts a millisecond - the perks of a Velocitronian assistant - but with the mood Starscream's in that's long enough for him to snarl at her. Transmutate vaults over the overturned table and rolls to his side.

A hiss. "You -!" Airachnid exclaims in realization, trying to yank her hand free.

Too late. The curved back of Flipsides's helm shoots down, snapping the needle still lodged in her neck. "Ouch. You really want a piece of my mind?" Flipsides coos, her smirk perfectly patronizing. When Airachnid wrenches away, sensing the danger, Flipsides's arm whips around, hauling Airachnid back down to her level.

Then she inserts two fingers into her intake and gags up a brain module. "Have it!" she says, with that sweet smile, and shoves the blinking module into Airachnid's open mouth.

It stays a perfect 'o' of shock for approximately 0.5 seconds. So all of her myriad flaws aside, Starscream can rest easy knowing that Airachnid hasn't dabbled in eating brains before.

Then Airachnid spits it out in a blurt of horrified static and lobs the decoy processor away with a wild swing as the blinking red warning lights accelerate to a cheerful, terminal beep.

The brain grenade explodes before it can hit the window. The glass shatters outward, but the blast's localized in scope, the sound muted under Flipsides's giggle. Airachnid lunges for the new hole in the wall, the hand with the shorn off needle-tips clutched to her chest, and Flipsides follows.

A clunk as the cuffs hit the floor. Starscream ignores Transmutate and rises, his arm guns finally free to transform out with the inhibiters off. Airachnid spins to face them all as she skids to a stop, livid in the shock of bright, unfiltered sunlight, silk glinting between her alt's claw tips.

Jazz slides along the ground behind her feet, one arm propping up his cheek. Flipsides pirouettes forward with a flourish, and her leg snaps out to kick Airachnid backward. Airachnid trips over Jazz's legs, all of her arms spinning into frantic motion to unfurl a length of corded silk as she tumbles out the window.

They're not even that far off the ground floor of the stage below.

Still.

Before Starscream can fire, or Airachnid can swing herself to safety, a metal device slams into Airachnid's side. She clings to it automatically, claws scrabbling for purchase and finding it as the flying spotlight fans out and curves over the audience. It joins a line of other reflector units swirling in a vortex over the stadium.

Unconcerned, Flipsides fixes the bangles on her wrist. "Jazzy. I thought someone familiar was dodging my spyware," she says, sweetly, the sharp, triangular edges of her helm sliding neatly back into the Rosanna configuration.

Jazz rolls up onto his feet, casual as he leans against the window frame and crosses one leg over the other. "Flipsy. Long time, no see," he replies, equally flippant. He jerks his head back at Starscream with a broad smile. "You really pull all this off without tellin' him?"

Flipsides waves back at Starscream - or at Transmutate, behind him - and continues to chat with Jazz like Starscream can't hear every word they're saying. "Not a peep! Working for Starscream requires a light touch, you'll find," she confides, one hand at her cheek. "Mostly because he can't keep a straight face to save his life. Better if he doesn't know it's happening at all, so he can't get clever."

Jazz nods along like he's taking internal notes.

Great. They're both amused at his expense. Joy. "Lies and slander!" Starscream retorts. He's - disgruntled. As irksome as it is to have one of his own agents pull something like this on the side - slag like this is fairly typical when dealing with Decepticon Spec Ops - he's more aggravated by the fact that they're letting Airachnid get away.

Transmutate pats him on the arm. "Are you okay, boss?" she asks, brightly.

He yanks his arm away. He is not fazed by her crestfallen pout in any way, shape, or form. "Okay? Okay?! I'm just peachy. Now, one of you tell me in five klicks or less what the frag is going on here!"

Flipsides's visor is cool when she glances back at him. "I'm doing my job," she says, acerbically, sunny disposition gone. "This mnemosurgeon got her needles into the local representatives, so we undertook countermeasures to insert ourselves into her operation. It only took a few backstage passes before she took the bait. We've had to juggle a bit to keep her from realizing, but we've kept her web contained. Otherwise half your command team would've been targeted this past week. She seems to be spinning webs just for the sake of it; her only real endgame is destabilization." Flipsides taps a button on her wrist and activates the projector embedded in it. A projection of a terribly familiar eye rotates over her wrist, its interlaced branches woven in a new pattern in the sky. "Onyx Prime arrived shortly before Transmutate brought you in, with Onslaught and Blast Off in tow. Sounds like he intercepted them on his way here, but I have not been able to establish why he's here in the first place. Do me a favor and do something about that Titan of his in orbit? I quite like this assignment; it would be a shame for Devisiun to go to the pit."

With a snap of her fingers, the projection closes. Then Flipsides bends over to lean out the window, shading her visor with a hand as she peers down. The opening refrain of music drifts in, alarmingly loud without the window to shield them. At least the synesthetic effects haven't hit yet. "Oh look! She's actually trying to fight Rosanna. How adorable!" she says, bubbly and cheery once more as she smiles at Jazz. "We could always use a backup dancer."

Jazz huffs out a laugh. There's an edge to both smiles and visors. "Might as well. Since I crashed your party, and all," he says, with a laidback shrug.

"Problem!" Starscream screeches at both of them, as the overturned table starts to shift. One of his arms stays trained on the two mechs behind it, so tense that it trembles with the strain, but Starscream's agonizingly aware that even if he shot through the flimsy table to seize the advantage, it won't do more than sting Onslaught through heavy armor. Both of the Combaticons are stirring on the far side of that thin barrier, they've snapped their cuffs like they were made of paper, and he trusts absolutely no one in this room to do something about that. He's wide awake, and agonizingly aware that he doesn't have much up his subspace to help even the odds.

He's on his own, as usual.

Flipsides confirms his suspicions. "Yes. A you problem, Starscream," she says, lightly. Another flying spotlight zooms away from the stadium, arcing over and fanning out wide as it approaches the window. She shoots him a look that's pitying and pitiless at the same time as Transmutate skates over to catch her hand. "If you live, we need to negotiate our bonus for next year. 0700, your office. I'll call you. But that spider is more important than your personal problems. I don't particularly care what you've done, but that's no excuse for sloppiness."

With that, she boosts up to kiss Transmutate. "If you're staying, do be careful," she adds. Then she holds a hand out to the side. "Shall we dance?"

Rather than taking it, Jazz checks over his shoulder - and steps out of the window. Flipsides hops after him. Both land on the next spotlight as it zooms by; Flipsides with perfect poise, Jazz with a grunt as he grabs the forward edge of the fan to stay balanced.

Which just leaves Starscream, alone in a room with his traitorous assistant and his personal problems.

His…personnel problems.

"How long," he asks, backing across the wide expanse of floor between him and the exit. Someone - Blast Off shoves the table off the pile of Combaticons; Starscream's targeting HUD identifies the fingers gripping the side.

Transmutate skates back over to him. Which is just what Starscream needs to make him crankier - calculating whether that makes her easier to shoot or harder to keep out of the line of fire. "Until he wakes up? Really not long. We should probably go save Speaker Windvoice now -"

"No, how long have you been dating those two?" Starscream corrects, through gritted teeth. If either Combaticon has their combat HUD up and running - they'd be stupid not to - they'll notice the second he lowers his weapon.

She perks right up, swiveling her heels to keep pace with Starscream as he angles for the door. "Oh! A few months now. It's been really nice; Rosanna is super sweet, too! They said that this was the fastest way to deal with the Airachnid situation, and it seemed like it made sense at the time, but I really didn't mean to get personal stuff mixed up with work stuff, sir. Or let Airachnid say those things where the Speaker could hear and mess things up for you. And I only drugged you a liiittle bit 'cause otherwise things were gonna get really bad here -"

With each sentence, Transmutate winces a little harder. By the time her brisk chatter falters, Starscream's right optic is twitching, Onslaught's hand has joined Blast Off's on the table, and Transmutate has transitioned from excitement to apprehension. She darts a look up at Starscream, suddenly distraught. "I'm not fired, right?"

Time to make the call.

Ugh.

Starscream sighs. "No, you're not fired. You're still more loyal than most people who work for me."

Transmutate punches the air. "Yes!"

Onslaught groans.

"We should run now," she finishes.

"Way ahead of you." Starscream hits the door's security panel with a fist.

Blast Off sounds shaky and uncertain. "Onslaught, are you o-"

"Don't touch me."

The shove sends Blast Off crashing back against the far wall. Unfortunately, it also knocks the table aside, shattering the crystalline top.

Onslaught staggers up on the far side of the wreckage one knee at a time, his visor a seething crimson. "Don't. Touch me," he says, hoarse and wretched. As if he spent the past year gargling gravel.

Blast Off flinches like every word is a physical blow. He curls in on himself with a strangled little noise, clutching his head as though it's the only thing holding his processor together.

And it's not fair that here, in this room that feels cramped because it's too wide and too short to contain them, Onslaught towers. Head and shoulders taller than Blast Off, at most - but heavier. Broader. Onslaught and his team of brutes never rose high enough for his mere profile to inspire fear and notoriety in the ranks, not the way the real monsters could. If Onslaught hadn't been adept enough to hold them together with ruthless force of will, they would've been unexceptional.

Starscream walked around with Onslaught at his back for months, blasé, and gradually stopped noticing the walking tank looming behind him.

He's noticing now.

Then Onslaught notices him.

Ah yes. He remembers it all. It's all there, stripped down and unvarnished, in his furious, riveted stare. "You," Onslaught breathes.

Right. Starscream seizes Transmutate by the collar and throws her out the door. "Running now," he says, tightly.

Onslaught surges like an avalanche; all that locked down violence bursting free as he shifts. Starscream's initial shots skim off the plates of armor that unfold to shield the transformation sequence, layer after layer shoving into place with brutal efficiency. The force of impact caves the floor in and warps the metal under Onslaught as he roars headlong over the buckling turf. "Starscream!"

Starscream bolts. Three paces before Onslaught punches through, dragging half of the shredded wall behind him. The rev of the engine crashes through Starscream, jarring, and the din rises even louder when Onslaught turns to pursue. He sweeps his arm around to fire at Onslaught without breaking stride, legs straining wider with each step as he pushes himself to move faster. Each step feels jarring, like the next will be the one he trips over himself and goes flying. Transmutate's legs are a pale blur as she races ahead.

"Windvoice! Onyx! Where!" Starscream shrieks.

"Top floor! Stairs and lifts are up ahead!" Transmutate yells back.

She's still thinking in terms of halls and walls, as if this is a track with a set course.

Give Onslaught enough time and traction, and there won't be a building left.

Tracking signals light up his HUD. Onslaught's first shots lance past Starscream's legs and shred the floor, shearing clear through the metal and leaving jagged edges in their wake. Bad - if he's aiming for the legs, he's not aiming for the spark or the head. Drawing it out deliberately. Good - if he's aiming for the legs, he's not aiming for the spark or the head. Onslaught could riddle this whole hallway with hot shrapnel.

Still. "Go!" Starscream orders, jaw clenched as he fires back. Then he snips Transmutate out of the HUD feed. Either she'll make it or she won't; she'll clear out if she knows what's good for her.

Behind him, the hallway crunches and churns as Onslaught ploughs through. Starscream can detect open air past him where Onslaught's destroyed most of the structure between them and the window-side venue. Onslaught fires another salvo - Starscream dives, feeling the searing edge of a round that would've smashed through his right wing -

A fresh wave of alarms as Blast Off races out of the room, jumps the shredded gap in the floor, and shoves off the wall to pelt after them.

He's not firing. Yet.

Transmutate swings around the corner into a wide-open lobby. She hits the stairs running, wheels visible through the gaps between floating steps as she vanishes into the upper levels.

Starscream doesn't follow. A burst of gunfire clips his heel as he runs right through the lobby window and throws himself into the air. But he can't slagging well leave, can he. He shoots the windows along the outside of the building and then picks a floor at random to crash back inside. He cuts the sound of his engine as much as he can and lands in a crouch, listening.

"I'm going to burn you alive," Onslaught says, through two floors. The low rumble of his transformation sequence and the sound of him stalking up the stairs, one deliberate step at a time, gives Starscream audio data to track his approximate location below. Onslaught isn't trying to hide. "And when I'm done, I'm going to burn this entire planet to the ground."

Then he fires up through the floor. Starscream bites back a screech as he pitches himself forward and dives through a series of empty, interlinked office spaces. The doubled sets of workstations don't provide any shielding when Onslaught's basic shots slice through the floors and ceiling between them easily. The holes open at random underfoot, the blasts themselves whizzing by Starscream as he runs. Neither of them can be sure exactly where the other is, but with every step and spike in Starscream's activity, Onslaught can narrow it down.

Crude tactics are called for - Starscream starts shoving and punting chairs and upturning desks. He hip checks one into a wall, and the speakers on top start running a surround sound test sequence before getting minced from below. "So I'm guessing the honeymoon phase is over?" Starscream can't resist calling back through one of the holes in the ground.

Any veneer of control in Onslaught's voice breaks. "I'll kill you."

The rate of fire doubles, turning the office space into a hail of shrieking energy blasts.

Still worth it.

Starscream dives across the glass-walled hallway as Onslaught's attack sets off every device in that office block, filling the air with alternating wails and alarms. A fire suppressant system kicks on, adding to the chaos. Splendid. He clamps down his armor and falls back into a crouch to sneak further as Onslaught recalibrates for all the distractions.

"You took Blast Off away from me in every way that matters. Turned him against me," Onslaught calls back. The floor is perforated enough that his voice seems to come from too close. Is he back on the stairs, moving up? Blast Off's strangled whimper is easier to track.

Starscream switches to an open comm broadcast, regardless. Onslaught might be able to triangulate that faster than sound, depending, but this is already a disaster.

SS: And yet I finally made good on that job offer.

Another shot. Not from straight below, either - the angle is too shallow. Starscream twitches as the glass of the hallway explodes, but picks his way through it to head back the way they came from. Back toward the stage side of the music arena.

SS: You're the genius who didn't notice your second-in-command pining after you like a lovesick fool -

"I'd promise to destroy everything you care about. But let's be honest - the only thing you care about is your sorry self, and power," Onslaught says. "So I'll just start by killing that Speaker and wiping out the slagheap you're lording it over. And when we're done there, when that tiny mudball full of Autobots and the blasted neutrals is in pieces, and Optimus Prime's pet planet is cracked open, we'll move right on to the next Council world. I'll rip it all out - everything and everyone you've ever touched."

"Onslaught, stop it! This is going too far, okay?" Blast Off bursts out. Starscream freezes midstep as the tracking marker in his HUD uses that to pinpoint the Combaticons…right on the stairs, just below the landing at the far end of the hall. Too close to where he flew in; they're almost level with him, almost back in visual range.

A clank of someone throwing themselves forward at a tank-sized chest - too quiet to be a tackle. If Blast Off wants to get himself slagged first, more power to him. Starscream winces and continues down the hall. He keeps long-range sensors trained on them, but spares some of his focus to scan above, too. No sign of Windvoice, or even Transmutate.

Onslaught's engine snarls like something's choked in there. "Get out of my way, Blast Off," he orders, hard and terse. "I won't say it twice."

"I took what I thought was my only option. For stupid, selfish reasons. And I was wrong, and I'm more sorry than I can ever say," Blast Off retorts. His vocalizer cracks. "But we can't just go around slaughtering colonies! We can't fight the whole world, Onslaught! They're not responsible for what he did!" Another broken, faltering crack. It seems to take effort for Blast Off to reset it and push through to the bitter end. "For what I did."

Then he lapses into silence, and the Combaticons fall totally still. Starscream bites his lower lip as the HUD tracking estimate on their position fades into uncertainty. Windvoice has to be around here somewhere -

When he finally answers, Onslaught's voice sounds rough and weird and low. "'We,' huh," he says. A short snort, barely a blip on radar. "Never stopped us before."

Silence again. Then a shift. "But you're not wrong. There's about to be one pit of a power vacuum. Megatron's all washed up. Shockwave's a menace. Time for someone to step up. Yeah. Sounds about right."

He's not lowering his voice any further. Either Onslaught doesn't care if Starscream hears this - or he wants him to hear it. Starscream presses up against the far wall at last, and shoots an irritable glance over his shoulder at the concert a few levels below. The pulsing music is barely muted by the window panel and the building's soundproofing, after all the damage they've done to the place. His estimate of the Combaticon's last known position is fuzzy at best - he glances back down the hall reflexively.

Starscream freezes, just in time to see Onslaught loom over Blast Off on the landing, directly down the hall. Blast Off takes one last tiny, faltering step backward, helm fallen back to stare up at his commanding officer. He doesn't even try to get out of the way.

"I can always count on you," Onslaught says, reaching out to grasp Blast Off's shoulder. "But I don't need a subordinate who's a liability. So let's take care of that."

Which is the cue for him to shoot Blast Off.

And instead Onslaught stoops and catches Blast Off in a kiss that almost buries him. Blast Off makes a weird, choked noise, head tipped back, and oh, great. They're in love. Onslaught's visor seethes as he stares over Blast Off's helm.

He never once breaks eye contact with Starscream.

Starscream can almost admire it. Onslaught is truly a master of keeping his crew of sociopaths in line.

Then, still wrapped around Blast Off, Onslaught snaps a target on Starscream. "Now," he says, straightening. "Let's kill him."

Starscream bolts down the intersecting hall. Now that Onslaught has given Blast Off exactly what he always wanted, he really is dealing with two Combaticons, which is such slag -

A barrage rips through the wall right as Transmutate comes racing down the hall toward him. When she reaches him she brakes hard and falls in alongside, arms pumping furiously. "Hey, boss. We've got a maybe-problem. Or three. Someone knocked Vanquish and Fireshot out, and Windvoice is locked in with Onyx Prime," she reports, venting hard. "Rose's door codes aren't working."

"Get down!" Starscream snaps.

Transmutate obligingly crouches, hands on her knees as she skates alongside him. "Also I'm like 85% sure that L-"

Onslaught charges through the walls between them at a diagonal, with a sound like someone punching through a thin sheet of metal punctuating each. Blast Off keeps up a steady spread of fire as Onslaught closes. Starscream cuts Transmutate off with a furious gesture. "Go!"

She does. He runs stooped low as another line of slugs rips through the hall. White hot lines graze Starscream's shin, ailerons, and right hip - trivial damage. But a warning sign that his combat protocols can't just run loops around these two bozos like he could when Onslaught was fighting angry.

No. Now he's fighting like this is a tactical mission. That, even more than Blast Off's unpredictable burst shots, means Starscream is in trouble.

He makes it halfway around the curve of the hallway before Onslaught ploughs through the last wall, ahead of Starscream, which cuts him off from Transmutate. Blast Off's advancing along the same curve Starscream followed, now, picking up speed as Onslaught swings. Starscream ducks under it, but there's no room with both their frames crowding the hallway, only a pane of glass between them and the muted arena to the left, and Onslaught body checks him without stopping to shove him up against the glass wall. It cracks as Starscream's wings slam into it, the thin edges of the cracks digging into his back as Onslaught applies pressure. His right fist is already drawn back for another swing -

Starscream twists away. Onslaught punches through the wall, and they spill out onto the edge of the stage.

---

I'm a goddess with a ^{[bang bang]}

소리쳐봐 내 이름 잊지 못하게

(First on the recruitment list)

Loud, loud, loud, loud

I could take it to the top

절대 멈추지 못해 내가 끝내주는

(You thought I was gonna fail, but I'm fine - sorry!)

- Flipsides of Devisiun Iacon, << k/da mic/drop>>

---

Airachnid never made it past Rosanna. Rosanna and Flipsides are identical down to the bangles on their wrists, so two copies of the same mech dance circles around her with no indication of which is more dangerous. Rosanna dips and bows under Airachnid's slice, then straightens with a flourish as Flipsides cuts in to spin Airachnid by her own claw. Someone has given Jazz an electric bass shaped like a fuchsia lightning bolt, and he's actually playing. Starscream recognizes the bright tangerine bird-cassette on the synth keyboards before he's forced to dodge Onslaught's next volley. They're all still performing - Jazz rolls easily under Airachnid when the spider leaps, and Airachnid trips as the power cords of the bass tangle around her legs. She drums them in a staccato to yank them loose, and while she's distracted Rosanna twirls Flipsides under the main spotlight - as Onslaught's engine snarls under the reverberating beat.

The lights back here at the inner end of the stage don't frame and highlight like the spotlights upfront - the saturated purples and reds and yellows drown out a lot of the visual sensory input, painting Onslaught and Starscream murky shades of purple. An insistent automated request keeps pinging him, angling for temporary access to his sensors; unfortunately, tricking the Combaticons into activating that and swamping themselves in synesthetic input would take too much time. Past the shimmery bubbles of sound and light drifting through the semipermeable shields around the arena, a crowd roughly equivalent to the population of a metroplex cheers.

Starscream kicks thrusters on and weaves between Onslaught's shots. He has aerial advantage now.

And an audience full of easy targets. Which he has to care about. The Devisen crowd must be muted on that side of the arena, or the roar of a stadium this size would make an organic's brain pop. Each of them a minor PR disaster waiting to happen if they kick the bucket. For Onslaught it'd be like shooting Seacons in a barrel.

Caring. Too much of that going around these days.

Whatever. He boosts up higher and fires back. The light show and pulsating sound play merry slag with his optics - he picks up Onslaught again, his shots on a trajectory that doesn't quite put the stands in danger yet, but Blast Off isn't firing from his last known position for some reason -

Hesitation. Blast Off's soft. Starscream knows this, and yet didn't think it extended to Blast Off not taking a shot at Starscream with the crowd behind him. Starscream closes his vents, dives into a thick cloud of sparkly gold glitter - that's not coming off any time soon - and scans on comm frequencies until he catches the scrambled chatter between the Combaticons.

So. Only a matter of moments until Onslaught pressures Blast Off into it, like he did every other war crime the Combaticons ever committed. Now would be a great time for a counterstrike. A sonic blast in a stadium like this would work fantastically.

But he's alone.

The stage blacks out. Complete drop of all sensor input. Starscream cuts thrusters and hits the ground hard, glitter flakes scraping in his seams as he guesses wildly where Onslaught will move next.

The floating lights kick back online and paint the stage in dark purple light. Starscream claps a hand to the back of his neck and dims his optics belatedly, and across the stage spies Onslaught doing the same with his visor. His regular paint is dim and murky compared to the bright pinpricks on the back of his neck. The fog clouds of nanites and glitter and paint in the air reorient into new patterns; the stage is a UV-pink maze of hypotrochoids, the integrated lights rolling into a new configuration with every beat of the speakers.

Airachnid is a flicker of stained-white needles and a tracery of web along each limb, bright silver and unmistakable. Roseanna burns like something radioactive, her whole frame alight as she kicks Airachnid away, jumps, and rolls across the back of someone invisible in the dark. Her arm laces with a stealthed arm as she rolls off their far side, and she laughs as Flipsides spins her back around the way she came. Jazz is deliberately visible, his visor a sharp streak of electric blue in the dark as the power cord snakes around to entangle Airachnid again. Airachnid punches two limbs behind her midturn, stabbing through the air where Jazz should be - but he kicks around, spinning hard on the axis of one shoulder, and the power cord snaps tight.

And there is a fraction of a second where Airachnid should make her move, but doesn't.

Starscream's tracking that fight with what processing capacity isn't tied up in not dying, but the break is obvious. A pause - and instead of striking out, or flipping her weight into her alt mode to slip the trip wire, or anything else, Airachnid makes eye contact with Starscream. Her face looks eerily narrow under the ultraviolet light - the extra lines and eyes painted down her sharp cheeks luminous, like a second face.

Instead of doing what she should do, Airachnid smiles open-mouthed at Starscream, touches her needle-tipped fingers to her temple, and mimes a silent explosion.

She's still laughing at him when Jazz kicks up onto his feet from his back, and the dark absence of Flipsides punches a sharp bladed arm through Airachnid's chest. The bright spurt of pink energon is just another part of the light show, liquid outlining Flipsides's invisible arm before the stage opens up and swallows them.

For a full second, Starscream freezes. The only reason it doesn't kill him is because Onslaught and Blast Off freeze too. All three of them waiting for the bomb to drop.

But it doesn't. Airachnid slumps into the floor, life signs dark, and any knowledge whatever mines she might have buried in their minds goes with her.

Then the stage blazes back to life and Rosanna steps onto the closing floor panel with a blown kiss. Not a drop of energon on her or Jazz as the stage splinters and fans out, rising into the air on antigravity units. Onslaught dives to the side, cannon up, before Starscream can. The ripple of the shifting stage reaches them in a shuffle of metal. Starscream lets it knock him off balance; Onslaught's shot shrieks past him. Two shots catch him in the side - Blast Off can get fragged, honestly -

A boom rocks through the air as an array of paint cannons erupt over the crowd. A glop of neon pink paint slaps onto his lower leg on the tail end of a paint gun's arc, and that better be temporary or so help him.

Starscream seizes the distraction to take off and ram through the wall several stories up. He bursts back inside, shattering still more glass, and streaks away without waiting to see if the Combaticons take the bait. They will. They do.

"Here!" Transmutate shouts. Her hand flashes out and catches Starscream's wrist, yanking him around the corner. "Through here!" Starscream kicks to get his legs under him, his thrusters leaving black streaks along the walls before cutting out. Transmutate emits a high bleep as shots punch through the floor at an angle.

Starscream shoves her blindly down the main hall - Onslaught's still on him, shooting up through the floors, but Blast Off will be strafing any second. Starscream transforms and throws himself down the side hall instead, sweeping over the twin blips of Fireshot and Vanquish, hissing as Onslaught fires another salvo - and blasts through the doubled doors of the penthouse suite.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asks.

Onyx Prime and Windvoice don't even blink. A third person steps away from the wall right as Starscream roars through, but there are more important things to focus on right now.

Onyx doesn't turn. Just flattens a wing horizontally in one sharp motion. Starscream slices under the fanned-out wing blades, and hits Windvoice nosecone first.

Ah, finesse.

Then it's out the window again, pulverized glass pinging off armor plating, and up, peeling away so Windvoice won't foul him when she transforms.

Except for one odd moment - she doesn't. She freefalls instead, and for one wild, incensed second, Starscream thinks he's going to have to assist before she hits the ground. [What are you -?! Move!] he snaps over comms.

But Windvoice catches herself, finally, with only a wobble as she accommodates the Forge. The ridiculous moment passes.

Anyway. They've probably fragged Onyx off now, too.

She doesn't even dignify him with a response. After he went through the trouble of rescuing her, too. Now they're trying to outrun Onyx Prime, Blast Off, and Onslaught's long-range weaponry, all at the same time. If Windvoice decides to make a point about Starscream's past misdeeds now, it's going to be a problem.

She's still cruising too low. Onyx Prime drops out of the smashed window and shadows her almost lazily in his streamlined aerial alt. [Pull up,] Starscream sends, with the first flicker of genuine irritation. She can ignore him and common fragging sense when they're not being hunted by a Prime who can outfly both of them. Starscream swings sharply to keep a block of buildings between him and Blast Off as the Combaticon slingshots over the rim of the arena.

It takes real effort to track Onyx when the Prime dips and weaves below the airways, stalking Windvoice's contrails. If Starscream can maneuver Blast Off into shooting across the Prime's bow, though - yes. Pitting them against each other might work. Starscream doubles back on himself, flipping upside down; Blast Off redoubles his fire, the shots spraying through an already-sparking marquee on the wall. Another shot digs a track through his right wing, deep enough to trigger an alert -

Onslaught demolishes the arena wall, a metal guardrail, and a column full of advertisements, rapid fire. The guardrail flattens into a tattered strip as his treads mow it down and he barrels after them. He rounds the corner and rams through the bottom floor of a drive-in arcade, levelling anything and everything in his way. A smoking trail of churned up street and display projectors and traffic dividers carves messily through the city in their wake.

It's not as flimsy as an Earth city. Still. As far as cover goes, Sion would only take a few hours for the full Combaticon squadron to level, max. Whenever another skyscraper gets in the way, Onslaught goes through, and the tunnels he leaves behind are deliberately structurally unsound. No bulwarks or scrambling clouds to fall back on out here - everything on Devisiun is pretty and sleek and interlocked, and easily reduced to rubble. If Starscream were flying solo, he'd cut his losses and leave the place to get slagged. Put on a burst of speed and take this orbital, where only Blast Off could follow.

BB: Starscream -

The comm makes Starscream abruptly lose his train of thought. It's a bad moment - he's not sure if Bumblebee is real or not.

At the same time, Onslaught adjusts and fires on Windvoice. She's still barely a few dozen meters above the street. She's the obvious target. Like. Blindingly obvious. What is she doing, flying like that in the first place -?!

Without a word Windvoice rolls low and drops into a slicing turn. She snaps sharply off to the right.

Simultaneously, Onyx Prime folds in his wings and drops back with that alarming agility. The sleek, heavy wings flare back out directly over Onslaught.

Onslaught pulls off, checking himself and evading the Prime's shadow as Onyx looms over him in a deceptively calm glide.

Only a warning. But it buys time. Better, it saves Starscream the trouble of setting their two enemies against each other. If the threat of Onyx keeps Onslaught off Windvoice's back, so be it. It would've been difficult for Starscream to manipulate them into doing the same thing mid-fight, since Onslaught would've seen right through him and Onyx is an enigma.

Blast Off circles back around, checking his fire to assess whether Onslaught needs back up. Whether Onslaught meant it or was just feeding Blast Off what he wants, it's certainly handy. Starscream cuts similarly around the next skyscraper into an alley between tiers, crisscrossed by a net of holo signs, transparent walkways, and ramps. He transforms and touches down hard on one of the ad-riddled walkways by a storefront, pinging Windvoice with rising impatience until the VTOL skims around the far end of the block. The pink overlay of the Lathe screens her dark cockpit; as she angles up through the escalator bank and splits back into root mode, the holo visor seamlessly rippling into place over her face. Not a drop of guilt in her neutral expression, either, despite the fact that she's been fiddling around with that thing in a fragging warzone.

But she lands a careful distance from Starscream. So maybe she's learned a lesson after all.

"Anyway. About what you overheard," Starscream says, casually.

A curt, grim shake of her head. "Later, Starscream. I'll deal with you later."

Promising! "Good. Because Onslaught's gunning for both of us right now," Starscream says. Onslaught did say he'd destroy Neo-Cybertron and all that.

"And at what point can I expect to be shot in the back?" she asks, impassively. "I am familiar with how you've handled these kinds of problems in the past, you know."

"I suppose you'll just have to trust me," he forces out, with a terrible smile.

But there's a worrying lack of gunfire from the far side of the block. And Onslaught, all of his obliviousness toward Blast Off's crush aside, can in fact read between the lines.

When the next missile bursts through the shopfront, it's aimed only at Starscream. His HUD traces the trajectory back to Blast Off in a red arc as he leaps back. Windvoice moves when he does, dropping into a defense crouch as the visor retracts into a panel of light and lines over her left eye, but she doesn't need to bother. Onslaught's not going to risk provoking Onyx again unless he has a sure shot. "Just find the space bridge," Starscream says. It's the only way out of this mess, and he has a specialist on hand. "Just go."

Then he raises his arm and shoots through the meter-wide hole in the building. Blast Off veers out of the line of fire. But Starscream's next step hits nothing but air as the walkway ruptures underfoot - Onslaught, firing as he vaults over one of the ramps. Starscream trips his transformation sequence with gritted teeth. The uneven start is a minor annoyance. Not a problem. A fan of red in his peripheral as Windvoice falls into a spiraling dive - what is she playing at? - but luckily for her Onslaught doesn't take advantage.

It rankles, but Starscream swerves back around and speeds after her. A tunnel takes up the street ahead of them, wide and well-lit.

WV: Starscream -

SS: Don't worry about it.

Starscream skims as close to Windvoice's wingspan as he can and then cuts his speed to keep pace with her; this close, at this speed, a hit on either of them will definitely send one crashing into the other. The threat of Onyx only slows the Combaticons for a beat; even if they shoot Windvoice, the crash probably won't kill her. And Onslaught's willing to take that bet.

"Coward," Onslaught shouts after them hoarsely, as they blast through the tunnel. He fires, but it's deliberately spaced out. Blast Off's engines are detectable overhead, and Starscream tracks him through the roof of the tunnel - but he's playing it safer with Onyx in the open air with him. Doesn't risk a direct shot.

A network of sharp pink lines traces the tunnel ahead of them, flowing away in a wave. Windvoice tilts slightly and Starscream mirrors her as closely as Onslaught will allow, until they're parallel to each other, flying knife edge.

WV: Left.

And a burst of data. She's oriented them so Starscream's on the outside of the left-hand turn. They clear the tunnel, the alternating lights cutting to open air as they hit the airway. Windvoice turns almost on a dime, fans kicking up a burst of light that Starscream keeps level with through his slightly wider arc.

WV: Right, and down.

Down? There is no down unless they land, they're at slagging street level. Preliminary scans show a six-way tiered intersection up ahead, broad and open with more than a few magnetic lines and airways overhead. If the city weren't empty, it would be a chaotic mess of traffic. Instead, the sky-high screens on the nearest building are playing the concert live, a different player on each as the music - distant for a while now - pumps through the speakers embedded in the central park. Something in the sky casts a shadow over the fountain and statue of two mecha at the middle of the intersection. It's almost familiar - definitely something Fireshot chattered about while Starscream zoned out from boredom on the tour years ago - and tall enough to rise up between the walkways above. Two very-not-to-scale Devisen fliers pressing their palms together over an antique atomic cloud model in white steel.

The shadow over the park abruptly blooms to twice its size.

Windvoice veers - too hard, the Lathe lines preceding her. Starscream brakes and transforms in one sharp jolt, flipping sideways as he tries to pinpoint Blast Off's signal. They clip each other, half-transformed. Windvoice scrapes the underside of his chassis - it probably takes more paint off her than the other way around - but the impact feels oddly blunted. Starscream scrambles as the view rotates around him, street too close over his head, and the sky between his heels -

Windvoice tucks in and catches herself in a controlled descent, her wingfans adjusting until her landing is vertical. No flailing - she lands in a perfect crouch just behind a boundary between sidewalk and road, one hand splayed out in front of her for balance.

That brat. She did that on purpose.

With a screech just to make his indignation known, Starscream finishes tumbling and rolls to his feet with a glare.

Onyx stops mid-drop, all momentum from his vertical stoop cancelled out with a bang as he hovers over the fountain statue - just as much of a showoff. More significantly, Blast Off flinches away from a decent shot again. Extending his equine limbs, the Prime rotates slowly, optics burning as he homes in on Windvoice.

The shot doesn't register on any scan.

It just punches through Onyx's left shoulder. It knocks him back half a pace, shreds of metal grinding between Onyx's shoulder and torso as his second set of optics jerks up toward the skyline.

A thin smile breaks around his teeth - then he falls back off the fountain. His wings snap out, shattering the head and arms of the right statue.

Another pair of shots in rapid succession, and this time Starscream catches the shift in air pressure. Onyx grunts as he stoops low through an underpass, but as he shoots back up on the far side the shifting metal armor obscures any damage from his second wobble. The other shot must require adjustment at a terrifying speed - Blast Off transforms into root mode and slams down on an upper highway. His right stabilizer is in pieces as he dives through a window display to find cover.

And to cap it all off, a familiar yellow vehicle alt trundles out of a side street. It transforms, and Bumblebee casually ambles up to Starscream.

"Bumblebee," Starscream says, disgruntled.

"Sorry we're late. Transmutate just couldn't take it anymore?" Bumblebee guesses wryly, arching a brow. He looks entirely too blasé about the fact that they're being shot at. He doesn't even have a gun out.

"Less talking, more shooting," Starscream snaps back, ducking behind the corner as Onslaught lays down cover fire for his approach. Then, half-incredulous - "How did you even know to come here?" What, did Transmutate give everyone advance notice that she was kidnapping him?!

"Arcee," Bumblebee says. As though that explains everything.

Well, it does. That doesn't mean Starscream's any happier about it. But if that's Arcee sniping up there, the fact that Onyx isn't dead yet is downright alarming.

To his mingled relief and disgust, Chromia and Strongarm gun it out of the same side street Bumblebee popped out of. Both Camiens are in alt mode, and Chromia's wheels paint a skid mark along the road as she races to Windvoice's position. She vaults over the guardrail and tackles Windvoice, her shield and Strongarm's matching one activated as they huddle up. Windvoice straightens between them, shaking her head slightly when Chromia reaches out to clasp her arm. Starscream can't hear them from over here without concentrating, but Windvoice's expression remains a cool mask, the corners of her lips ever so faintly downturned as she glances curtly over to confirm Starscream's location.

Onslaught unloads a barrage. Nothing concentrated - just enough to send everyone ducking. Buying a moment to assess the new arrivals. If Bumblebee hadn't stripped half his war upgrades during his year-long sabbatical, Starscream would feel better about their odds. "Who else did you bring?" he asks, firing back wildly. His arms are starting to ache, deep in the cables.

"Aileron's probably up with Arcee. Other than that, it was just whoever caught up after being cleared by Ironhide, since, you know, I don't have the authority to overrule anyone and Arcee didn't care," Bumblebee lists off, with a perfectly straight face.

Starscream feels vaguely offended. He should put Bumblebee in charge of something when they get home, just to be petulant. "Like who?"

"DIPLOMACY!" Slipstream shrieks as she dropkicks Onslaught with both feet. Slash launches off the nearest highway and seizes Onslaught's main cannon in her long claws, wrenching it to the side.

"They seem like they don't hate you," Bumblebee says, half-patting, half-pushing Starscream. "Go. Make friends."

"I hate you and everything you stand for," Starscream breathes.

"Friendship!" Bumblebee yells after him as Starscream darts out to find a better vantage.

Onslaught's pinned, but not neutralized. Up above, Blast Off pounds along the upper walkway in a crouch, risking it to raise an arm over the side and fire again. The first shots pepper the road by Slash's feet, leaving scorch marks as the Tryptich nips at Onslaught's heels. Starscream returns fire for her as he goes; Blast Off ducks, then snarls and fixes his fire on Starscream with a vengeance.

- and why in the pit has Windvoice not moved yet.

SS: Get her out of here!

SA: Trying!

SS: What the slag are you doing?!

WV: [away]

But then Onslaught reassumes control. With a roar he shoots a heavy ordnance, only off by a fraction of a degree from Slipstream's efforts. The missile slams into the highway tier above - and demolishes it, blasting mech-sized chunks of road and support column everywhere -

And bringing it down over Starscream's head.

Starscream transforms and dives forward, out from under the worst of it. The debris spews outward, shattering arches and colliding with the skyscraper screen on the far end of the intersection. Shots from above cut off the opening to Starscream's right, and the bobbing tracker markers in Starscream's HUD show Chromia dragging Windvoice into the nearest building rather than down the street to safety. Blast Off keeps raining hailfire down on them with stiff determination - Onslaught must have passed on orders to keep him on track - while Onslaught backhands Slipstream into a wall and readies another explosive ordnance, and suddenly it's just another city about to be leveled. Some cynical part of Starscream shutters itself, as it mentally writes the planet off as a loss. Easier, really, to just get it over with now; for none of it to matter, because they've blown up too many planets before. The pattern's too familiar.

A flash of bright blue as someone runs right out in the middle of the street. They're not even running at anyone; just flinging themselves into the line of fire. If that's Chromia or worse, someone competent, he will lose his mind.

Onslaught targets them instinctively, right as Starscream realizes there's nothing registering on anything other than visual sensors. The metal shell of the ordnance shoots right through the image - the blue figure flickers before vanishing in a burst of light and sound as the explosive strikes the pavement and detonates. Onslaught's furious shout barely rises above the noise. He pulled the shot a little at the last second, realizing it was fake, like Starscream had - but who on Earth -

Starscream seizes the moment, snapping up and raking Blast Off's level. Blast Off's visor flashes as he ducks back and fires viciously. A solid shot cracks Blast Off's mask and visor, but the Combaticon forces Starscream to weave between the remaining roadways. Violet-tinted shards and chips jut out from his half-exposed face - he's lit from within by desperate fury that Starscream can almost pick up on EM from halfway across the airspace.

Something red shoots past Starscream going the opposite direction, right into a hail of shots. No burn of thrusters along his flank - no energy signature at all. But Blast Off cuts off a strangled cry before the image flickers out mid-flight and he realizes he didn't shoot anyone.

SA: We've cleared the corner, but the Speaker stopped. She won't move -

SS: Then MAKE her! That's your job when she's being an idiot!

Then he switches to screech at everyone's frequency.

SA: And who's doing that?!

BB: Dunno. We've got company.

Bumblebee sends a snapshot of his perspective - he's halfway around the loop, doing frag knows what, using his taser-cane to propel himself over the rubble and dropping down the side near Onslaught. He coughs on airborne particulates, and for a second - so fast it might just be a blur in the corner of Bumblebee's eye - maybe just a chunk of debris crumbling from the ledge above, or some trick of Devisen screens -

Starscream knows who it looks like to the untrained optic.

It's not. No matter how cautious Bumblebee's next ping is.

Starscream ignores his silent fussing and pitches down for another sweep between the buildings. He locates a balcony out of Blast Off's line of sight and lands hard on the dismal amount of space Devisens leave for landings. Glaring, Starscream glances around the corner of the skyscraper to watch as Onslaught brings a gun to Slash's head and Slipstream tackles his face with a piercing shriek. Without aerial pressure from Starscream, Blast Off won't stay put long.

Jaw clenched, Starscream punches a fist up, then jabs his finger down directly beside him and waits, silent and imperious.

It's not Skywarp. Too long of a pause. The seconds stretch on interminably, because he's dealing with ancient old amateurs -

Liege Maximo walks out of thin air. A swaying step that he manages to make graceful rather than wobbly. His cloak kicks out around his heels as he comes to rest on the overhanging sign, his expression studiously, politely neutral. "Yes?" he asks, mildly.

"You teleport," Starscream says, witheringly. Because of course he does. Of course the Prime of Lies is here instead of on Neo-Cybertron where he's supposed to be. Transmutate probably kidnapped him too, given her recent proclivities. He would've been the third person in the room with Onyx and Windvoice, teleporting in right as Starscream blew through. Starscream can think of at least three treasonous reasons for it off the top of his head.

Liege inclines his head, horns canted back. "A gift, from an old friend," he replies, smooth and vaguely amused. "The illusions are more limited in scope, out in the open like this."

Starscream's too busy calculating how a functioning teleporter with any kind of mobility impacts the shape of this retreat. "How many can you take with you?"

An equally polite grimace. "None, I'm afraid."

…Never mind then. Starscream rolls his optics. A discount Skywarp, straight from the bargain bin. "How am I supposed to work in these conditions?" he mutters darkly. Before Liege Maximo can arch his brow and make a snotty comment, Starscream holds up a finger to stave him off.

An energy round slices through the balcony, splitting it in two, before Starscream can speak. It nearly takes Starscream's face off as he stumbles back.

Barely in time. If Onslaught hadn't misaimed by a hair, that would've bisected his brain module. He stood still too long.

Then the secondary ordnance blows the balcony into shrapnel.

"If you're going to flit around like Skywarp, at least be useful like him!" Starscream bawls at Liege Maximo as he transforms, the scorched circuits of his feet burning like hellfire. "Comm frequency!"

LM: Of course.

If they have some two-bit teleporter, they can use that. If said teleporter had brought along his Titan, it would have been even better. But Starscream's life is never that easy. He dumps a set of feint and harassment maneuvers from Skywarp's old repertoire into the comm as a subtle hint, and leaves Liege Maximo to sort out the coordinates for himself.

As Starscream hangs a hard left to circle around, he catches Liege hopping back into the fray, one tapping step at a time. By intent or necessity the Prime moves in shorter bursts than Skywarp could, his cloak flying out behind him in aborted flutters as Liege steps from an airway signal to the jagged edge of the highway to Blast Off's level. Blast Off whips around, already firing - perhaps unloading Skywarp tactics were bit too on the nose - but Liege clicks his heels and is perched on the guardrail instead, hands clasped behind his back as he sidesteps again.

Blast Off pulls another gun and expressionlessly shoots back between his side and his arm without looking.

This time Liege steps neatly on top of Blast Off's head, hand slicing out to throw something off to the side - a dart. Liege brings his foot around to tap against the other, and a second Liege flickers in the air beside Blast Off while the Prime drops back to the ground the old-fashioned way.

Meanwhile, Windvoice has not moved. And that's a problem, because as much as Starscream wants to believe that her dying conveniently would make his life so much simpler, he is still - stupidly - invested. Attached.

So he fires Liege Maximo another burst of maneuvers, viciously stripping out the bits that rely on modern combat upgrades and reflexes and range - and then collides with the back of Onslaught's head knee-first.

Said knee crunches with an alert serious enough that Starscream can't slide it to the backburner with the rest of his damage notifications gathered over the course of the fight. But he hits hard enough to make Onslaught reel forward.

It doesn't stop Onslaught from ripping Slipstream's arm off and tossing her aside, of course. At least it's not her head. Also, it makes Starscream feel infinitesimally happier about his life.

Slash digs her talons in and rips a deep gouge out of Onslaught's leg armor, and keeps shredding Onslaught's right joint into ribbons of metal and cable. Onslaught ignores the assault to round on Starscream. "You know what truly irks me?" Onslaught says, throwing a punch that Starscream barely dodges. "You're not even good at this. So many variables in play - so many openings for you to run circles around us - but instead you just dig yourself a hole in the ground so you can let us all down one more time. Every. Single. Time."

Onslaught raises a foot and slams it down to scrape Slash off the other leg, flattening her in a cratering impact. Then he lunges forward to grab Starscream by the neck and shove him up against the wall. Starscream scrabbles as the impact knocks through him. "You're a cockroach," Onslaught says. "You and Megatron squandered everything handed to you. And here's the punchline - no one will miss you. We'll burn you for this, and they'll all be grateful."

Starscream tries to remember why he thought the direct approach was a good idea, and draws a blank. Drat. There's a cannon charged up against his torso, chillingly hot, while Onslaught weathers Starscream's point-blank shots as he unloads both guns on his arms directly at the Combaticon's battlemask. The familiar sensation makes his spark pop and crackle with panicky static -

Bumblebee forgets to pretend he has a limp as he skids to a stop and snatches up a wayward arm. "Catch!" he calls, before tossing it underhand at Slipstream.

Who sits up and snaps her flying arm out of the air with bared teeth. "Mine!" she says, rolling to her feet with a querulous pout. Instead of popping it back into the socket, Slipstream leaps at Onslaught's back and starts beating him with her own arm, incensed. She hits hard enough that each clanging impact rattles through Starscream too, and when Onslaught ignores the way she dents his helm Slipstream shrieks in fury.

Slash peels herself off the crater in the road, none the worse for the wear after getting curb stomped. She looks mildly hacked off. "Enough," she says, tail lashing, and then tears another deep chunk out of Onslaught's heel. He's covered in those gouges - what kind of raw, weapons-grade slag did Trypticon spawn them out of?! If it comes down to attrition, those two might just outlast the fragging city.

While Starscream's still processing that, a turquoise smear charges down the road. "Next time, just shoot me," he advises Onslaught, and then jams his armament directly into Onslaught's wrist joint. In the second Onslaught spasms, before he can tighten his grip, Transmutate skates up and kicks his hand at top speed.

Which, for a Velocitronian, is considerable.

Starscream kicks away and drops, and Onslaught blasts the building behind him into boiling dust.

Transmutate doesn't stop - "Sorryagainbossthoughtyouneededhelp -!" she calls as she blasts around the interchange loop without stopping, lapping the intersection for another pass.

Slipstream digs her feet in and hangs on, still doing her level best to bash Onslaught's brains in, while Onslaught kicks Slash away. Onslaught transforms, and the hard, brutally efficient sequence knocks Slipstream off. Bumblebee runs up almost at a jog and jams his cane into one of the ragged gaps in Onslaught's flank - the zap of electricity draws another furious growl as Onslaught whirls to face Slash's next charge.

"No!"

Blast Off cannonballs into Slash from above. Onslaught being that outnumbered distracted him not just from Liege's little show, but from whatever cover fire Arcee might still be providing. Blast Off hauls back and lands a solid punch that Slash tanks; then he wrenches up to point his gun at Starscream instead.

Onslaught shoves Blast Off back. "Clear them out. I'm finishing this," he orders, clipped and coldly furious.

The verbal slap hits harder than the shove; Blast Off stiffens, mortified. Slipstream throws herself in eagerly - still wielding her arm like a club - and Blast Off kicks Bumblebee into her path, knocking them back. He catches Slash with one hand as he charges after them - or Slash catches his arm, and methodically sets about carving chunks out of Blast Off like she did Onslaught. When Blast Off kicks thrusters on he propels the ball of frames through one of the massive, two-story shop fronts that somehow hasn't been shattered already.

Which leaves Starscream to handle Onslaught with a trashed knee and Transmutate. Who may or may not betray him any second now - Starscream's not forgetting that this is technically at least 30% her fault. She speeds by in a blur again and knocks Onslaught's handheld weapon away so that the spray hits the road in her wake, then skates away for another pass.

Time to find out if the knee holds. Starscream straightens.

Of course it doesn't. In hindsight, ignoring all those minor damage notifications might have been a mistake. He limps through one dodge, but Onslaught backhands him across the face hard enough for his vision to white out for a bright, ringing second. His back slams against the wall again. Starscream wrenches one of his swords out -

Maybe it's a lucky grab. Maybe Onslaught adapts faster than Starscream thinks. But Onslaught's arm shoots out and grabs Transmutate's entire head in one massive hand.

All he has to do, really, is squeeze. She shouldn't have gotten in the way.

Urrrgh.

Starscream jumps forward - stupid - and shoves the energy blade up through the joint he shot earlier - stupid! - and when Onslaught narrows his visor in a smile and tosses Transmutate aside, the cannon he levels at Starscream is already fully charged. So obvious -

"End of the line, Starscream," Onslaught says. He flips his maskplate back and smiles almost pleasantly.

Damn. "Job's still open, you know," Starscream offers. It's really the only card he has left.

Onslaught snorts. "No. I think you've played us for the last time." Then his smile drops. "You deserve this."

He's probably not wrong.

"No!" Blast Off screams again. Which doesn't seem right, in context. "Onslaught! Onslaught, move -"

Then an entire skyscraper slams down on Onslaught's head.

For a moment, the sight doesn't process. Starscream stares between his knees after he drops, the half-slagged joint sparking in the fine veil of dust kicked up by the impact. The roof looks uncanny, tilted on its axis like this - the pool full of solvent slowly drains out of its corners, while any lounge chairs not bolted down clatter along the floor to lie in a heap on the road.

Then the building rises back up smoothly, like it didn't just collapse, and straightens until it meets the connecting points of the foundation. It slots back into place, towering over the far side of the flattened intersection. Onslaught punched an Onslaught-shaped silhouette through the uppermost window.

The Combaticon stands in front of Starscream, nonplussed. Speechless. But otherwise intact. "Who -" Onslaught starts to say, baffled.

The support column of the broken highway swings around and hits him like a baseball bat with a resounding CLANG. Starscream clutches the hilt of his sword to his chest with a thin scream as the rush of violently displaced wind almost bowls him over backwards. Onslaught soars through the air, turning slowly. He has the presence of mind to transform so his heavy armor takes the brunt of the impact when he strikes the long stretch of road and smashes a vendor cart.

Before Onslaught can stand, another building proceeds to hammer him into the street like it's a colossal game of whack-a-mole. Every hit makes the earth shake.

Transmutate raises a shaky thumb from where she lays face flat against the street. "I'm okay, boss?" she slurs, weakly, like she's not actually sure about it.

"Splendid," Starscream tells her, distractedly.

Blast Off drops everything and bolts. "Onslaught!" No one stops him from reaching the edge of the massive indent rapidly forming in the road, but he hesitates there as the building continues to whack the pavement.

Starscream can't even say he's having war flashbacks. Even in the earliest throes of the war, Metroplex never had the flexibility or space to just - toss his structures around like toys.

"That's enough."

Windvoice strides down the street, Chromia on one side and Strongarm on the other, and the street moves with her. Circuitry courses bright pink all along the path they took to walk here, reaching out to reach the foundations of the rest of the buildings around the hexagonal intersection. The Forge hammer skims the ground behind her, but she seems less preoccupied with the weight than with the new layer of the Lathe's visor: blue and golden circles and spheres, all adjusting and spinning and contracting at varying speeds as Windvoice tilts her head to the side and considers. The Lathe itself has unfurled as far as Starscream's ever seen it, the fractal blades wrapped all the way around to frame her other temple.

The only problem is that, slowly but surely, Onslaught is slogging to his feet. Even under the constant barrage, Starscream's HUD can track the movement between each blink of an impact. The skyscraper starts to shed and slough off layers of metal and sheets of glass in a cascade as the half-obscured figure of Onslaught rises. "That's not going to keep him down," Starscream tells her, voice hoarse, as he hobbles to his feet.

Windvoice's eyes never leave the datastream over her face. The thin biolights along the side of her legs are active; Starscream's not sure he's ever seen a Camien waste energy activating anything along the extremities like that. How much is she routing through her? She raises three fingers and calmly flattens the hand so that they're pointed to the side.

At the far end of the street, a fresh skyscraper tips over to join the battered one in pummeling Onslaught. This time, Blast Off musters himself and dives into the crashing cacophony. He vanishes under the building and the curtain of debris churned up over the street.

"You're right. I'm going to run out of buildings before I get through that tank armor," Windvoice agrees. "Fusion's metal is dead; most of the city is too brittle to finish the job."

She does not say that as though it's going to stop her from trying. Starscream strangles a whimper.

Onslaught explodes through the side of the high-rise. Blast Off helps prop him up on the left, arm slung around Onslaught's waist, and Starscream sees that one of Slash's deep gouges gave out under pressure, cracking Onslaught's leg from the root of the foot almost up to his knee. His frame heaves with every step as he levels a cannon at all of them. "ENOUGH!"

None of them could have reacted in time. The Camiens are too slow by default. Transmutate is still reeling from one foot to the other, trying to remember how to balance.

And the Combaticons never see it coming.

Elegant, long blue talons curl over Onslaught's shoulders as Onyx Prime drops out of the sky. One claw digs neat little punctures into his armor and holds Onslaught in place, while the other tears him in half.

Lengthwise.

"Now, Solus," Onyx says, letting the two halves of Onslaught fall under his feet. "Where were we before we were interrupted?"

---

To Carthage then I came

Burning, burning, burning, burning

- t.s. of Kathikon, << The Wasteland>>

---

Windvoice flicks her index finger.

The skyscraper opposite swings like a golf club instead of a baseball bat this time.

"…Nice air," Strongarm says, shading her eyes to watch as Onyx catapults over the skyline, rapidly receding into the distance.

Starscream, on the other hand, can't help but remember Windvoice dropping a Titan on Onyx Prime - and him walking away from it. With that terrible, faint smile intact. "We should leave," he croaks. The knee's the worst of it, but he's feeling the whole battle now.

"Best advice I've heard all day," Bumblebee agrees. He's hovering; if Starscream weren't thoroughly shell-shocked, he'd be annoyed.

At least someone else is having a worse day.

Very slowly, Blast Off raises a hand to touch the side of his face that's covered with energon. "No," he says, blankly. He drops to his knees, and sticks his hands into Onslaught's insides. Digging for a spark that's already guttered, if Onyx didn't manage to snap it outright, like he did the rest of Onslaught. Blast Off's voice cracks as he starts chanting, "Nononono-"

Now…would be an excellent time to tie up the last loose end. The Autobots might throw a tantrum, but they cannot argue with the fact that Blast Off attacked Speaker Windvoice too and Starscream would be able to soothe their ruffled feelings by noon tomorrow -

But it's not, and he's not, and Windvoice is standing right here, her expression inscrutable but inescapable as she watches him for his next move.

And now, she knows everything.

So Starscream stands there, favoring his bad knee and listening to Blast Off's voice dissolve into horrible, broken noises, and lets the cold nausea sink in like an internal bleed.

He doesn't know what to do.

Windvoice says, without looking around, "Liege. I know you're here. I saw you come."

Liege Maximo teleports into the space to her right. Chromia startles and raises her energy ax again, but Windvoice's unflappable steel in the face of the Prime's abrupt appearance makes her hesitate.

"Speaker Windvoice," Liege says, with a diplomatic nod for Starscream. Wasted, really - by the end of this, Starscream suspects he won't have any influence left at all. "Vigilem was concerned by your sudden departure, and sent me in his stead."

Windvoice pivots halfway around on her heel and starts walking. A golden ring rotates around a sphere of blue in the upper right section of her visor. "Was he."

She doesn't look at him again.

By the time she leads them two streets down to the space bridge, Starscream's knee aches in earnest. When Transmutate hesitates and tries to touch his elbow, he snarls at her; when Bumblebee does it, Starscream almost loses it. There's no sign of Onyx. Someone's going to have to do something about the Devisiun Council representatives they left on the floor back at the concert hall. Preferably before Airachnid's activities here become an interplanetary incident.

But Starscream has the terrible, distant feeling it's not going to be him. That, after they all get home and get their affairs back in order, he's going to have to face something like…consequences.

It's too slagging much to think about. Battles don't usually shock his processor like this, but he feels like he's been slapped into a kind of numb, beating mental exhaustion. Windvoice can throw entire buildings around and that's just - too much to deal with right now.

But there's something else. Something itching at the back of his mind, shoved there along with everything else while he was zoned in combat mode. Something…troubling.

The space bridge is located at the bottom of a flight of stairs, where the Devisens erected a terminal to control the flow of traffic and goods through the bridge once it reconnected with the other Cybertronian colonies. Windvoice barely inclines her head and adjusts the position of her fingers, and the electronic gates unlock and scroll aside for them with a click. Right now, it's dead empty, the sky visible through the central well framed by the four sides of the open roof. The sky is so very clear, the pink thick and shimmery and starting to ease towards a soft orange.

Wait a second.

Starscream stops dead. "Wait," he says. Windvoice doesn't turn; Transmutate and Bumblebee do, and Slash, but Chromia and Strongarm don't break pace with Windvoice. "Didn't Flipsides say something about a -"

A flat, white lance stabs out of the sky and splits the space bridge frame in two.

Not even a tremor underfoot. It extends, up and up and up, through the obscuring veil of Devisiun's carefully controlled sky, to where the terrible eye of Onyx Prime's ship stares down at them all.

"- Titan," Starscream finishes.

Strongarm and Chromia throw themselves in front of Windvoice. Windvoice slowly lifts her head, mouth an unreadable line, to watch the Titan as it unfolds from its optical form. The atmosphere churns into a froth of clouds that ripple outward from the epicenter of the turbulence.

Because of course the disturbingly large, mobile eye has a body.

By all accounts, nothing about the Titan resembles a person. Its limbs are too thin and too long; the lance of that single limb it extended downward curls into a spiraling screw, retracting into the staring, swallowing hole that becomes the center of its diamond-shaped torso. It has simpler wings than Onyx's interlaced blades - the grey and black stabilizers fold behind it, some twitching out of sync with the rest as it comes daintily to rest in that hole in the roof, on the tips of two limbs, over the sparking remains of the bridge. Some wrap together in a loose, rippling spiral - a broad tail that rolls over and around the two nearest skyscrapers. The empty, dark slots where optics might be on a Titanic face look like spaces where reality was cut out - darker than the pitch black of space. Despite how thin and tapered it is, it still fills the whole sky with a halo of twitching limbs.

The space bridge crackles and fizzles out with a sad whine. Dead. Their only safe exit.

"It has a singularity where a spark should be," Windvoice observes, as though the science is what matters right now. "I see. It's entirely artificial."

"An improvement," Onyx Prime says, with a warm, amused note of pride in his voice. "Proserpina is far more tractable." He sails down and lands neatly on the edge of the roof, his wings outlined by the vast spread of his horrific Titan.

He reaches out a hand, the long claws unfurling elegantly as he smiles. "There's still time, Solus. With you, all things are possible."

"Windvoice, we need to go!" Chromia urges, reaching out.

Windvoice studies Onyx Prime. Even now, with a Titan fanned out overhead, her faint frown is unreadable, impassive.

Then she takes a step back, unconcerned, her hands folded behind her back.

The second Titan impales Proserpina with a sword.

-

Someone took a Titan in Metroplex's weight class with Vigilem's armor build, and modernized it.

And that's terrifying. This is Starscream, appropriately terrified by the very thought.

Because unlike Metroplex, ancient and left to rust, or Vigilem, patched together so many times over the millennia that the old shape of him is buried under Carceran additions - this Titan has the smooth, wargrade armor of a modern Cybertronian and the fashion sense of a well-groomed Decepticon. Sleek gold audial fins frame its head, with a second set at a sharper angle back alongside them; the rest of it is an inky black with purple accents. The matte, angular cuffs of heavy armor around its wrists and collar and lower legs are etched with glyphs that mean nothing - layer after layer of interlocking, unreadable characters. A lavender visor covers hidden optics, coming to a slight point at the center of its face, like a knight's helmet.

It draws its sword out of Onyx's Titan with an easy twist and takes a step back, the skyscraping sword falling to rest across its shoulder. No sluggishness. No hesitation. It moves like a Titan, Starscream thinks, in mint condition.

Purple, black, and gold all over. On. Brand. Proserpina's immense helm droops across the terminal roof, looming close, cored through the center of its head.

"Kathikon," Windvoice says, cool as one pleases. "Well met."

Chromia's trying to pull her away from the deep, flickering pit in the floor where the sword split the space bridge along with the other Titan's head, but Windvoice appears to have rooted herself in place - immovable, unaffected. The sheaves and tiers of metal exposed by the stab wound scream as the ground resettles, emergency lights onlining far beneath the surface. Slipstream screams right back, a guttural, rasping bellow, as though yelling will make the city stop churning under their feet.

Onyx Prime whistles, as unaffected as Windvoice. "Proserpina. Reform."

The artificial Titan rolls back up to its full height. The hole in its oblong head sucks back together. There's no differentiation inside it - no visible brain module, nothing.

It pivots on the join of its waist to face Kathikon, the smooth surface of its face utterly empty.

Kathikon looks down, its mouth a hard, unamused line. [Onyx Prime,] the Titan says.

Then it brings the sword down like lightning to point directly at Onyx's face. [Old friend,] it says, brusquely, all the subglyphs neatly trimmed. It sounds like [Traitor.]

All of Onyx's optics burn as his mouth turns down.

Liege Maximo whirls, stepping to Windvoice's side. "Speaker Windvoice. Might I suggest we take the backdoor?" he asks in a light undertone, only the faint strain in his expression betraying the fact that there's a gaping chasm widening mere meters from them. There's a horrible reverberation in the air that sounds like somewhere far, far below, something is screaming back at them. The chilling, distant, echoing wail of something damned.

Windvoice looks away from the standoff between the two Titans and examines Liege Maximo's face for a long moment. He stares back.

Starscream has never felt so cut off.

Then Windvoice shoots a hand out behind her, palm open flat, optics snapping as the Lathe whirls to reorient itself.

The metal panels of the floor fold back under her wave, and sink inward to form a set of stairs leading down into the depths of Sion. The same emergency lights dot it at intervals until they dwindle in the distance.

"An excellent suggestion," she says, walking down without waiting for the rest of them to stop gaping. "Fission must still live, to have kept Fusion's space bridge powered for so long."

Then, with a touch of impatience: "Come. Before he remembers to pay attention."

They descend into the dark. The Titans rage through the streets above, Kathikon's footsteps heavy enough to shake two cities.

---

And you will find me with the stars in the sky;

And you will feel me like a thunderstorm;

I shake the ground you walk upon;

-LOLO of Earth, <<a weapon for Saturday>>

---

Kathikon was never home for her. Not the way it was for Galvatron. Just another point where they diverged - emotionally, physically. They could never figure out how to reconcile the mismatched pieces.

Arcee's starting to think she missed out. Because Kathikon isn't even in the general vicinity of fucking around.

Arcee lines up another shot and unloads a high caliber round through Onyx's back. He knows where to find her, and she knows that he knows, and it's got Aileron fuming. But they both know they're at an impasse. Arcee is very good at killing; Onyx has gotten very good at not dying.

He's not boring, but Arcee's interest is certainly dwindling. He knows that if he closes on her she'll keep stabbing until it sticks, so he circles around instead while Kathikon and his artificial Titan clash through the dead streets of Fusion. Somewhere else in the city, music continues to play. The bass drums on a level that demands attention, no matter how little Arcee cares, because Rosanna and Flipsides have always been a pain in the neck like that.

A layer below, Fission screams old, old grief at the sky. Swathes of the city lost power when the space bridge Fission kept beating for two went down. The upper half of the city's been a corpse for a long time.

When Kathikon fights, her visor angles further forward, her mouth barred. Even in the old days, Arcee never saw the appeal of Titans - they were either sedentary or preparing to leave the planet, another piece of a Prime's reputation in the pointless games they played. If there were any who weren't aged and slow under the weight of millennia, Arcee never met them.

And here's Kathikon, one of the oldest. Arcee can be grudgingly impressed.

Kathikon lets her sword extend behind her, both hands clasped around the hilt. The near edge hums - no visual signs, but the frequency makes Arcee's spark chamber pop alarmingly at the pressure shift. Proserpina winds up, its spindly body levitating above the street as its many limbs arch back, until all that's really left is the unblinking eyes. Its wings break up the sky, the gaps in between more solid than the Titan itself.

The blade rings as Kathikon takes one snapping lunge forward. In the time it takes to blink. The white-blue edge of the sword cuts through the air, hot enough that Arcee feels streets away from her sniping position. All of Proserpina's gangling limbs snap forward at same time, some intersecting the eye itself. Kathikon slices smoothly under the tips of all those stabbing lances, severs them, and finishes her stride on the far side of the hovering iris. Thick rectangular prisms are left in the artificial Titan's wake, leaving the sky disjointed as it reorients itself to face her again; the boom of that speed arrives dangerously late. Onyx pulled some dangerous slag when he designed an eldritch abomination to be his Titan.

Kathikon raises the blade over one shoulder again with both hands, ready for the next exchange. [Artifice,] she says, coldly.

The artificial Titan doesn't seem sentient enough to answer. That, or Onyx never gave it a voice. Proserpina wasn't intended to be a person or a city: Arcee knows a weapon when she sees one. Kathikon's talking to Onyx, with every beat in the measured, lightning-fast exchange of blows.

Arcee sighs, and sights Onyx again. Aileron folds her arms as she leans against the tower beside Arcee, favoring her right side. "Ten points if you get it through his head again," she offers, gamely.

She's too late by about five milliseconds, but Arcee says nothing as the shot embeds itself in the base of Onyx's crest of spines. The Prime peels away from the music arena again, his wings fluttering in bemusement as the back of his neck reforms. He keeps feinting at key targets without committing.

If this were a normal battlefield, Arcee would think a Decepticon seeker pulling the same moves was teasing her limits and angles to narrow down her location. But he arrowed straight for Arcee after her first shot and almost disemboweled Aileron in a single sweep. No. All of this is Onyx being an aft. Toying with them. And he's done the same damn thing to himself that he did to that artificial Titan. The amputated pieces of its limbs rise into the air to hover like the rest - not a drop of energon falls. The severed ends foam with multi-faceted polygons, inverting and reverting and building themselves outward to reconnect with the rest of the Titan. It's easier to see how fragged up it is on the Titan's scale than on Onyx's more compact frame. A self-repair factor that's drawing on material from elsewhere.

Annoying.

"Who summoned you, Kathikon?" Onyx asks, conversationally. Proserpina's limbs begin to turn in a wheel, faster and faster, wings and tail whipping around as it picks up speed. Kathikon sweeps her leg around wide, slamming aside a block of buildings as she sidesteps the wheel as it carves through the air to slice through her. The vortex at the center of Proserpina's chest is a blur that causes too much turbulence. The eye blinks and reappears half a block away, readying for a second pass.

Kathikon's sword bisects it anyway, splitting the Titan into two distended, hovering hemispheres. She never stopped moving, each step another step in a sweeping pattern as she extends her reach. She hasn't even drawn her second blade yet - a polearm between her shoulders.

"You - krhgk -"

Onyx hits the edge of a building harder than intended, chunks of the roof kicked up under his hooves as he retches. Arcee watches as Onyx's throat slowly reforms. Aileron politely claps with a snort of amusement.

Smoothly, Onyx ignores her. "You have been absent for so very long," he finishes, once his vocalizer repairs. He only ever sounds amused, even as he projects his voice over the city to be heard. "Plotting vengeance, all this time? I bear unfortunate news about Nexus, if you wanted the first stab at them."

Kathikon's head cocks abruptly to the side. A lance stabs through the air where her head was, separated from the rest of Proserpina's body. Then she rolls to the side, crushing a high-rise under her shoulder, as the prong of white lances shoots out in an arc. The points retract slowly through the window they appeared through and reappear along the artificial Titan's sides, bent at a 90-degree angle.

[Ridiculous,] Kathikon says, crisply, as she rests her blade along the spoiler of her broad shoulders and observes the battle zone. [I took care of my people. I was a home for them. Now they are established and self-sufficient and safe. And so I return, function fulfilled.] She glances sideways, down at the tiny figure of Onyx perched on the edge of his tower, higher than anything else left standing in that sector of the city. [Done anything productive with your life?]

Then, without taking her gaze off Onyx, Kathikon spins around the shredding whirlwind of Proserpina's serpentine body as it lashes like a whip along the street. The street itself ripples, distorted, where the fake Titan's limbs intersect with the road, and Fission screams again, in useless fury. Kathikon's every step is precise, efficient; she jumps the disjointed space left in the wake of Proserpina's stabilizing wings and slashes down mid-arc, bisecting the iris again.

Proserpina's optical drive blinks, and the ringing slice of the blade cuts through four city blocks before Kathikon lands with barely a tremor. Four pincer-like limbs pierce through her ankle, pinning her in place, so deeply lodged in the road that the city trembles. Kathikon slices through them without looking and rips her foot free - and stabs straight at Onyx.

The Prime dodges, a tumbling dive off the roof. Kathikon huffs, not quite a laugh, and settles back into her guarded stance.

Arcee shoots Onyx again, just to prove a point.

Onyx glides in to land on the side of a new building. "I built an army, and a Titan. Even as we speak, my will encircles Eukaris," he says, stalking along the side with a prowl in his step. Arcee rolls her optics and wonders when Onyx started monologuing like old Septimus. Megatronus used to have respect for this mech. "There are so few opponents truly worthy of holding my attention. Of proving a challenge." He says it almost with relish.

[No,] Kathikon corrects him, ruthless. [You made slaves, and would make of your own people more. You made bargain with the five faces of the oldest enemy. But while they have made of you a tool, someone else has already won.]

Onyx's expression blanks. He whistles.

Proserpina blinks behind Kathikon, lances raised.

Kathikon turns - a casual, brisk step - and shoves a hand directly into the center of the iris.

The city goes unnaturally still. The singularity at the heart of the Titan is the only fixed point. Slowly, meter by meter, Kathikon withdraws her hand without a twitch of her expression. Her arm judders twice, hard, as it emerges, but holds. She pulls out a fist, closed around something that pulses and makes the world pulse with it.

[Pure artifice,] she says.

The armor of Kathikon's torso folds open, the fastest transformation Arcee's ever seen a Titan pull, and she plunges the core of Proserpina into her spark.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The shell of Proserpina continues to hang in the air, hovering limbs adrift on the wind. Kathikon stands, loose sword come to rest point-first in the street by her side. One twitch runs down her arm; then another. Tension hums in the air, an aching counterpoint to the ring of her sword earlier.

A low, richly amused laugh rolls through the air. "Are you certain," Onyx drawls, breaking the silence, his smile coldly confident, "that you haven't bitten off more than you can chew?"

It takes too long for Kathikon to respond.

Then her chest shuffles shut. Kathikon cracks her neck to the side and rolls titanic shoulders as the hollow pieces of Proserpina crumple to the ground. The edges smoke as the Titan starts to dissolve into countless tons of dust.

That's gonna be fun for the Devisens to clean up in the morning.

[No. I don't think I have,] Kathikon replies. Her visor slides back up, and she smiles with bite. [Run, little Prime.]

Onyx halts, and watches as his Titan falls to ash.

Aileron takes half a step forward. Arcee jerks a curt shake of her head, and Aileron hesitates. If this next part goes south, they need to be ready to make a break for the space bridge below, or otherwise hitch a ride. Arcee has no intention of getting stranded here.

That, and it might kindle a bit of stale, bitter nostalgia in her dried-up spark to see Onyx try to fight a Titan single-handedly. Really. It would be the highlight of her century.

But Onyx says nothing. He dips off the ledge, legs tucked in but not transformed away, and sails slowly over the beat-up, disarrayed mess of downtown Sion. Arcee tightens the targeting reticle in her HUD, in case he comes for easier pickings. But he sweeps past them, aquiline face gone by too quickly for Arcee to make an attempt at parsing his expression. Coasting, he rises higher in the atmosphere until he's little more than a dot on the horizon.

A problem for someone else's day. Arcee snorts.

Kathikon watches him go. Then she says, without turning, [Galvatron?]

She's not asking if he's here. Not really. It's been a long, long time since anyone mistook Arcee for her brother.

Arcee takes down and disassembles the sniper rifle in three brisk twists, rising to a knee and then her feet with a grunt. "Dead," she says, blunt and clipped, without bothering to raise her voice or make eye contact. Emotions are a trial and a vexation, and she doesn't feel like hearing how she sounds, saying that out loud right now. "It was…deserved."

Kathikon's helm drops for a moment of silence. [I see. It has been a long time,] she says, with quiet regret. Then the Titan slides the sword back along her spine and tilts her head to the side as her visor slides all the way up. Underneath, her face is the same as Metroplex's.

[Will you come?] she asks, extending a hand to edge of their building.

It's Aileron who decides it for her, really. "Oh. My. Solus," Aileron whispers, hands pressed to her cheeks. Her EM field practically fizzles with excitement, bubbling right in Arcee's space. "Arcee. Arcee."

Arcee eyes the hand. Then she glances down at Aileron.

Aileron gazes back with big optics.

Arcee sighs, and stows the rifle. "Alright. Come on," she says, slinging an arm around Aileron's shoulders. "Since we're going the same way."

Aileron squeaks. Arcee has to propel her onto Kathikon's palm, and again when Kathikon deposits them on her shoulder.

[Arcee,] Kathikon says, sounding out the syllables and the subglyphs, and all the ways it doesn't sound like her twin's. [Yes. It will be good to know you.]

Aileron squeaks again.

Arcee considers her options, and then drops a kiss on the broad red section of Aileron's helm.

It just seems like the thing to do.

---

I have a duty.

- Vector of Tempo, << Πολιτεία>>

---

Sari - takes a minute.

The side hall of the Primal Basilica is nice. Probably would be nicer if she could appreciate it more! The impact of Prima's ship busting through the roof of the main hall shook the whole building, so now a thin cloud of metallic dust hangs in the air, sparkling quietly. The ceiling's vaulted, each strip of angular glass a different color, the circuitry barely visible against the dark sky. Panels of gold layer the walls in geometric patterns, shading from white to rose to gold. Recesses line the walls between plinths with tall, golden statues, each with a head bowed over a sword. Sari crawls into one to recover, with an effort that leaves her wheezing, and huddles there until her ears stop ringing and the sound of Tarn's singing stops being the whole world.

(There are people Papa always said to run from. For her to not look back. Papa had a lot of enemies, after all: Megatron. Starscream. Shockwave. Grimlock.

The DJD.

"Remember Sweeper ^{D|P-6 DIN #321}'s designation," he told her. Together, they flipped through the image files in one of her lessons. "Justice of Tarn."

And then they listened to the Empyrean Suite together. So she would know.)

Sari curls up harder to make herself smaller and less noticeable, but her torso hurts too much. No good. Anyone could walk up right now and squish her like a bug. She tests stuff that hurts less, like her hands. A wiggle shows that her wings are still working, even if she feels like one big dent all over. She rolls over and her sides burn with the strain. She spends another minute recovering from that by staring up at the black streaks of paint and deep gouges where someone defaced the mural that used to fill the recess. Sari can kinda make out bits and pieces between the censor bars - a hint of a hand here, a curve of pink there. Not enough to see what the statues used to guard. It's a little sad: all the way down the hall, as far as she can see when she rolls her head back, the hall is full of silent statues and crude slashes of paint and dark lines where they don't have enough power to keep the lights on.

Eurgh. Why did she want to come back in here?

A distraction. But also maybe, just maybe, she can still find a long-range comms terminal in here. The streets of the city are crawling with the Functionist Council's guards, and Tarn's right outside the door. Resonance is probably…but Rewind and Dominus Ambus might've been out of audial range, if they got deep enough underground. They'll be able to warn the rest of the Underside. They'll…

Sari doesn't want to leave them here. If they could have escaped Cybertron, she thinks they probably would have done it already. Before the Council mastered planting chips in peoples' heads and asploding their brains whenever they felt like it. Before they killed all the Lunabots and smelted down everything space worthy, so no one could ever escape. Ever.

Maybe there's enough room on Prima's ship for all of them.

Sari bites her lower lip and scrunches up her eyes. Her eye only fizzles a little before the liquid trickles down her cheek and dissipates. The top curve of the alcove didn't get painted over, she notes, fuzzily. She can still see a pale blue sun, its rays curling around the dome.

A faint scuffle, at the end of the hall.

Sari plasters a hand over her mouth. Her body still aches, but she pushes through it. Her arm clanks heavily against the floor as she rolls onto her stomach - everything sounds loud right now - and she grimaces. There's a tiny, triangular crevice between the plinth of the nearest statue and the wall; Sari gets a grip in the narrow opening and wedges herself into the gap. She leans her head forward against the cool plinth, woozy, and tracks the progress of the approaching guards by the too-bright halo around their biolights. No matter how hard she blinks it won't go away.

But a second later, it doesn't matter anymore, because Sari is suddenly wide awake. A flathead leads the trio of mechs, his head drooping as though the effort of holding up the bright-red screen is too much to bear. The gun in his claws hangs loose - easy for Sari to knock away, if she had the strength for a flying jump kick. This angle would be perfect for it.

Behind him, though, are two mechs who shine like new. Their paint is soft and subdued: mostly white at the joints, but one is a pale green and the other pink. The panels of their back flick up and down like rectangular wings, their fingers shifting slightly at their sides.

Their eyes are the same: a sharp, piercing green. They look more tired than they should be.

She recognizes their faces. They look like her brother.

Sari ducks her head as they pass. The racing, uncomfortable thump in her chest feels like it's beating hard enough to drum against the plinth pressed against her front, louder than the quiet scrape of steps on the metal floor. For a wild moment, she wants to think that they're here, Papa and Flame and everyone else, come to bring her home -

Can't be, though. Scorponok sent her brother away after…stuff happened. A lot of stuff, with a lot of yelling. She didn't get to say goodbye.

When the three move far enough down the corridor, the green biolights of the two rearmost mechs flickering as the panels of their backs reshuffle, Sari bites down on her hand and drops lightly onto the ground. She takes off at a run. Every other step is a stumble, with an echo that rises up into the empty, dusty vaults. It can't matter that it hurts, that her chest feels like someone punched a hole through it. The bigger the pain gets, the blurrier it feels, which - helps. The statues stare sternly down their noses at her as she pelts past them, hopping over the heaps and piles of clutter that sometimes spill out from the alcoves. Through the opening at the end of the hall she can see rows of wide, winding pillars, like a mirror of the pillars outside, and the feet of statues that make the ones in this hall look small. There's a vent opening waiting for her on the wall opposite, a copper-colored grate just visible beyond the third set of pillars. If she can just make it there.

She can do that. Finials flattening against her head, Sari puts on another burst of speed, until each step sets off a starburst in her skull.

She fails to account for two things: the fact that the floor of the main forum is shiny with polish, 'cause no one ever walks around the basilica anymore, and the fact that Prima and a member of the Functionist Council are standing only a hundred meters away.

Sari plants both feet and hits the brakes - and keeps sliding, mouth popped open, arms flung out to either side in a futile attempt to stop. She sails past the first flanking set of pillars, mouth opening wider in a silent scream, and by the time she reaches the far side of the pillar one of the smallest mechs wired into the Councilor's spinal column is staring back at her.

She's past the second pillar when she realizes his optics have been gouged out of their sockets. Lines of fluid and energon streak down the faces of every mech in the cluster except the Councilor himself. No shards of messy glass - just clean punctures and empty sockets.

The mech raises a finger to his mustachioed mouth, and turns back to the Councilor.

Prima doesn't even turn around.

Her skid runs out of momentum at the third pillar, and Sari pinwheels her arms wildly as she stutters to a stop. Her face contorts with the effort it takes not to breathe out a huge, loud burst of relief as she hugs the pillar.

"- and these Infinite," the Councilor is saying, clearly agitated, "have no categorization within the Grand Taxonomy. They have no function."

Prima sounds uninterested. "They will serve whatever function is required, Evaluator," he says. When he takes a step, the Councilor and his cluster need to take four to keep pace. Prima shimmers in the half-light of the basilica, the prismatic shine of his cloak reflecting off the polished floor as he strides indifferently through the towering statues of the main hall. "Infinite forms, infinite combinations. An endlessly adaptive, obedient army."

The Evaluator's hand closes into a fist at his side. The lens of his single optic is red like burning. "You would make me obsolete," he breathes, like [obsolete] is a swear word, as the mechs of his cluster shift into a new arrangement. Brushing hands, glancing toward each other with optics they don't have, still aware of exactly where they need to duck and weave to avoid hitting each other.

Prima doesn't seem to notice or care. "You are all obsolete in the grand scheme of things," he murmurs, his voice echoing through the tiers of the open floors above. "You are nothing special."

Sari eyes the grate. She can reach it without momentum (probably). But they'll definitely hear her prying the grate open if it squeaks. There were ventilation coverings like that back home - traps she learned to memorize. She keeps hugging the pillar, edging to keep the curve of it between her and the retreating backs of the enemy, but she's keenly aware of the hall she just ran out of - what if the guards noticed something? - and all the wide spaces between the pillars in the vast hall. All it will take is for one person to see her from an angle she's too muzzy with pain to think of, and that's it.

So Sari waits, the seconds stretching into minutes, until the sound of Prima's steps recedes up a winding stairwell. With one last check over both shoulders, Sari books it. The grate pops free with some force, reverberating in her hand. Sari kicks into the ventilation shaft and pulls the cover back into its socket behind her, hands shaky. The metal feels cool under her knees; the air's a little musty, but she moves out of sight and lies down to recover for a sec before she starts to climb.

It's gonna take some doing. But if her brother is here, with these new Infinite, she's gotta find him. Has to. It can be before or after she calls for help - but if she finds Brother, she won't need a comms terminal or a ship.

But if she can't find him, she needs to go up anyway. Find a way to the rooftop, maybe, and drop down onto Prima's ship through the smashed roof of the atrium. The ground floor of the atrium was crawling with guards before. Prima may be headed to one of the upper rooms, but Quintus Prime could be anywhere, and he scares her way more than Prima does. They're both enemies, but Prima is a shining, hollow, smiling person, full of nothing. Quintus Prime is full of gross tentacles.

There's a difference.

To her relief, the pain in her chest eases as she follows the slope of the ventilation system up, floor by floor. An occasional sharp pinch jabs at her, deep inside, but now she can concentrate on things like the texture of the metal under her hands and the murmur of voices wafting through the vents without the bleary fog of pain.

The thought of being broken in a way that can't be fixed - scary.

The first glimpse of gold paint isn't him. Sari stills, only her eyes peeking out over the fine, decorative whorls of the grate, as another pair of Infinite file down the hall. The corridors are smaller up here, in the part of the basilica that wraps around and behind the main dome; she'd have to drop a good forty meters to hit the ground, but that's pretty standard.

The gold Infinite has slices of pale green down their legs. Not him.

The sight makes Sari search harder, though, scouring each hall as she works her way up. She folds her arm and uses her elbow to help drag her along so she can chew on the end of her finger. If Brother's partnered up, too, that's a problem.

She's distracted, thinking about ways to signal him, and almost misses the familiar frame. If she'd looked any later, she would've missed him - he and the pink mech beside him are almost at the end of the hall, and Sari only glances back between her feet as an afterthought. "Oh!"

Whoops.

Brother's head snaps around at once, the sharp tips of his teeth sneaking out and the panels of his back flaring as he turns further than Sari's neck ever could. As far as Sari knows, he doesn't really have a limit. What's weird/interesting is that the Infinite with him mimics the move, half a second late. Their green optics scan the hall at the same time, but then they glance at Brother, uncertain.

Whelp. Cover blown. Sari kicks the grate out and hops down. "Hide and seek!" she hisses, as she runs right at them.

The other Infinite reels back. Brother steps forward and effortlessly catches Sari when she flings herself at him. Extra arms help guide her in as his chest opens up in strips of metal, wave after wave of protoform melting out of the way, and the strips lace shut behind her as Brother reseals his chest cavity.

Safe.

Sari lets her head rest with a thunk as the interior compartment reshapes itself. Seat, safety harness, green-tinted viewscreen. Even before her armor grew in, back when she was still soft and squishy, it was always safe to hide in here. It took Scorponok ages before he caught on to her best hiding place.

(The last time Brother left but one, he tried to take her with him.

Sari stops thinking about that. It wasn't a good day.)

To Sari's chagrin, a set of medical arms smoothly mold themselves out of the wall beside her and tap at her arm pointedly. At the same time, the other Infinite bends in front of Brother, their dull pink paint covered in vibrant cyan and dark purple patterns in the viewscreen as they stare curiously. "I'm fine," Sari mumbles, pushing the first fuel line Brother converts into an IV drip back into the wall. She sticks her tongue out at the new Infinite; then, pouting, she sticks her arm out and finds one of the awkward lines that feeds out of her protoform and into the metal of her armor so he'll stop bugging her.

If she thought for one second elbowing Brother in the guts would make the place stop slowly morphing into a mini medical bay, she'd do it.

[Avya, first under the stars of the evening^{[infixed: unknown quantity[query]]} _[uncertain] @[Avya],] the other Infinite says, in that not-talking way Brother always does. It's like an EM field, but more, a burst of sensation that communicates more than the emotionless, "Avya-1 - intruder apprehended?" that comes out of their vocalizer, the question only indicated by the tiny flick of their back paneling.

"Sister," Brother corrects. Except it's more [Sari, in the arms of a kinder sun^{[in this one's arms[alt: kindred[Earth variant]]} _[hidden] @all,] which Sari admits is a bit of a mouthful. Sometimes it's easier to let the fieldspeech flow over her head and just get the gist of it; her ears and her chest are already vibrating funny, after Tarn. Translating everything Brother feels is asking a lot from her brain right now.

The other Infinite resets their optics. Their teeth transform away. "Sister," they repeat, blinking until the word feels confident. [@all]

Sari's pretty sure Brother isn't projecting a live feed of her inside his chest cavity, since that would kinda defeat the purpose of hiding, but she sticks her tongue out anyway.

So, okay, she'll give him credit - maybe she was a little loopier with blood loss from that whole leg wound thing than she thought. Sari drifts off for a minute or three, her eyes too glazed over to watch the screen relaying the view outside the compartment. Brother's physiology isn't the same as hers, but it can be close if he tries. He's patched her up before - most of it just scrapes and dents from running full-tilt around the 'Sweeper. In the early days of that first month before Sari's memory stopped being all blurry and confusing, when Papa got too absorbed in examining a blood sample or scan results to correctly interpret distress signals, it was Brother who would scoop Sari up and wait until the sticky tears ran out.

Papa got better about it. Eventually. Science is just very important.

(He only ever frowned the first time Sari called her brother Brother.)

The last of the fog in her head clears, and the pattern of live circuits wrapping around the inside of the compartment stops wavering in and out of focus. Sari stretches her arms out in front of her as she sits up, rolling one ankle and then the other.

Outside, a third Infinite has joined them. It's mostly gold and white like Brother, its helm cocked to the side as it frowns at him over Sari's viewscreen angle. The ultraviolet patterns of unseen color swim and reconfigure along with its regular paint, gold creeping up over the crests of its head and bright cyan striping its legs. Then it frowns harder, and Sari feels her ears pop as it shifts settings to 'he.'

"Sister," the new Infinite repeats, as he takes a step back to join the pink Infinite from earlier. "Continue patrol?" [Im[person]ate: Avya, laying new trails[?]]

Brother bends a little - Sari can only tell because the view dips, while the compartment stays stable. [Gratitude^[hidden] @Ketu].

Then they move away as the two Infinite fall in step together, faces as expressionless as ever as they continue the way Brother was originally going. Sari folds her legs crisscross under her with a little wince as they make their way down the hall. They pass another pair of Infinite on patrol before they've gone more than a few meters, and Sari tenses - but they part around Brother without blinking, and Sari feels only the faint, overlapping murmur of [Sister][Sister[^visual[?]] before they're clear.

Another Infinite in green and gold cants their back panels up, and steps away from the door they're guarding as Brother approaches. [Avya, who death forgot^{[grave solemnity]} ,] they send in a pulse, and shut the door behind Brother as they step inside.

It's a small room with an open balcony, the pallid glow of the city washed out compared to the wide, dark sky. Brother transforms forward so Sari can step right out of the compartment.

The air is all wrong. The breeze that drifts through the open room reeks like ozone and energon. Sari shudders. Suddenly, she doesn't want to know what she'd see if she looked out over the city. Between Tarn's song blasting through the speakers, and the obsolescence chips…

She leaps up, fans spinning, and hugs Brother around the neck instead. He stays bent so she can reach him easier, his blank face as relaxed and content as it ever gets. "Brother! You're okay," she says, and feels silly for saying it at all. Her brother is always okay. "And there are more of you!"

That's better. Because Brother was one of Papa's experimental projects, too - one with a lot more failures than Sari's run. Sari's so used to it just being the two of them, neither of them exactly like the rest of Scorponok's crew. "Difficult to bring to term," was all Scorponok had to say, dismissing most of Sari's questions. "With the same fundamental flaw as ever. You are my greatest achievement, Sari."

Papa - was never really nice to her brother.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Sari peels away and wipes some of the sticky sparks off her face before she folds her arms behind her back. Her smile feels wobbly.

[Sari, on the vivisection slab^[damaged],] Brother says, still kneeling to prod at her with hands that look more like medical scanners, still. He's omitting the emotion tags from his fieldspeech, and using the not-fun words about the medical bay back home, and Sari squirms again in discomfort.

"I'm fine, seriously! But we've got to get out of here!" she insists, glancing back at the open balcony. It's their easiest way out, but also another vantage point where a patrolling spybot might spot them from a distance. "These Prime guys are bad guys! They're shot me, and they're hurting everyone out there, and -" she falters. And stops. And scrunches her eyes shut. "- and Papa sent you to them, right?"

It's not like she doesn't know. Scorponok sent her out of the room when he had capital-I Important calls on the comms terminal, but he expected her to find ways around that. A well-developed sense of sneakiness is a good survival attribute. She and Brother were both prototypes, but Brother was a project for someone else, and Papa hated that - being forced to work on something that aggressively disinterested him. He never tried to hide it. And each time Brother tried to leave, Papa was less…careful.

After the last attempt, Papa sent him on with the spiky mechs, along with all of the data and instruments used to finish the Infinite procedure in the first place.

Sari kinda hoped that Brother had escaped along the way, like he'd always wanted to. That Brother wouldn't end up stuck with the kind of people who can snap their evil fingers and drop Scorponok with pain until he obeys - who might take him apart in ways he can't put back together.

"But I guess we're both here now," she finishes, head hanging.

[Kindred^[plural] reforged now; more soon,] Brother agrees. He squats, reaching out with telescoping fingers to pat her head. Like always, he looks tired and young at the same time; Sari can't remember a day of her life that Brother smiled with more than his eyes. He's still omitting cues in his field, but the wistfulness slips through. It's too much a part of how he communicates for Sari not to feel it. [This one, locked in place [en[slave]ed]^[ongoing] @all]

She's not gonna cry again. Obviously. Sari is beyond cried out for the day.

It still hurts. She brushes her brother's hand away a little harder than she means to, and that makes the yucky feeling inside worse as she clutches her head and walks over to the balcony.

None of this, she thinks, as she looks out over a city tearing itself apart, is fair. The sound of marching feet winds between the buildings; there aren't nearly enough shouts and screams and signs of struggle as the Functionist Council finish eviscerating their city. Maybe the Underside is safe, saving who they can - but how long will that last?

And past the golden rim of the city, closer here than it was on the other side of the basilica, Cybertron is frighteningly dark. No roads leading away, no spaceports, no other cities in sight. Just this, and that's all. Sari's only been here for a day, and she wants to scream at how claustrophobic it feels. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help everyone!" she says. She glares down at the street below angrily, because if she doesn't her mouth is gonna wobble back into crying. She can just make out a figure on the corner of the block - they're too far away for her to see if there's a splatter where their head should be. She can't see if it's Resonance, somehow still alive and crawling away, or just some random person Sari's never met, who won't live more than a couple seconds if the guards turn the corner right now.

"What are they gonna do, when they recycle all of these people into more Infinite?" she asks, finally.

She knows how she was made. She knows how Brother was made, too. Flame ignored her a lot, but he was more willing to talk about the Infinite project than Papa usually was. For Flame, anything that involved spark transplants and upcycling cadavers was an interesting intellectual exercise, even if the results weren't what he wanted. It takes a lot of sentio metallico, refined and melted down and refined again, soaking in the light of a special spark, kept in stasis mid-spasm until it's ready for nanite infusion and spark transplant, and -

Sari can put two and two together, still angry as all heck, and get that Prima and Quintus came here for an army. For some reason, regular Cybertronians weren't good enough. So, if they and the rest of the enemy were the ones to force Scorponok to develop the Infinite in the first place...how long were they planning to come here and steal all the bodies out from under the Functionist Council's dumb eyes in the skies? How many Infinite are there already? If all of them were made with the same process Papa helped develop, none of them can be more than a couple weeks old.

And where are they planning to get more raw material? Sari doesn't want to run the numbers for how many people are left here, or how much will be left after the refinement process. Papa could probably estimate it just by glancing over the city.

It's not enough.

"War," Brother says out loud, after wrestling with himself for a long, long moment. [Allegorical referent: refused.] Even his field feels clipped and clamped down, the way it does when he doesn't want her to know how afraid he is.

Brother has always been afraid. Something about Papa scared him in a way that Sari - can't think about. Can't.

And she can't ask him to go back to that. It's like someone stuck out their leg and tripped her while she was running headlong past them, and suddenly she's aware of all the things looming around her she can't bear to look at directly. Sari kneads the railing of the balcony with her hands, a sour taste in her mouth that she doesn't think comes from Brother's hasty transfusion.

Sari scrubs at her face, and grimaces at the stickiness of half-dried blood that rubs onto her palm, deep purple in the shadow of the lights below.

She doesn't know what else to do. "I'm sorry," she says, feeling perfectly, burningly miserable. She hunches her shoulders; she can't bring herself to look back at Brother. "I need to contact Papa. Maybe - maybe he can do something. You don't have to help me or - or see him, I just need to find a -"

A soft sigh. Sari twitches, and turns around. She knows the sound of Brother's smooth transformation anywhere. A gold and white communications terminal sits in the center of the room, one display flashing quietly.

Sari still has one hand looped loosely around the railing, the only thing that keeps her anchored when she shifts her weight, unconsciously. "Thank you. You don't have to, though," she says, staring at her feet, downcast.

[Alternatives: dangerous @Sari.]

Sari limps over and hugs him - which takes some doing, when he's currently a box-shaped object - and then straightens to examine the terminal. She's memorized the hailing codes for all of the Worldsweepers, as well as Papa's personal line, but the blinking screen stops her before she can punch the first one in.

"Uh. Brother? Why do you have a pending call on here already?" Sari asks.

[???^[?]], Brother sends back.

Did someone try to call him long-distance while he wasn't a comms terminal? Sari's…not sure how that would even work! She taps the screen to expand the display, but it's not a signature she recognizes.

She glances down at Brother. He can't glance back without eyes, but she gets the distinct impression of a shrug.

Works for her! Sari hits the button to accept the call and waits while the holograph projection flickers over the terminal. It takes a couple seconds - long enough for Sari to lean her elbows on the terminal and scuff her foot against the floor, so when the projection blooms into color she scrambles to stand upright at attention. "Um. Hi? Who is this?" she asks.

A Cybertronian appears on the other end of the call. Her frame is a muted black-brown, with ivory armor, gold rings at the joints, and narrow jet wings that fan out low on either side. Most of her shoulders and pale helm is lost under layers of wrapped fabric: the underlayers a faded mix of copper and verdigris, covered by wide swathes of patched-up, beige metal links. A bundled braid of cords emerges from the mass of fabric to drape over her shoulder. The mech pushes a pair of heavy goggles back over a set of dark antennae and stares back at Sari with piercing blue optics.

Uh. Right. Sari doesn't know what she looks like right now, but it can prrrobably be summed up as: not doing so good. Like a blotchy purple-brown lava lamp. She covers the lower half of her face with a hand belatedly, feeling the soft skin parts burn.

A faint whhr. A thin metal arm unfolds from the side of the terminal and directs a laser cutter at a square chunk of metal, patiently outlining a maskplate. Sari flaps a hand at him where she hopes it's out of range of the screen.

Without warning, the Cybertronian's face melts into a smile. "Vector of Tempo," she says, touching the seam where her torso panels come together with a dip of her helm. "And you, little one?"

"I'm Sari," Sari replies. Brother ignores her and extends the arm, bending it at 90 degrees around her attempts to grab it every time until there's a small maze of arm hanging in midair. Sari gets her second hand involved, face set in a fixed, determined stare for the camera as Brother dodges. When it reaches her face, Sari snaps the mask into place with a sigh of defeat. "Why were you calling my brother?" she asks.

The rectangular arm sprouts a thumbs up, then retracts back into the terminal. Sari purses her lips at him, but valiantly resists the urge to make a rude noise in front of a stranger.

"Well, someone has replaced Cybertron in the old system with a copy from another universe. We were in the area seeking Cybertron itself, and this planet's resonance is playing merry slag with the local chronometry. The referendum decided we should come and investigate before heading on, and this was the most accessible comms line," Vector says, with good cheer, patting the comms terminal on her end of the call. "Ordinarily we would have defaulted to a Titan, but it seems there are none in residence."

Sari's audials perk up. "You have a ship though? Maybe you can help us!" It's worth a shot, right? Papa's very big on 'the smooth re-appropriation of advantageous resources,' which Sari can translate to mean buttering people up and taking their stuff, but it can't hurt to just ask nicely, right?

The smile vanishes, and Vector's optics turn a deeper blue. "You're in danger," she assesses, her eyes darting to scan something beside the comms screen. "Tell me, Sari."

"We have so much danger!" Sari says vigorously, waving her arms for emphasis. "The Functionist Council that's been running this place is trying to kill everybody, but the Functionist Council is being brain-controlled by these evil tentacle guys pretending to be Primes, and they also want to kill everybody as part of some evil master plan, so everything's horrible! My brother can turn into a ship, but there's no way he can fit all the people we'd need to save! And there's a bunch of resistance fighters living underground where no one can reach them, and people all through the city!"

She says basically all of that in one go. When she's done, her chest kinda hurts again as she sucks in a breath.

For some reason, Vector looks deeply ironic. "Which Primes."

It doesn't sound like a question when she says it. Sari picks up the question mark without really thinking about it, uncertain even when she is certain. "Uh. Prima and Quintus?"

"I see." Vector's optics darken another shade toward purple. But a second later her smile quirks back into place, reassuring and dry, and she stoops to reach across the terminal, adjusting something out of sight. "I believe we can help you evacuate. I know a mech I can consult who has an excellent grasp of how to solve such problems. It should only take a moment, from your perspective. Are you and your spark brother safe where you are, Sari?"

She sounds genuinely concerned, and kind, and Sari only clamps down on her instinctive correction because she remembers at the last second that it's probably…better if a stranger doesn't know everything about her and Brother. Papa would already scold Sari for leaving her soft face exposed like that in front of company.

It's hard, figuring out what to say and when to say it. Take advantage of others' assumptions and reserve the truth for negotiations sounded smarter when it was just Scorponok telling her, when other people outside the ship were entirely theoretical. "I don't know. But we're together, so we can hide better if we need to," Sari says, glancing down at the terminal under her hands.

[[Self] and Sari, together in the airlock,] he pushes back. It probably doesn't register on the call.

(The airlock is one of those memories Sari doesn't think about a lot. She'd never seen Scorponok so angry before. The image of the pieces of Brother struggling to crawl back together in all the blood is too sharp and intense and queasy-making.

Yeah.)

She scrubs at her face reflexively. It feels sticky again.

"Good. Stay safe. Don't be afraid to move if you need to. I look forward to meeting you in person." Vector says. She pulls her goggles back down over her face; the lenses are smudged with grease. Then Vector glances off screen again, expression sharpening, and raises a hand as she strides away from the screen. "Necr-!"

The call cuts off when the door of the room explodes.

Brother hits her before the blast does, hydraulics shoving out as he catches her still half-terminal. The shockwave flings them toward the balcony; Sari clings blindly as the world rolls and bashes around. By the time they stop rolling, Brother's torso gapes open, a hastily constructed compartment that's more body cavity than seat, the walls shooting up to swallow her.

Brother jerks to a stop. Sari yelps as the momentum smashes her into the jutting, half-finished panels, and she uses them to drag herself up and lean around the bulk of Brother's frame to see what hit them.

A radiant silver frame drifts through the perfect circle where the door used to be. Prima glides over what remains of the Infinite who stood outside, more than half of their body mass missing from the liquefied pile of metal. His whole arm shines too bright to look at - Sari squints, and can just make out the barrel of a cannon that is his whole arm, an orb of raw energy visible through the detached, floating pieces of armor rotating around the barrel.

Quintus Prime waits in the doorway, almost an afterthought, his arms and fingers folded akimbo as a single thread extends from his guts to the back of Brother's head. His multiple optics burn in a way Prima's are too bland and glowy to emulate, the dull irritation more real.

Something falls out of the upper curve of the cavity with a small, sucking plop. Sari flinches as it hits her lap but grabs it before it can roll off her legs and make more noise.

It's Brother's brain module.

Euuuuuurgh. Gross gross gross. Sari sets it down on the floor of the cavity, and warily forces her gaze back to the two Primes as the processor sinks into the rest of Brother's body. She starts to stand up, feeling backward with her good foot until she finds a place to wedge it and push herself up out of the cavity.

Prima smiles broadly, the shimmering cape a pretty swirl behind him as he sets down and reaches past Brother. Sari tenses and jumps, intending to fire thrusters and lure him away from Brother - but Prima's hand shoots forward too fast and locks around her neck. "Ah. There you are," Prima says, lightly. Sari starts kicking with both feet, one arm slung over his to give her something more than her own neck for leverage; he holds her out of arm's reach effortlessly. "Scorponok's little wayward experiment. So far from the stasis chamber where you would've made such an excellent prop with which to torment him."

Up close, under the bright smear of his eyes, Sari can see every metal coil and fuel capillary and servo motor and nervecircuit embedded in protoform that makes up Prima's face. It's like his insides are his outsides, face-shaped only from a distance. When he smiles, it's like staring into headlights.

"Hm," Quintus Prime says, and Brother's whole body spasms as more transparent tendrils lance out to seize him. "I see. Emotional imprinting. Easily remedied."

Brother keeps shaking and twitching, sections of his frame caving in as he loses whatever form he was trying to take; he's not screaming, but he usually reforms a vocalizer last of all, which means -

Sari screams for him. She kicks her foot up and over and slams it into Prima's elbow. No good. "Stop hurting him!" she yells at Quintus Prime, as Prima walks her away from the balcony, indifferent. Quintus Prime turns to follow him into the hall, lifting the spasming body in his wake. When Sari glances down, she thrashes again, horrified to see that the area around Quintus's legs swims with more transparent, spilling tentacles. They creep out and around the hole in the wall well ahead of Prima himself, a tangle that extends as far as Sari can see up and down the hall, over the gelatinous remains of the Infinite still trying to reform themselves.

Prima raises the cannon, and almost casually sears another clean hole through the curve of the wall at the end of the corridor. They walk out into the air over the front courtyard, panels of light forming under the Primes' feet. Sari doesn't think either of them even need it; it's just more pretending. They take the not-steps downward in a shallow arc.

Down in the courtyard, the Functionist Council has gathered again. If - if there were bodies out here, someone dragged them away already. Most of the Council's security forces have cleared out of the immediate area, but Sari counts more Infinite. They're all hard at work with stiff, blank faces; all Sari can see in her distraction is the faint twitches of their hands, and the curious secondary sets of optics a few of the nearest ones sprout to watch what's going on above. "Preserve the prototype, if it proves unsalvageable," Prima orders, dismissive. "The Infinite process is already perfected. This vermin is an eyesore, but my most clever pet Scorponok will be so much less distraught if I don't compel him to kill his creation with his own hands."

"The schedule can always accommodate thoroughness," Quintus murmurs in agreement.

There's not much of a difference between [vermin] and [pet], when he says it like that. Sari flips her maskplate down, bares her teeth, and chomps on Prima's hand.

Life would be so much better/more awesome if Papa had let her upgrade to her new body already, so she could have, like. Venom and stuff. Prima tosses her up with careless ease, and Sari dangles in midair for a sec. Then a bubble pops around her, shimmery and pearlescent, and Sari floats back down as Prima folds his hands behind his back to survey the city before them. And now he's ignoring her, and she didn't even leave a dent, and Quintus Prime is beckoning Brother's amorphous body forward as he slowly reforms.

She didn't even get ahold of Scorponok. There's no guarantee that Vector person will do what she says. It's already been a minute, and nothing. Sari plants her hands against the curve of the faceted bubble and kicks, but her grip keeps slipping. She kicks with both feet, again and again, but only succeeds in making her hurt leg burn with pain. When that hurts too much, Sari rolls, gets her feet under her, and slams her shoulder against the bubble.

Not even a crack. She slumps a little, breathing hard. Brother's almost in root mode now, his optics distant as he stumbles on fresh, trembling legs. His face looks drawn - the way it gets when he's just bounced back from almost dying.

Which means there's only one thing left Sari can do. Stall for time. "S-so you're supposed to be some hotshot Prime guy, huh? Well, I know you're a liar! You're both fake!" she shouts, not sure how well people can hear her through the bubble.

Three of the Councilors twitch. The fifth, sixth, ninth, and twelfth are all engrossed in the screens spread before them: rearranging troops with sweeps of their fingers, sectioning off portions of the city to process block by calculated block. A lot of the overhead map of the city is already marked out in green - clear. A few of the Councilors are still accompanied by their subordinates: the Evaluator and his coterie, staring at the screen before him with a trembling red optic; the Inquisitor, with that imposing mech that Sari still can't quite place - Papa warned her about a lot of people, okay? - who towers over the Council, his smile languid and cruel as he drums the drills of his fingers along one arm; and the twelfth, whose title Sari hasn't caught yet, flanked by a grey mech and a blue one with a mechanical bird perched on his shoulder.

"Yes," Prima says, diffidently.

It's not like he's yelling or anything. But. He still admitted that out loud real quick! "Uh," Sari says, not sure how to follow up on that one. She expected some kind of token denial, at least!

Thankfully, Prima starts monologuing on his own. He doesn't even glance at her. "This shell is a convenient myth. Though I do find it amusing to put dearest Prima to true use," he says, fanning out a hand against his chest with a fond smile. His optics remain creepily blank, like shards of empty glass. "A small recompense for the resources wasted on putting down what should have been a fleeting rebellion. Vector Sigma and its Titans and Knights and Muses, fighting the inevitable." Revulsion ripples in Prima's face then - too much. For a second, the mask of Prima's face is a nightmare, the exposed parts flared and roiling with a twisted hate, and the thing looking out from behind it isn't Cybertronian. The tone of his voice doesn't match the mask of an expression at all, and Sari is so glad he's not looking at her. "Prima died on the final day of active engagement. A most heroic sacrifice, I'm certain. He struck down Judge Atronia and spared me the hassle of stripping them of their faces for the disaster of a campaign they waged. But by then, all of it was irrelevant. Of the true countermeasures set into motion to recoup Cybertron's wasted potential, naturally, all have succeeded. Obsolescence proceeded apace, undetected. The Knights splintered, and those who left Cybertron were easily picked off. Not much remained of Prima once the spark began to dissipate, but enough was preserved for him to suffer as a preprogrammed intelligence. Through this avatar, I and the AI gathered like-minded individuals to Prima's banner once reinserted within Cybertronian society, and successfully instilled patterns of conflict, authoritarianism, and expansionism to ensure Cybertron would inflict war and chaos on the galaxy for millennia to come. As it was always meant to. In every way possible, Cybertron has fulfilled its function in the Grand Design."

He carelessly waves at the Councilors in their circle. The Evaluator stares back, his optic a baleful red. "Rigidity cripples. It is a smallness of thought. It would have been a simple matter to redirect the reclamation unit even after Luna-1 waylaid it, but Emissary Quintus saw opportunity. Between us, we have ensured that Cybertron has fulfilled its function in the galaxy, slowly but surely."

Sari's a little distracted, trying to juggle her options in her head - but she sees the Evaluator reach out, and lay a hand on the shoulder of one of his followers. This one is the same dark purple as the Councilor, with a maskplate that covers everything but the empty holes where optics used to be. The metal around the sockets creases in a slow smile, the kind mouthless mechs specialize in.

It's a dangerous, clever smile.

…Oh, Sari thinks, as she recognizes that guy.

And the other one, by the Inquisitor's shoulder. Oh, no.

Overlord continues to inspect the drills in his fingers, uninterested in anything else. Vos shifts, leaning back against the Evaluator with that smile in his eyes.

She is surrounded by so many bad people right now.

"Irony is the spice," Quintus Prime croons, lifting Brother around on a single tentacle and setting him on his feet. Then, while Brother straightens, Quintus refolds his arms in a new pattern as he pivots to face Prima. "Judge Halisca and the harvesting fleet are almost in position to strip the planet down at leisure. Shall I have the In-"

Vos leaps up and back in one smooth motion, balanced on the Councilor's palm. His transformation sequence is a furious, rapid shuffle of parts that takes a split second. The grip of the sniper rifle slapping down around the Evaluator's hand and wrist like a glove as the Councilor steps out of the circle, raises his arm, and fires.

The blast slams into the side of Prima's head with a burst of concussive force. Sari shouts and hugs her knees as her prison bubble gets knocked to the ground and the world rolls.

"False," the Evaluator forces out, voice strained but livid. He takes one step, then another, before his optic shatters with the effort of defying the leash. He's just that mad. The mechs around him prop him up when he staggers. His croak of a shout carries through the air, strangled and triumphant. "Fraud! Abomina-!"

Quintus raises the arms of his left side and closes the hands into a fist. The Evaluator's helm pops in a burst of metal, cerebral fluid, and energon. His body jolts, Vos falling from the Councilor's nerveless hands. All of the mechs plugged into the Evaluator's spine clutch their heads except one - the green one with the cool 'stache, who dives forward and vanishes under the Councilor's body as it sinks to the ground.

The rest of the Council erupts, the first and sixth shouting to be heard over the hubbub of protests and accusations. The eleventh, their cool aqua blue paint splattered with energon from the Evaluator's explosion, inserts themselves between two of the Councilors squabbling with each other at an increasingly high pitch, their optic wide with alarm. Overlord looms over anyone who nears the Inquisitor, his cruel mouth curved in a smile. One by one, the Evaluator's linked mechs collapse.

And Sari, unnoticed by anyone else, rolls away toward the edge of the plaza. She starts crawling, the blunt impact jarring her palms and knees more each time as she picks up speed. Distance - escape first, get out of the ball later.

"Fool," Quintus says, unconcerned, steepling multiple sets of long, thin fingers.

The side of Prima's helm steams as Prima raises it and cracks his neck to the side. The inside is iridescent like a shell, and full of boiling light. Sari can see the faint shadow of a processor, but it's not attached to anything, floating in the center of the empty shell with a solid slice missing along one of its curves. He blinks, and smiles, amused. "Futile," he says, sweeping his fingers through the hovering cloud to smooth the shards of fragmented armor back into place over the gap.

Then Prima freezes. Sari's almost at the edge, stumbling on her elbows as the bubble rolls faster than she can keep up, so close to the line of Infinite she can almost taste it - but her chest seizes in mute terror. He noticed she's gone. He's gonna yank her back -

Instead he looks straight up, eyes bright, smeary stars, and stares up at the night sky. "What. Is. That."

Quintus frowns.

Sari drops off the ledge of the plaza. She glances up to see what they're looking at.

Huge, spiraling ships form a band across the sky, wrapped around as far as Sari can see. They're huge, but not close, despite how much of the sky they block out, and she's kinda glad the moon isn't there anymore because having something to compare their real scale to would only give her vertigo. They spin slowly in place, weirdly transparent, each with their own oily aura of green, distorted space oozing out around them - like they're not quite in sync with reality.

The sky ripples, and opens, and a much smaller ship streaks across the sky. They're too high in the atmosphere for Sari to make out any details. And yet her face starts prickling, hot and cold at the same time, the familiar sensation crawling over her armor as the air crackles and sparks around them.

A flash of lightning lances down from the prow of the ship, and bathes everything - the sky, the buildings, the whole world - in neon green. The afterimage smears across Sari's vision: Prima and Quintus, green limned with white.

Then the world snaps back into place, and it's still green tinted. Sari snaps a hand out with a belated gasp - and hits the inside of a body.

An arm wraps around the viewscreen as Brother's surprise reverberates through his insides, followed hard by a relief and joy that makes Sari's head spin harder than being teleported had. His relief is her relief, because it means he's still here; whatever Quintus Prime tried to do, he is still her brother. "He hurt you," she gasps out, before smacking both hands over her mouth.

Brother lets his arm fall and steps back. [[Self,] playing dead^[nonliteral] @Sari,] he sends back. He feels smug. [Adaptation from prior exposure = acquired immunity.]

But they're still in danger. As Sari adjusts to the sudden shift, her whole body trembling with relief, she touches the viewscreen again, trying to get a sense of what changed. What got rearranged in the shuffle. The city remains the same; they're still in the courtyard of the basilica. Prima and Quintus Prime stand stock still, but now Sari faces their backs. A wave of brilliant cyans and purples and greens press in between, though, partially blocked the view.

Something moved them. The same something that ripped Sari away from the Prototype, away from Papa and the stranger tracking them through the ship. Now Brother's immersed in the crowd of Infinite, all of them in constant, restless motion as their tiny hand and back panel gestures signal to each other in brilliant, rippling ultraviolet patterns, and the song of fieldspeech gives Sari an instant headache of incomprehension. She can't tell if it's 'cause she's just too overwhelmed, or if it's because they're all just plain confused. Brother keeps shifting backward one step at a time, and the Infinite flow around him to fill in the gap with silent, stone-faced solidarity.

But then she looks out further still, and sees that the streets are empty.

All the bodies. Anyone left on the road outside the courtyard - gone. This place was already too empty when Sari first arrived, with flatheads on patrol and the streets full of silence. The small ship in the sky vanished in the wash of electric green. Of the Functionist Council, only eleven remain. The Evaluator's body's gone, along with all his plugged-in attendants, and the ones who remain are frozen. It takes Sari a second to realize they're rigid with pain, all of them twisted mid-paroxysm, with Quintus Prime's long fingers extended toward them with the index and ring finger touching, as though to put the fight on pause.

And Sari doesn't know what's scarier - the fact that Prima looks completely unfazed, or the fact Quintus Prime looks suddenly, fervently alive in a way he hasn't from the moment he stepped off their ship. His optics burn and burn, his face contorted with fascinated fury as he raises a hand to frame the sky.

"Vector Prime," he says, almost reverent in his hatred.

Prima's reply is flat. "All Emissaries: bring me Killmaster," he orders, and Sari huddles back in Brother's internal compartment as the Grand Architect turns on a heel. There's nothing animating his creepy expression; nothing alive in his face. It's like for a second all the life got sucked out of him and into Quintus Prime.

He's not unfazed. He's not there at all.

Prima's cape hangs limp behind him as he brushes past Quintus Prime, catching one wrist with a hand behind his back as he strides back to the basilica. The Infinite shift into ranks as the pale mech walks a perfectly straight line through them, aligning themselves in overlapping rows of six. Brother steps with them, lined up so that his head is visible between the bright purple and cyan Infinite standing in front. Sari presses both fists to her mouth to stifle an internal scream.

But neither Prima nor Quintus seem to notice them. Quintus swivels to survey the ranks without pausing, his helm swiveling isolated from the rest of his body, as he twitches a hand and draws the remnants of the Council after him. Overlord trails his Councilor with a low, carrying chuckle, optics full of relish as he watches the Councilor spasm in another burst of pain.

Then Quintus's stare sweeps away, the rigid line of his mouth unreadable as he drifts after the empty shell of Prima.

Part of Sari can't believe they're getting away with this. Surely they know - surely they can tell the difference. There's just no way they're that dumb. "Brother, we have to go," she hisses, panicking, as the Infinite turn in sync and file after Quintus Prime. "Not in there!"

His reply is clipped, shot through with agitation. [Cannot deviate. They will see. Must blend in^{[decepti[c]on]}.]

He's right. When in doubt, hide in plain sight. The Infinite all look identical; they can all look like anything. But that doesn't make it any better!

[Avya, part of the hive^{[camouflage][attention deflector]},] another Infinite murmurs. The thought swells like a wave under the surface, repeated over and over until Sari can't differentiate it from her headache, as the entrance of the basilica swallows them. Either the viewscreen fuzzes over with static - or maybe she's dizzier than she thought. Sari lets her head thump against the curved wall of the compartment, the colors of the other Infinite swirling woozily into an indistinguishable blur, and makes a tiny sound of gratitude when the wall softens to support her neck.

"You can't seriously mean we're going with them," she protests weakly, as the towering statues of the dark basilica give way to the hall where Prima's ship punched through the roof to land. The ship sits open, Open air drifts through, motes of weirdly pixelated light darting across the viewscreen, and Sari wonders if it was damaged by what Quintus did. Brother can heal from anything - Scorponok never found the limit of it - but surely if there's breaking point, the enemy who wanted the Infinite made would know?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know what she doesn't know, and it sucks, and Vector Prime left them here when she promised.

Well. She's not supposed to trust strangers, anyway. It's just frustrating.

Then Brother's insides jolt. The compartment shudders. Sari freezes in place, eyes painfully wide again, waiting for the uncomfortable pounding in her chest to settle as she eyes the walls.

She's never had to worry about Brother squishing her, before.

But the pounding unease doesn't let up, and Sari finally realizes it's sticking around because it's so pervasive. All of the Infinite are feeling it again. Brother's field never has this kind of persistent impact.

Something floats down the ramp of the Primes' vessel on a beam of pale green light, rotating at sharp, mechanical intervals. It wears four narrow metal faces on a sleek, tapered metal capsule of a body, as tall as Prima - one purple, one red, one green, and one blue face, all with the same carved, bristling mouth, the teeth jutting forward and the intake empty, like the internals don't exist at all. The optics of the faces are almost mild in comparison, a milky green set in round sockets, as they lace the mechanical tendrils between their faces and wait for the Primes to approach.

Prima continues to pass instructions to Quintus, the bland tone of his voice never changing. "Then go to the template, Emissary Quintus. I perceive the shape of Killmaster's meddling. There is no more time for games." Without visible acknowledgement, he addresses the newcomer. "Judge Halisca. Strip the redundant planet down."

There's a silvery glint in the Judge's big, round optics. They edge forward on their floaty beam, blocking the path up the ramp before Prima can stride past them. "If there is to be a trial, I of course offer the services of my own Inquisitors. My staff is ever eager to assist in the decommissioning process," they offer in an overlapping, coaxing whisper, reaching for the Grand Architect's arm with a grey tentacle.

Prima doesn't react; he just stares over the Judge's conical head, unmoving.

Quintus does. "Judge Halisca," the Prime says, his light voice matching Judge Halisca's soft tone. "Give me your face."

The Judge flinches back so hard that the movement jars and skips a frame; one second they're insinuating themselves closer to Prima, the next they're reeling away. "No-!"

Quintus reaches out past Prima with one long, slender arm, and grips the edge of the Judge's rapidly cycling mask - the red one. Then, with a quick, gentle twist of his wrist, the face rips free.

It's almost worse that there's no blood, because the Judge keens like they're dying. Behind the mask is a smooth, featureless plane of silver metal, the capsule of the Judge's body, with only a thin indent at the top where the face hooked in. Judge Halisca reels, the light of the beam holding them aloft perceptibly dimmer as their remaining three faces rotate around to try to fill the gap. A few mechanical tendrils shoot out to brace them against the floor.

"You already possess too few faces to sit the High Judiciary of Quintessa, for your failures of judgement," Prima comments. Quintus manipulates the face between all six hands, folding it with each pass of his hands until all that's left is a diamond of metal the size of his main palms. Then he presses his hands together, and the diamond is gone. "Do not test me again, Inquisitor Halisca."

Halisca freezes on their sagging tendrils. Thinner tentacles creep up over their remaining faces, threaded between the eyes, like that will hold them together if Quintus reaches out again.

Then, with a dim flicker of the light beam, they bend their big head forward as the Primes sweep past them. "Grand Architect," they scrape out.

The view veers away as the Infinite split ranks around the ramp. Sari drags the screen to the side with her fingertip, hoping that Brother will adjust the sensors - but all she catches is a glimpse of Prima's shining cloak in the triangle formed by the ship and its ramp, before it starts to close. The compartment shifts and swivels around, and Sari sits back as a set of restraints bubble up out of the walls. The Infinite ahead of them latch onto the starboard side of the ship, their bodies smoothly transforming into smooth white shells that match the texture and curve of the metal underneath. Sari stops registering the shift of her compartment as Brother reaches out and crawls up the two ranks of Infinite already attached to the side of the ship, their bodies forming handholds that match his reach until he arrives at the waiting, empty section of the hull.

Then Brother fastens himself to the hull, and Sari's seat swivels back one more time to face a screen that looks out at the stars overhead. If Brother wanted to let her help, there would be a set of controls. If she started kicking, he'd let her out - probably. Unless he thought it would get her in more trouble.

Sari clutches the restraints as the ship rises, and the restraints clutch her back. A few panels flutter before slotting back into the smooth backs of the Infinite around them.

Then the dark, hollowed out basilica falls away. The golden city flattens out underneath them, a lonely, dimming splotch of light on a dull grey, rust-stained planet. There's no way to tell if anyone is even alive down there. It's the same distance Sari has seen pretty much every planet from before, her whole life, but it feels weirdly hollow now.

And she can't tell if anything she did to try to help was worth anything at all.

"Where are we going?" she asks, as Cybertron falls away. The space around them smears and distorts like running oil as the ship gears up for something big. The band of huge spiral ships tightens around the planet, a perfect ring, as Prima's vessel phases through them.

With a silent wrench, the first sheaf of metal peels off Cybertron, bigger than Sari's palm when she holds it up for comparison, and gets sucked toward one of the waiting spirals.

[To: home @sister,] one of the other Infinite whispers back. Then it's a flurry of murmuring emotion, the slow dismantling of Cybertron barely a ripple of concern as the Infinite lace their altmodes together. [Brother | Sister^[older][?]] [home?] [Maintain attention parameters.] [- entering compressed space -]

[Safe @Sari,] Brother pushes back, firmly. There's a pause, like everyone's listening to him.

Then, with quiet respect - [Safe,] they all agree.

---

                               and

stardust dripped bloody

from our lips.

- << genesis>>

---

"Alright. New plan. We swim back to the surface. We get the team back together. We steal our ship back."

Short. Sweet. To the point. Rodimus always likes a plan with room for some light improv.

"That seems remarkably similar to the old plan," Rung comments. But he's sitting and hugging his knees, hands perched right under his chin, so Rodimus is willing to let it slide.

"Yeah, but now I'm less worried about Getaway stealing my thunder, and more worried that he's gonna wreck the ship in the middle of Galactic Council space and we'll never see it again." Rodimus pauses. "And also that the Rodimug might not have survived the past year."

Those had been a gift, okay. A gift from Rodimus, to Rodimus, and also to Ultra Magnus and Megatron. Worth it solely for the look of utter devastation on Megatron's face the first time he saw Rodimus sipping from a mug shaped like his own head. Unfortunately, he suspects it would've been a prime target for whatever nefarious, unspeakable deeds Getaway's been getting away with since then.

Drift's technically not back on the command roster yet, but this also has to be taken into consideration. What would they even put on that mug? 'Mug'?

This is very important, okay. He needs to think about this while he sits beside Rung, legs sprawled out in front of him, and watches as Skids does his best to absorb what Vivere's doing by osmosis.

Skids is alive. Rodimus thinks he's doing a bang-up job of concealing the frankly weird emotions that inspires. While it was happening it felt right - like they rose to a challenge, riding the high, piercing note of something almost gleefully, defiantly sacred. Like the most natural thing in the world; like coming home.

Like that morning they thought they were going out to die, and Rodimus stood there surrounded by his family, his spark full to bursting. The last time he saw Skids alive.

Rung clears his throat like five times before Rodimus catches on to the fact that it's not just him hacking up a tank like earlier. And that Rodimus might not have been playing it as cool as he meant to. He's been staring at his hands, lost in nebulous thought, for the past twenty minutes. His palms burn like holding sentio metallico in his palms left a mark. But when he snaps back to the present, it's just his hands. The familiar grooves of his joints; the indent where can still trace the shape of the vote with his thumb, worn down over the years; the yellow paint that seems familiar and unfamiliar after only a year.

But when he shoots a guilty look at Rung, caught in the act, Rung smiles. It's always weird when he does that without his specs. Makes him look familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, too. The earnest, forgettable psychologist who could - who is also an ancient spark crystal generator and a segment of the core who apparently forgot he climbed out of the center of the planet a bajillion years ago.

"That's not really all that mattered before, is it," Rung says, gently, and oh no. Is he being psychoanalyzed? He totally is.

Rodimus grimaces. He's really not good at controlling his expression, and when Rung makes eye contact he's a fragging force. "A lot of things matter, okay? I'm not going to list them off every time. We'd be here all day," he says, weakly evading, holding up a hand to ward off the inevitable. "Let's not do the psychology thing right now, alright?" He feels like if he's not careful, he's gonna screw this up in some ineffable way. If he dwells on it too much, his mood will take a turn for the brooding.

Rung just smiles, and rests a small hand on Rodimus's forearm. "Of course. But it's good to have you back," he says, warmly.

Uh, what. "What? I didn't go anywhere," Rodimus says. But that's the trap. Once you engage, Rung's got you in his clutches and it's game over.

"Didn't you?" Rung takes his hand back and folds it together with the other over his knees, his wistful, tired-eyed smile directed at Vivere and Skids in the center of the chamber. It takes some of the pressure off, and Rodimus feels the tense knot between his shoulders relax against his will. "The last time we really spoke like this, I believe I put my foot in my mouth. It became clear, later. Too late. You've tread lightly around me ever since Overlord."

Rodimus winces reflexively, but Rung presses on, filled with determination. "Skids's death hit me…harder than I expected. But I did not miss how you…regressed. Particularly after Megatron left - but even before then you focused on the anger to stave off the crash." He scratches under one of his antennae with a rueful chuckle, his smile lopsided as he turns it back on Rodimus. "I'm not your psychologist, and perhaps not really someone you consider a close friend. But it is good to see you again. The inimitable, unapologetic Rodimus."

He sounds like he actually means it. The honest sincerity in Rung's voice punctures that bubble of roiling emotion in Rodimus's chest with pinpoint precision and oh no, oh slag, that's done it.

Rodimus sets his jaw and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. It's not a very interesting ceiling, but he doesn't want Rung getting an eyeful of his optics fritzing out. Psychologists, y'know, always reading too much into things. Like him getting weepy about the fact that there's an old, clotted lump of engine sludge inside him that feels like it just broke loose and dissolved. Rung must never know. "Slag. What got into you, Rung?" he chokes out.

"Some old perspective." Rung nudges him with an elbow, and that's almost enough to send Rodimus wobbling right over the edge into bawling. "You are not unloved, you know."

Primus. That's such a silly, backwards old person way to say it. Rodimus wobbles. He pushes upright to cover for it, standing in a hasty rush. Rung ducks his head again, with a tiny flicker of uncertainty.

Well that's no good. Rodimus can't let that stand. "Hey, Rung," he says, a little hoarse. Rung blinks and looks up. Rodimus smiles back. Wide and wobbly and all. He holds out a hand. "Thanks. Let's go home."

Rung missed out on that group hug, and that's a travesty. Rodimus is gonna have to fix that.

The uncertainty melts away. Rung accepts his hand. "Let's."

Maybe Rodimus hauls him up onto his feet a little overenthusiastically, so that Rung's feet dangle for a sec before Rodimus corrects and sets him down properly, but Rung seems cautiously pleased. He dusts a few more specks of crystal dust off his front panel, and surveys the room once more. "Preferably without leaving Skids to revert to a feral state down here under Vivere's tutelage," Rung adds, wryly.

That fear is entirely valid. "Right! I'm way ahead of you." Rodimus rests a fist on his hip and waves. "Hey Skids, are you learning how to be a freaky demigod over there!"

Skids crouches beside Vivere in a squat, fist tucked under his chin as he observes. He's still a protoform, maybe a quarter of his old height still, and the miniature version of his and Nightbeat's habitual thinking pose looks hilarious. It also fills Rodimus up to the brim with more of that weird, warm situation in his chest again.

Feels an awful lot like he wants to cry. Like he wants to hold onto this, and never let it go.

At some point, Vivere managed to gather a globule of light from Vector Sigma; it turns slowly over the point of her finger as she inspects it. "Not a demigod. Just an outlier. One of the originals, I'm guessing," Skids says, framing the shining globe with the rectangle of his fingers.

Vivere doesn't contradict him, but that might be because she's distracted by freaky, arcane stuff. She twists a wrist and the sphere expands a little more, crackling with bright blue static.

It looks super cool and mysterious. But also, they've been down here long enough. Rodimus has completely lost track of time in the twilight of the core. "Hey, can we get a ride up? Any day now? It feels like we've been down here for months or something!" he says. One hand still on his hip, he waves. Back to him, Vivere continues to ignore him. "'Lo! Hello? Viv-?"

Rung holds up a finger and lightly pulls on Rodimus's arm. "One moment. There's something I want to check," he says, suddenly.

Rodimus thinks about it for two seconds, then shrugs.

With that tacit permission, Rung takes a step forward. He's frowning at the back of Vivere's head. "Motere?"

"Yes?" Vivere replies, distractedly, still engrossed in her work.

Uh.

Rung clears his throat, and tries again. "Ferīre?"

Vivere pokes the bubble of light with a discerning finger. It bobbles in the air, reforming a sphere. "Yeah?"

Rodimus leans closer to Rung. "What's going on, Rung?" He's starting to run out of fingers on which to count the many ways Vivere is just plain weird.

Rung sighs. He continues forward, and Rodimus joins him in stepping onto the central platform where Vivere and Skids have been working. "That's not just Vivere. I wondered why she was acting so - erratic. She's carrying the sparks of all the other Muses when, I believe, she explicitly told Windvoice she wasn't."

"Not all," Vivere corrects. At last, she looks back over her shoulder to grin at them, optics alight with mischief. "My sister Mnemosyne never returned to be reforged." She springs to her feet, pivoting on the balls of her feet. The sphere hovers over her hands, condensing down until it's more and more compact. "I would apologize for misleading dear Windvoice, but a mech must have her secrets. There is still something we need to see through."

"So we're talking to five people at once whenever we talk to you, or something?" Rodimus asks, skeptically.

"Or something," Vivere says. She doesn't elaborate. "But if you're ready to go, then let's cut to the chase. I want to hear the moon's tale."

She snaps her fingers, and the ball of light blazes, white-hot, as she cradles her palms under it. Lit from below, her smile is luminous. "It's time to be doing. So! Tell me Rodimus. How did you feel when the Matrix came to you."

Oh no. A pop quiz. Rodimus hesitates, eyes darting around, very aware of Vivere, Skids, and Rung all watching him. Pressure. "I felt…Happy," he says, stiltedly. There's been too much emotional talk today. "Wonder. Optimus said once that he felt pain, but, uh. By the time either of us had it, Tyrest and his team had drained it of all the energy to make cold constructed bots."

"They did not drain it of energy. They drained it-" Vivere raises her hand, and the globe of light swirls, so hot and bright it leaves dazzling spots in Rodimus's vision "- of sparks. Volunteers."

Then she tosses it underhand to Rodimus. She's only a few meters away, but it still nearly gives him a spark attack as he juggles to catch it. It stings his hands as it comes to rest in his palms, but it doesn't feel hard and solid, like a crystal or like the Matrix.

And it doesn't hurt.

Rodimus shakes it a little. It bobbles like a lava lamp. Rung pinches the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want, Rodimus?" Vivere asks. "Not for the sake of chasing Orion's approval, or for mine, or for anyone else but yourself. Is this what you want?"

In the end, there's really only one answer Rodimus can give. He looks into the armful of sparks, burning against his chest, and wants to be home.

"Yeah," he says, overflowing. "Hell yeah."

Vivere's smile is a knife. "Then let's light 'em up."

---

Ten!*

- 10, <<X>>

*highlight for translation notes

---

Best friend Minimus has only just come to visit when the ground quakes again.

Friend Ratchet hasn't been able to make it out as much these past few days, but Ten knows that he's well because when Ten delivered his notices in the quiet hours of the morning, a new figurine of friend Drift folded into the envelope slipped into Ratchet's office wall file, he returned to a messy sketch scribbled off on the back - a vaguely recognizable Ten and Ratchet with smiley faces, under a sun with lines extending from it.

So Ratchet will be there opening morning, and it will be good. And if he needs it, he has the image of friend Drift to bring him home again.

If only, Ten thinks, the earth would stop quaking. He paints through the tremor, patiently painting over the jarred line where the brush jerked until it's a scalloped curve again. Minimus looks up from the tea trembling in his cup, his mustache askew in alarm. "An earthquake?" he asks, standing up from his small chair.

"Ten ten ten," Ten says, reassuringly. He investigated the first few times, but it's always the same person, and she is always very polite about the inconvenience and taste testing whatever Ten has brewed that day. "Ten ten, ten."

(The first time he found her, on the edge of a closing crevice to the south, she had cocked her head to the side, listening - and smiled. "What a lovely voice you have, dear cousin!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together, and from that moment has responded to Ten's every sentence like she understood.)

"Ah. Well, if you're sure." Minimus lingers for a moment, half out of his chair, then seats himself, settling back down with his datapad in one hand and tea in the other. He still casts a worried glance over the spark flower fields, but after the earth stays quiet for a few minutes, he smooths his wayward mustache back into place.

Then, just as the two of them fall back into companionable silence, the earth erupts. Right in the middle of the statue garden, which is truly unfortunate. The shudder tips Minimus's chair precariously and he pinwheels his arms wildly for balance, optics huge, before Ten puts out a hand and holds it steady. This time when Minimus jumps to his feet, stiff-shouldered and stern, Ten stands with him. Usually cousin Vivere has better aim. Minimus charges ahead, and Ten follows, unhurried.

Three of the four people who spill out of the crack in the ground are steaming in the cool air. Friend Rung blinks in the sudden sunlight with unshielded optics, clearing his throat as he raps his chest with his knuckles to clear it. Friend Skids, alive after so long, hops down from the ragged edge of the fissure on stumpy legs, his head bobbling on his shoulders like it's just a little too big, and Ten realizes that he absolutely has to make a new figure to account for these new proportions, on such a joyous occasion. Vivere waves an apologetic hand, her smile benign but unreadable as ever, and the ground begins to knit shut behind her.

Raspberry-pink smoke curls and coils off Rodimus, pouring into the air. He's red, yellow, and pink all over, his grin is irrepressibly pleased with himself, and his eyes shine like a galaxy, electric and full of stars.

"Sup," he says.

Chapter Text

---

If only it were that simple.

I'm merely a facilitator.

- Killmaster of the High-ceilinged Manifold, source (un)known

---

They wander for a good few hours or so before Scorponok's patience begins to fray.

"This is not," he says, "the way to Emissary's dock, Pharma."

Pharma paces in a tight line at the end of the hall, agitated, and does not reply.

"No," Brainstorm replies, agreeable but distracted by the mangle he and Nautica have made of the wiring in the wall. He holds a light up over Nautica's shoulder so she can peer inside. Drift, né Deadlock, guards them, his posture stiff and his hands as twitchy on the hilt of his sword as they ever were on a trigger. The only real insult in it is that Drift keeps as close an eye on Pharma as on Scorponok. "But we've gotten so much done off screen!"

It's true - they've accomplished an inordinate amount of scavenging and sabotage with no discernable pattern. Brainstorm's miniature handgun turned out to be a soldering gun. At most, Scorponok thinks they may mildly inconvenience a Judge's day somewhere down the line. He takes greater issue with the fact that they've meandered halfway around Quintessa's artificial core planet, and have yet to reach the Titan Emissary's dock. Every second that trickles away is one closer to the Grand Architect recapturing Sari. "Pharma," Scorponok repeats. The doctor is out of reach, at the moment, but that can be rectified.

Pharma whips around to glower at them, optics flashing. "I know what I'm doing! Keep your voices down!" he hisses, his Infinite fingers digging deep into the wall. His voice turns high and mocking as he rails at Brainstorm and Nautica. "Oh, don't rush on my account, you two. It's not like all our necks will be on the chopping block if they catch us rummaging around back here -!"

Nautica emerges from the wires with a snap of her fingers, fiddles with something, and pops the small, palm-sized compact shut with a smile. Brainstorm snaps off the flashlight embedded in her wrench and passes it back to her. "There! That should be enough for another jump cut drive, if we need to make a quick exit. We're burning through those pretty fast in compressed space."

"Definitely something to test with the next batch," Brainstorm agrees.

The worst part is, they act like they're perfectly serious. Scorponok remains undecided on recruiting Pharma - breaking him might be more trouble than it's worth, with time at a premium - but these Autobots are slated for disposal as soon as the opportunity presents itself. One would think at least Brainstorm of both the New Institute and Kimia would provide useful ideas, but no - he and Nautica chatter amongst themselves in an endless stream of utter nonsense. Half of what they discuss isn't even theoretical; it's just frivolous. Drift occasionally chimes in with a rueful quip, taking their inanity in stride.

Best to engage with Pharma only, and treat the other Autobots as a tertiary priority.

Scorponok tilts his head to the side, unimpressed by Pharma's tantrum. "No games, Pharma. I won't hesitate."

Pharma hangs there for a moment with a cold, mute look, his frame askew.

Then he lets his arm drop, balls his hands into fists, and turns his back on them. His steps are sharp as he walks away, down another interminable golden hall. "Ha. No games. I assure you, you're all in safe hands with me. No one here wants to see the Architect win." Pharma's voice lingers behind him, just a little too distant even when Scorponok steps into the hallway in his wake - the twisted dimensions of the Quintessa at work again. He trails off in a mutter, the red curve of his helm slumped. "Honestly, I'd like to see you try."

Perhaps some genuine incentive is required. Scorponok draws a gun. "Tcha. Enough Autobot posturing. If you renege on the shortcut that was promised, I have no further use for you."

Drift's arm shoots out, shoving Brainstorm back as he shouts in alarm.

Pharma, with only a few meters between the back of his head and a gun, just lets his head fall a little more. When he glances back, the line of his chevron and the skewed light cast an unnatural shadow over his face. Scorponok can't read the doctor's expression.

Troubling. Even if the emotional state of other sapients is often a tedious calculation to run, Scorponok can usually hazard a superficial guess. It's not impossible that the Quintessons broke the doctor's mind enough to render him wholly unpredictable.

After a pause, however, Pharma merely snorts. "And Emissary will report you the moment you set foot on board. Which, since all of you decided to drag me along for the ride, would get all of us killed, or worse!" he snaps, flicking a hand back at Scorponok.

And then he starts walking again.

Which does nothing to illuminate where exactly Pharma thinks he's leading them. It could be in circles, for all the good a sense of direction would do in a place like this.

"That would throw a bit of a wrench in the works," Brainstorm says, distractedly. "If you're going to shoot him, can you wait until we're past? Thanks."

Without waiting for Drift to move his arm, Brainstorm ducks under it and shuffles around Scorponok to trail Pharma down the hall. Nautica accompanies him, her brow scrunched up as she sidesteps Scorponok's gun. Once they're past him, they just huddle up over that wrench again, debating what its readings imply.

Scorponok transforms the gun away with a disgusted shake of his arm, and follows. Drift has to lengthen his stride to powerwalk past him and get between Scorponok and the rest, giving him a wider berth than anyone else. Pharma continues to stalk ahead, hesitating at irregular intervals in the middle of empty hallways and crossroads; his mouth remains a thin, unreadable line.

Curious, that they have yet to come across any Quintessons. This isn't the heart of the station, with its multifaceted atria and monolithic courtrooms, but Pharma certainly has the knack for avoiding them down. Keeping him as an assistant would be too annoying, but with the Firstborn project complete and - soon - with Architect in the rearview mirror, Scorponok might be able to pick his processor apart to investigate the leash. Pharma hasn't winced once - whatever Judge or Emissary brought him here can't have done a thorough job. Scorponok, Overlord - none of the Cybertronians brought here under the aegis of the Galactic Council are trusted to wander loose without measures in place.

Later, Scorponok will curse himself for missing the obvious.

Brainstorm thwacks the side of the wrench. "Is it just me, or is space getting a little less wonky around here?" he asks.

"Is that the scientific term for it?" Pharma snipes, frostily.

"Yes," Nautica replies, without missing a beat. She thwacks the side of the wrench for herself. Then - "You're right, Brainstorm." She raises a hand and waves at the back of Pharma's head. "Hey, hang on. Are we not on the station anymore? We're in a domain where things are considerably less noodly than the space outside."

Scorponok sighs in a burst and brings the gun back up.

This time, they react properly. "Oy!" Brainstorm exclaims as he jerks back, clutching the soldering gun to his chest. Nautica brandishes the damnable wrench. Drift lunges in the middle of them all, his sword up in a guard.

Pharma raises his empty hands in a mockery of surrender. He doesn't even turn to look.

Galling. That means it may already be too late. The trap is all around them.

"Hey, hey. Good vibes, everyone," Drift says, carefully. His EM field is obnoxiously present; he's projecting pacifying subvocals on purpose. Again, he glances back at Pharma, as though Scorponok isn't the one holding a weapon. "We're not picky. A way out of here, that's it. We all shake hands and walk away."

Pharma holds up a finger. "One small problem with that plan," he says.

By the time he turns, his hands are uncoiling. Scorponok allows himself a few moments of indulgence to observe the interaction between Infinite grafts and original Cybertronian wiring - not something he'd considered before. The interaction appears fluid - no sign of nerve delay or rejection - and yet Pharma's face contorts in micro-twitches of disgust as he kneels so the unspooling grafts can link into the floor itself. Perhaps an illogical, psychosomatic response.

It doesn't matter. A circular panel rises up from the floor under Pharma's command, levitating. Scorponok fires - the shot glances off the underside as the energy field kicks in -

And when Drift whips around, blue optics popping - he recoils.

Pharma's free hand reconfigures into a chainsaw as he rises. Meanwhile, the floor and walls pull away, the interlocking panels splitting along the lines of a puzzle that doesn't at all match the physical dimensions of the hall itself, widening and deepening to the point that the floor starts to drop out from underfoot.

"I don't care what you all do," Pharma says, entirely too surly for someone rising over a growing abyss. He glares down at them as he falls back. The lighting cools sharply, turning everything a murky gold and purple as blue light streams through the gaps. "But even you running loose around here could ruin everything. Unfortunately, I don't get to make the call about what to do with you."

The floor dips further still. The Autobots start to skid and grab at each other - Nautica wedges her wrench into the seam of the wall and catches Brainstorm by the collar, while Drift stabs the sword into the floor to crouch on. Scorponok digs in his heels, feeling an ugly temper stir inside him as he scans the walls.

Whoever Pharma's patron is, they'll be making an appearance soon. No one could warp Quintessa itself to this degree without significant standing - if not the Architect himself. Walking into a trap so obvious…if this is Killmaster's game, it's time to stop playing.

Then Nautica gasps. "Oh! Oh, hang on!!!" she exclaims, realization striking her almost as hard as it has Drift. "I know where we are!"

Pharma's smile is crooked as he shrugs. "Come now. Who did you think dragged me through Tyrest's gate?"

"I wasn't even there!" Drift protests.

"Same!" Nautica calls.

"Honestly? Never gave it much thought at all!" Brainstorm adds.

Scorponok expects an Emissary. He braces his legs better, ready for the jolt of the leash. If he can't push through the pain of direct control, he needs to be ready to move. Point the Autobots at something, and slip out at the first sign of distraction. Even if they put up a fight, eventually the innate mesmerism - the interaction between a Quintesson presence and a Cybertronian processor - will betray them.

It's only as the voice pulses through them - speaking in a way that isn't sound, less a vocalization and more a sensation that rolls through like a tide -

[Ēvigilā.]

- and leaves aftershocks that hang in the air around Pharma, in coruscating pink light, that it occurs to Scorponok -

[Advigilā.]

- that he has absolutely no idea who he's dealing with.

[Vigilā.]

Deep within Quintessa, with a shine that lends an uncanny light to Pharma's smile, a set of golden optics onlines.

---

Does it almost feel like /

nothing changed at all?

And if you close your eyes -

Does it almost feel like /

you've been here before?

- Bastille of Rhoedeion, <<Pompēiī (Layers)>>

---

Wheeljack expects to come back to chaos.

-

Instead, he walks into Maccadam's New Oil House. Right on the corner of R-T2-Alloy and R-T2-Ferrous, under the old Interstate Bridge where it passed through Rodion. The property values around here got shot to the pit after the whole dead senator thing, but Maccadam's never closed. Rumor had it that soldiers on both sides took breaks during the weeks of the Rorsha Campaign to grab a pint and watch Optimus and Megatron slug it out on the bridge overhead. There was always something about that bar. For the life of him, Wheeljack can't remember when it got bombed out of existence.

In this memory, the streets are clean and serviceable and empty, a warm gold under the noon sky. The dream atmosphere still has that faint film of compressed space, but it's a nice day out all the same: Maccadam's sits on a decent commerce tier with an open view of clear air, and it shows. The table outside the front window is occupied, with two open seats. Everyone has a fresh, cold mug of fuel in front of them, and not a care in the world.

The scene should be idyllic.

"Please," Springer begs, sounding dead inside. "Not more poetry."

Prowl is in a similar state, mutely staring through the datapad projection before them. Whirl, very carefully, has started stacking empty engex cubes and tumblers on top of Prowl's rigidly unmoving helm. The fact that Prowl hasn't stopped him yet speaks volumes.

A pair of bright yellow legs sticks out from under the table. Whirl is using their chest as a footrest.

Megatron takes a sip of energon, presumably to soothe his throat for another recitation. He looks perfectly at home in his seat. There could be a faint crook in the corner of his mouth, or it could just be a trick of the light. "I could always break out the treatise instead," he says.

"Let me guess," Wheeljack says, walking up to the table with his thumbs hooked over his hips. "This is our nightmare."

Megatron scrolls down a page in his datapad with a contemplative quirk of his brow. It's a memory of an older, long-defunct model, the purple screen framed by refurbished controls. "Something like that," he says, absently. "More precisely, it's Impactor's."

"I hate all of you," someone who may or may not be Impactor growls from under the table.

"I mean, is it bad poetry?" Wheeljack asks as he sits, careful to set his feet somewhere he won't accidentally step on anyone. He's almost genuinely curious. For a second, the twinge of nostalgia spikes in his processor - a nice afternoon, talking shop by the campus oil café - but his scanner shuts down the memory feedback before the Lotus Machine can use it as fuel.

If Ratchet were here, he'd be passing out recharge feedback suppression chips like they were candy. Problem solved.

A hook impales itself through the bottom of the table with a THUNK, right as Mnemosyne seats herself silently beside Wheeljack. "That's not the point!" Impactor howls.

"That's subjective," Megatron says, as he scrolls down a page to the next poem.

"It's freeform verse seditious enough to make a baby Functionist cry." Whirl spins an empty mug by its handle around one claw. "I would give snaps just on principle, but - wait."

As if struck by a bolt of lightning, Whirl raises his other claw and snaps the points together, then listens to the sharp noise it makes with dawning glee. Wheeljack's not sure he's achieved a finger snap in the traditional sense, but Whirl starts cackling and snapping with wild abandon.

Then he freezes. "Slag. I'm applauding Megatron's poetry. This really is a nightmare."

"I'm coming down there," Springer announces, and pushes back his chair to crawl under the table. He takes his drink with him. Impactor's strangled, croaky, "No," falls on deaf ears.

Folding his hands tightly in front of his mouth, Prowl stares over them at Wheeljack. "You vanished," he says. You left me alone with these people goes unsaid.

"So I guess something happened while I was out. Back when we were still on the road?" Wheeljack asks, tactfully avoiding the look of betrayal. They ended up in that room with nightmare sparkeaters prowling around somehow; Wheeljack missed all of it while splicing his scanner together. Mnemosyne's only visible in the corner of his eye, hands folded in her lap.

Springer grunts. "Sparkeaters started bubbling up out of the ground after you went into recharge. We hightailed it to the nearest city, but it's not really possible to outrun things in this place. Thought we had, and got sucked into another hallucination instead."

So, the nightmares triggered as soon as Wheeljack started rummaging around in the deeper layers of the Lotus Machine's subconscious. Hallucinations of loved ones to kill you nicely; nightmares of sparkeaters to keep you from thinking your way out of it. Nasty little piece of work.

To Wheeljack's disproportionate relief, Megatron taps the poetry datapad to darken the screen and sets it aside. "Irrelevant, now. Were you successful, Wheeljack?"

So, here's the thing. The terrifying, hard to stomach thing.

Megatron meets Wheeljack's eyes, frank and piercingly clear. When Wheeljack scans the dream to get a feel for what he's dealing with, Megatron is a fixed point in every sense of the word. Everyone else is partially immersed, whether they notice it or not. Springer's the next closest to Megatron in terms of stability: a very close second, without the same depth of experience in forcing the whole world to revolve around him.

Prowl looks like he's ready to drop, his color wan and pale compared to the sunny, golden memory around them. Rest any weight on him and Wheeljack thinks he'll break in a way they can't put back together. Whirl is - well, Whirl.

Meanwhile, the dream world of the Lotus Machine eddies and flows around Megatron like heat waves in the air. His mind might be a deeper well of gravity than the vortex in his chest. When the dream tries to push him, to nudge them out of this safe, steady memory into something malleable, Megatron doesn't even bat an eye. He just refuses to be moved. When a hallucination tries to approach them, forming itself from their own memories, he ignores it. Megatron holds them anchored in the memory of Maccadam's with a combination of unflinching immovability and a deliberate misinterpretation of what counts as a nightmare.

It's the door frame, writ large. When it comes to asserting his will in this dream world, Megatron is simply the best there is.

There might be one being in the universe scarier than Lord Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, and he's sitting right across from Wheeljack with the same name and the same face, their lives and sanity balanced in his open hand.

And Wheeljack's going to have to trust him.

They're so gonna die.

"With some help. But the Lotus Machine is sealed off with a force field. Tried to get it open, but no dice." Wheeljack activates his scanner and sketches a better diagram of the physical room. "We've got a scientist in the room who could probably dismantle the spark extracting part with his optics off, but no way to access it or Mnemosyne directly, not without getting through the shield or leaving the room. With Overlord around -"

"Not an option with good odds," Prowl cuts in. He sounds drained. How much longer until this place saps them into a coma? Until they just stop being able to think straight? "How much time do we have?"

Wheeljack grimaces. "Not a lot. The Machine realized I was tinkering with the mental space. Mnemosyne said the nightmares were a defense mechanism to stop us from digging any deeper. And it's still extracting sparks, every second we're in here."

He glances at the Muse, and catches a direct glimpse of her for the first time in a while. It's easy for her to slip into the subconscious layers of the dream, even with all of Wheeljack's mods. Mnemosyne meets his gaze for a split second. Then her cameras flick back to Megatron, the lenses cycling as if it's hard to focus on him. Her face looks as drawn as Prowl's.

"I think our best bet is to snap her out of it," Wheeljack finishes, without looking away. "She's an outlier. She's the one the Lotus Machine is built around. Without her ability active, I doubt the Machine can function. We'll snap you guys out of it, is the plan."

She smiles, but doesn't say anything.

"And then we blast our way out of here." Whirl taps a claw against the table, leaning in.

Springer raises a hand over the edge of the table. "Not opposed, at this point."

Whirl pulls a gun out of thin air. Literally. "And then," he continues, rant fully engaged, "we find Killmaster and give him a real piece of our minds. Literally, figuratively - whatever. Then he and I can have our final showdown." He gestures wildly with the gun - and levels it at Megatron. "Kachow -!"

"I'm not sure that will be necessary," Megatron interrupts, holding up a hand to block the gun's barrel. Wheeljack - who recognizes Brainstorm's Symphony in Cyan handcannon and has a policy of 'jump first, ask questions about the highly destructive ordinance later,' when someone starts waving a vintage Brainstorm around - finishes hopping over the back of his chair so he has something like a blast shield between them. Everyone else around the table appears to be either oblivious to the danger or resigned to the inevitable.

"Why not?" Prowl says, disdainfully.

Megatron taps the stylus against his datapad. "Look at the composition of this group. This is a strike team."

Prowl dims his optics and digs the heel of his palm into the ridge of his brow. "What are you on about now?"

Megatron's mouth twists. "Not a conventional one, no. But one uniquely suited to resisting this place and deconstructing it."

If anything, that just makes Prowl glare harder. An elbow clamps down on the table, and Springer hauls himself up to sit in his seat properly again, looking cross. "What's your point?"

"Two atheists, two Wreckers, and a scientist walk into a bar." Whirl pushes back his chair onto its back legs and teeters precariously as he glares down the barrel of his gun. "It's a joke."

Megatron snorts like it actually is.

"How is this going to help us?" Springer says, more sharply.

Instead of answering, Megatron pushes back from the table and vents a sigh. "I'm going to attempt to meditate," he announces.

"End. Me," Impactor begs hoarsely.

Whirl whacks his own chest like he just inhaled fuel through the wrong tube. "Someone's been listening to Rung too much," he chokes out. "I like Eyebrows, don't get me wrong, but aren't you laying it on a little thick here?"

"Mindfulness is a useful tool," Megatron says, mildly.

Under the table, Impactor gurgles in wordless agony.

Damn, he's good.

Megatron laces his fingers loosely and leans back in his seat. "Wheeljack, call the Muse's attention," he orders. 

Wheeljack wants to bristle at the order. He sighs and checks the seat beside him, anyway. Mnemosyne blinks back at him. "She's here. She never left," he reports. Then, in an aside to her - "What d'you think about all this? Think it'll work?"

Without giving any indication, he also pings Megatron's comm line.

The Muse draws a circle around the top of Wheeljack's abandoned mug, and hums. "Safer not to confirm or deny. Direct attention to this would draw unwanted scrutiny. Elide." The circle lingers like an afterimage after she settles back with her hands in her lap. "You're not the only ones trying to reach me. It used to be easier." She looks directly at Wheeljack. "If I could let you go, I would."

When he checks everyone else, Springer and Megatron are the only ones who don't look at Wheeljack like he's talking to thin air. Prowl's brow is furrowed in mounting alarm. Even Whirl is shooting Wheeljack a sideways look, which is a feat of empurata engineering Wheeljack doesn't think is physically possible. "Wheeljack, there's no one there," Prowl says, agitation humming like icy static.

Eh. Wheeljack shrugs. He can deal with a couple people thinking he's seeing things. This place is hard enough to follow without sweating the small stuff. "You guys can't see her. She's been trying to fly under the conscious radar since we first ran into her. Just lemme know if I start to pull a Starscream - that's when you'll know something's wrong."

It's finally Megatron's turn to sound at a loss. "A…Starscream?" he repeats, confounded.

"You know, seeing someone who's real and mistakenly thinking that you're seeing fake ghosts or something instead." And that's more explanation than Megatron will ever deserve.

WJ: Look. I'll back whatever move you make.
WJ: She can't let us go, no matter how much she wants to. I know you've probably got three different plans for how to bust out of here, so pick the one that doesn't kill her or anyone else.
WJ: You talk a big game about saving people now. Let's go.
MT: Interesting.
WJ: Can we just get this over with? Don't you need to meditate?
MT: I can multitask. And I've already laid a great deal of the groundwork.
MT: I do not forget, you know. For all my machinations, all it took to bring it crashing down was for you to install a forcefield generator in my spark chamber. A Gordian knot of singularities installed in my chest, and you didn't even blink.
MT: You cut to the heart of things, Wheeljack. You are devastatingly practical.
WJ: Yeah, well, we can't all try to reinvent the space-time continuum. Some of us have to be normal.
MT: Hm. Of course. 
MT: I've observed that she's at her clearest and most present and lucid when she's working to analyze and correct memory processing glitches. She couldn't resist solving Chromedome.
MT: I suspect that if I lower some of my mental partitions, the puzzle will focus her enough to engage with.
MT: You have leverage. Push her to remember her own pivotal memory. This place is preventing her from accessing her archives for a reason. We only have to break that feedback loop once.
MT: I intended to push her to the breaking point myself if you failed to resurface, but it will most likely be more controlled and marginally less traumatic if we have your scanning capabilities to map out where we fall in the memory. At the moment I have only my own inferences about her psyche.
WJ: …
WJ: Optimus put you in charge of a ship full of Autobots.
WJ: You could've destroyed them whenever you damn well got bored with playing along.
WJ: Did he really think they could keep you in line?
MT: Not at all. He had more faith in my change of heart than I strictly deserved.
MT: But perhaps he was onto something. They - help me to be better.
MT: The time and distance has also hammered home to me that our war essentially annihilated the societal injustices that I claimed to fight against long after I annihilated the society responsible for them. Despite the fact that we regularly became embroiled in strange adventures with the fate of the universe itself at stake, I can look back and say that not a single instance would've been improved by me returning to Cybertron to force upheaval. A year in the Functionist universe, now, and only once have I truly felt the temptation to seize the revolution and escalate matters in a way that would not be…sane. And it was easier to set aside, now that I have the tools to recognize the pattern in myself.
MT: There's just something about constant exposure to blithe chaos that forces one to re-evaluate one's priorities, I suppose.
WJ: But you can still throw down a wall of text with the best of 'em, huh.
MT: My apologies.
WJ: Whatever. I'll take the monologuing over unending war any day.
WJ: Let's just get this done so we can all go home before any more of us die.
MT: I believe I've identified a strong enough pivot. She just needs to remember. I'll trust to your sense of timing.
WJ: Just don't make me regret it.

And just like that, Wheeljack's collaborated with Megatron. Feels…sleazy. The chat passes in a flurry; by the time Megatron bows his helm and sinks into a meditative pose, they've hashed it out. Wheeljack rubs the back of his neck self-consciously as he watches and waits for the right moment.

(He knows how this story goes. The one where it turns out Megatron was playing him all along, and everyone dies except Wheeljack, who gets to live with the suppurating guilt. All it'll take, he figures, is for Megatron to have an epiphany in reverse.)

Also, no, he can't multitask. Wheeljack knows because the second the comm wraps up, Megatron snaps into abrupt focus as he actually…meditates. Like someone snapped a corrective lens over a warped optic, and suddenly the world has crisp edges again. Wheeljack hisses and claps a hand over his eye as it sparks.

"Wheeljack?" Prowl asks, too tense already. He hovers, his hand part of the way to Wheeljack's shoulder, but he's just waiting for a reason to go off on Megatron.

Megatron, who's just sitting there, head bowed, as he cycles vents in time with a careful count. "M'fine," Wheeljack forces out.

But it works. Mnemosyne steps out on the far side of Megatron, snapping from Wheeljack's side to his in a blink. She zeroes in, fascinated by the side of Megatron's head in the same way she was with Chromedome's. "He thinks on many parallel levels. Can you see them?" she asks Wheeljack.

She frames his helm with the rectangle of her fingers and draws them apart. Purple and red lines and grooves and trapezoids unfold out to the side around her hands, tracing abstract layers of thought like solar panels unfurling from Megatron's head. Every mind around them in a small galaxy of bright circuits and coursing energy, and if Wheeljack undid the safeties on his scanner his head would probably pop. His audial sensors pop instead, as the focus tightens even more.

"Yup," he confirms aloud. In the meantime, he starts to map that train of thought. Odds are they only get one shot at snapping Mnemosyne out of it. If this kind of blatant tampering doesn't draw a horde of nightmares down on their heads, Wheeljack will eat his scanner.

"Wheeljack, what is he doing?" Prowl raises his volume. But it's like it's happening on some other plane of existence; Wheeljack can barely parse it over everything else going on.

Megatron's thoughts spread without Mnemosyne prompting. They run through multiple layers of the Lotus Machine, sinking deeper into the firmament of the dream, along tracks that Wheeljack couldn't even sense without plugging a scanner into his brain. Wheeljack can see them running through the floor - thin fractals that spiral out from Megatron's feet. Slowly but surely, the lines start to coil around under Mnemosyne's feet.

Which is pretty much according to plan, Wheeljack figures. Time to start reprogramming the scanner on the fly. Again.

"He thought his way around the damage at last, but the grooves are well-worn. A millennia's worth of unforgiveable choices. They sunk the needles in and erased the pieces of him that might have tempered the worst. 'If you can save someone, you should save them. You cannot put a price on life.' They intended to render him incompetent; they forged their own doom." Mnemosyne cards through her unspooling analysis of Megatron's processor structure, wholly invested. Maccadam's falls further out of focus until it's barely more than a fizzling outline. "'Never back down. Never compromise. You sit alone. The strong, not the weak, shape the world.'"

"Wheeljack," Prowl says, loud and insistent in Wheeljack's audial. Someone's shaking his shoulder. But he needs to focus.

Megatron already asked the question once. He planted it so deep that Wheeljack finds references to it in the scanner already, coded by Wheeljack in a dreamy daze.

Then Mnemosyne breaks off. She halts right in front of Megatron.

She starts to tremble.

"What did you - wait. Who said that to you?" she says. The last, faded remnants of Maccadam's tremble in time with her. The tension is a rising pulse, droning in Wheeljack's head as the pressure shifts. "On Junkion. '[You are…truly…monstrous -]"

Megatron lifts his head, reaches out, and makes contact.

No hesitation.

When his hand lands on Mnemosyne's shoulder, Wheeljack puts his mental weight behind Megatron's, and pushes.

"Enough," Megatron says, simply, as the world lurches. "The answer to my question, first: which -"

-

The world jars. The outlines of all the buildings around Maccadam's are two meters to the left of the color blocks filling in their shapes. The sunlight streams down in rectangular chunks of gold, like a stairway through the mosaic sky, flanked by the silver coins of two moons.

-

"- moon."

-

The bridge of the Lost Light, empty and still.

There's a body on the wrong side of the window, out in the black.

It's not an enormous Matrix in the sky overhead - it's something hungrier.

Mnemosyne's lenses are dark, on their widest setting, as she tips backward.

-

"What did I see," Megatron finishes, "outside the window of that Lost Light? What happened on the moon, Muse?"

The dream world shifts in a series of blips, too fast for Wheeljack to throw the brakes on. The deck of the Lost Light, a prison cell, an acid sea, dotted with the wreckage of ships rather than islands, with only a blaze of static to mark the transition from one scene to the next. Nothing can keep up as Mnemosyne shakes her head - they've left Prowl and the others far behind, and even the Lotus Machine struggles to chase them down.

And despite the push, Mnemosyne keeps flitting erratically from one memory to the next. Still not her's. Not the one they aimed for. She's trying to break away, find something that doesn't make the Machine wail with alarm sirens.

Wheeljack is gonna hurl. "What did you do?!" he asks Megatron, staggering.

"I - I - I - I can't remember," Mnemosyne says, mechanically. "It is - I can't remember."

Megatron doesn't even flinch as the ground cuts out from under them, again and again. "Be calm, Wheeljack."

He's gonna punch Megatron, and then he's gonna hurl.

A habsuite, a basilica, a field of sparkflowers bluer than the sky, a seething moon -

That last one strikes a pure note, like a tuning fork. The Muse jerks them away from that memory with jarring speed, and lands them back in an apartment.

Starscream looks up from the balcony with a brilliant grin.

Upside down, over Starscream's head, something reaches in through the window and balances its claw on the ceiling.

It begins to slither inside.

Bad. Very bad. Definitely a Megatron on the sliding scale of badness. Wheeljack swears and backpedals away from the open balcony before either outstretched hand can reach him. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we've got company! Megatron -"

Megatron's on his knees. Even then, his head's still taller than Mnemosyne's; he keeps both hands planted solidly on her shoulders. She grips his shoulders in turn, staring, and the mental space cracks and sparks where their minds intersect. Any second now, the floor will start tessellating and crash out from under them. Hard reset, like the one after Overlord reminded Mnemosyne where they are.

"If the Lotus Machine acts to defend itself, that means we're on the right track," he tells Wheeljack, without breaking eye contact. "The mechanism of this place is using you like you're another cog in the machine, Muse. Wake up. If it doesn't want you to remember, then remember."

Neither of them will budge. They're locked in - and hilariously, frustratingly, Megatron's immovability is working against him. He won't back down even while Mnemosyne jams in this memory and seizes.

The sparkeater drawing itself into the room is mottled, rust and dead metal and dripping energon. One of its many grasping claws stabs through the Starscream doppelgänger's chest. The rust spreads across the surface of his paint like fire.

Right. Frag Megatron. "Mnemosyne!" Wheeljack yells, making a snap judgement call. "Keep moving us!" There has to be a way to keep ahead of the Lotus Machine -

And just like that, Wheeljack gets it.

He bolts across the room and waves a hand in between Megatron and Mnemosyne.

Megatron snarls, and that means death.

Mnemosyne looks up, and grabs Wheeljack's arm like a lifeline, stricken.

Wheeljack charts out the path. Chain the memories and watch the scenes flicker past as Mnemosyne regains a rhythm. A battlefield on Clemency strewn with MTO corpses. Censere's sparkflower garden, again. The Sea of Rust, Shockwave's singularity gazing out at Wheeljack's workstation and the smoking heap of Skip. An exceptionally old space bridge isolated in a wide white room.

He keeps his optics crinkled in a smile, calm and kind, and ignores the two nightmares breaking up the world into fragments behind him and the furious warlord across from him. "You're spread too thin, pulling from everyone's memories. So try one of yours. Just one. Can't hurt, right?" he says, once they've got some momentum. Megatron got them on the right trajectory.

But in the end, it's up to Mnemosyne.

"The moon, and the Matrix," Wheeljack finishes. "You put it up there for a reason."

Mnemosyne surges to her feet, catching Wheeljack as she stands and takes the next step -

---

♫♪♫

---

Outside, the world is ending.

The sky opens up in a paroxysm of hate and greed. There is no din quite like that of vast, shattered chunks of continents straining against the force of unnatural gravity.

A long time ago, the moon left. Death bore down upon them, Unicron in all its unceasing hunger - and as the spiraling ships of the Judges parted, complacent in their inevitable victory, Luna-1 slipped out. Propelled by planetary engines, singing with life, broadcasting on every wavelength.

And Unicron turned away, inexorably drawn, and followed Luna-1 into the wandering dark.

It did not leave alone. A billion sparks, seeded through the crust, and the Knights and Titans who chose to accompany it and guard those lives that had not yet finished forging, while the rest made their final stand. Their masters never intended for the moons to be anything more than harvester units.

But then, their masters never intended for Vector Sigma to wake up, either.

The four of them came to bring them home: Knights and Titans and wandering moon. Instead, they found the broken shells of dead Titans, and silence. The old masters waited until they landed before destroying the long-range starship Voyager, who gave her life to bring them here. At any moment, they could increase the magnitude of their harvesting units and tear Luna-1 to shreds under their feet - but they do not.

Drawing it out, savoring their despair. As cruel as ever. Of the three Judges charged with overseeing Cybertron's creation and crushing its rebellion - Judge Atronia dead in Knight Prima's final stand; Judge Halisca disgraced - it can only be Judge Critias who has made a grave and a snare of the moon.

But the spark fields outside are not dead. Their life signs are a lure for anyone who might come searching, though the harvester units pluck at the very crust of the moon. Luna-1 struggles to shuffle its plates, shielding the spark fields against the slow, agonizing tidal pull to the bitter end. It has cut power to its planetary engines to fuel the effort - there's nowhere to run, anyway.

They have no way off Luna-1. No way to safely transport the hot spots home. No way to escape the ships that have encircled the moon, their flagship almost half again the size of the moon itself, the crest of its prow looming across the sky like the sharp edge of a planet's disk. This facility was built by the Knights for the First War, with a primitive teleportation pad at the very center - its range extends as far as where Cybertron or Luna-2 would be, were they in proper orbit.

Useless out here, in the black of interstellar space. They are so very far from home.

So Kore paces the cramped room, the agitation of their steps a counterpoint to the quiet serenity instilled by Mnemosyne's decision.

Mnemosyne does not speak it aloud. She knows what must be done, just as she knows how her composure is a rock in the midst of Kore's anguish. Fingers laced on one crossed leg, Mnemosyne waits. She watches Kore pace, their stride restricted by the confines of the small, closed room, and wonders what has become of the fourth member of their quest. She thought that he was with them as they left Voyager and raced for cover, as cataclysm tore up the lunar highlands around them in great bursts of metal and rock that obscured the sky.

But he is not here now. The answer won't come for a few minutes more.

When Mnemosyne turns her head to follow Kore's last turn, Wheeljack turns to follow it with her. Megatron's there, too, separate but present, their perspective locked into Mnemosyne's. Where she looks, they look. The memory is crisp and clear, despite how old it is - the exact date and time since it occurred is part of the metadata flow. She knows what has happened and what is to come. There is no eidetic decay, no memory fatigue. Just perfect recall.

Kore stops abruptly; their frame yearns forward like they're on the verge of motion. Normally, they are dancing. They were a mecha of the core before they were a Matrix of Creation, born with clear sound and light to the pulse of Vector Sigma. They are white and gold and red, dense and compact, the window of their chest panel as bright as any of Mnemosyne's sisters.

They have finished consulting the pooled sparks of the Matrix, then.

"We cannot leave them to die," Kore says, exactly as Mnemosyne remembers it. They say it defiantly. As though they expect her to argue. "We will not allow them to be taken."

It is not often that they use a plural personal pronoun glyph in the first person; ordinarily it is 'I,' unless the Matrix of millions of sparks is in true concordance. Mnemosyne knows this now, and knew it then.

Wheeljack stands as she does, and senses Megatron doing the same, with the weirdest sense of overlap. They're viewing this with future context and knowledge - Wheeljack knows how to extend the range of that teleport pad with a good multi-purpose wrench and an hour to spare, his mind automatically running through the calculation on a subprocessor, and Mnemosyne acknowledges that thought even as the memory rolls on. They can't change what happened. "We will not," the Muse says, hands still folded tightly. "Yet Cybertron must know."

There is exactly one way to get word back to Cybertron, past their old masters' scramblers and shields. Neither of them can accomplish it intact. They will not survive the journey, no matter what form they take.

There is also exactly one thing they can offer the Judge that might - might, but also will, the inevitability of a memory already archived - persuade them to leave, incalculable prize secured, and give Luna-1 a chance to flee with its lives.

Kore cannot fall into the Judges' tentacles. The Matrix was conceived of at the end of the First War, but the Emissaries would be quick to discover what Kore represents. Though Kore might argue the point, losing them would be the same as losing those sparks outside - millions of potential Cybertronians consigned to slavery and war, if the Judges and their Scientists learned to successfully extract them.

So Mnemosyne it must be. She steps forward and reaches up to touch the side of Kore's face, to better memorize the sight. If she hesitates much longer than that, she might break.

Kore stares back, brow furrowed as they search Mnemosyne's cameras. Not realizing, just yet, what Mnemosyne intends.

They are never going to see each other again.

"Be well," Mnemosyne says, tipping her forehead against Kore's in a kiss, and then sweeps away.

Mnemosyne walks out through the roughhewn halls of the facility, and Wheeljack walks with her. She bypasses the teleportation chamber. It's not her goal.

(Millions of years from now, Chromia and Arcee will blow up this facility's sister on Luna-2, hunting Liege Maximo.)

Behind them, Kore is very still for a fraction of a second. Comprehension.

Then, with an unsteady vent, they run for the sheltered entrance, where the remains of the space-worthy Voyager lie waiting in a crumpled grey heap by the edge of a spark field. The circuits rooted in the sentio metallico crackle and snap as Kore drops to their knees before Voyager, agony in their face as they brace themselves for what must be done.

Mnemosyne triggers the lock on the front door, and folds her hands quietly before her as the entrance cycles open. The wind screams; the sucking, torrential pull of the harvester units ripping atmosphere away in strangling gulps. Mnemosyne grabs the doorway to hold herself down, the force almost sucking her off her teetering feet.

Another moment. Then Mnemosyne strides out onto the uncovered field. Her veil cracks and writhes in the air, cutting up her view of the vast lunar hotspot that sprawls out under the dangerous arch of Luna-1's buckling plates. In the distance, a molded city that was never inhabited or customized finishes tearing loose; its crumbling tiers fall up into the sky. With every staggering, magnetized step, Mnemosyne tips her head back and presses her palms against her chest, gasping, casting out a wild prayer to anything listening that they will take the bait.

The lead harvester unit cuts off.

The silence that follows in the shreds of remaining atmosphere is filled with a thin, muffled whine, only audible in Mnemosyne's ears.

On the other side of the facility, under the battered shields, Kore transforms their chest open. More than one of the sparks in the Matrix knows how to be a starship. They dismantle the parts of Voyager they need to modify themselves into a craft strong enough to reach Cybertron, light enough to slip under the Judge's radar. It's not going to be pretty. But it's going to work.

Inscribing the map and the warning into their own spark crystal doesn't kill Kore right away. It just compromises the Matrix of Creation's nanostructural integrity. They shuck the nonessential parts of their frame, including the brain module, with the unwavering conviction that when they crash-land on Cybertron (5 million years from now - too many) those who retrieve the Matrix from this jury-rigged alt mode will understand, or will call someone from the core to interpret it.

And someone - because Kore burns optimism and determination for fuel, the fusion reaction at the heart of a star - will come. In the brightest of all those possible futures, Kore will survive, and return to rescue Mnemosyne and Cēnseō. They'll find Luna-1 again, and they'll bring everyone home.

Intangibly, Megatron hisses through his teeth. Wheeljack's not sure exactly which part set him off.

But this is not the brightest of all futures. This is memory. And in five million years' time, the core will be silent and cold, estranged from the surface for millennia. Nova Prime will strip the cracked, dim Matrix out of the nameless grey wreckage in the crater outside the Crystal City, and pocket it with a smile. Once he's laid the groundwork, he'll unveil the new casing of his chest and announce to the world that the Matrix of Leadership has chosen him.

No one will ever know. No one will ever come.

Wheeljack registers it at the same time Mnemosyne does. She's gazing up at the ships overhead - a silent staring contest, anticipation tight in her chest, her cameras silently recording it all - when, under the whine and rumble, her audial sensors picks up something else. Her helm twitches almost imperceptibly.

Someone is already here. Exposed, in the middle of one of the outstretched fingers of the spark field.

Slowly, head falling to the side, Mnemosyne looks to her left, and Wheeljack looks, and Megatron looks in a ripple.

At the time the memory is encoded, Mnemosyne only recognizes Cēnseō. [kensēō|censere|census-keeper].

He is trembling, his crimson face stricken with terror and incomprehension as he reaches toward her. He's young, her apprentice. He still thinks she can save him. Only the disarrayed white panels of his helm and his optics betray his fear and confusion - his mouth is an old, stiff, classic line.

Both Wheeljack and Megatron recognize the person holding Cēnseō back.

Killmaster stands, one broad hand resting on the census-keeper's shoulder, like an ultimatum.

Shock runs deep and cold through Wheeljack's lines. Megatron feels only the smooth, accepting click of a predictive model slotting the final piece into place. Confirmation of a conclusion reached by leaps of logic Wheeljack can't even begin to wrap his head around, even with Megatron's perspective right there, parallel to his own.

The moongun is Killmaster's most notorious design, the one and only thing to set him apart from the crowd of forgotten weapons engineers and scientists lost in the war. On record, Killmaster used it to vanish several strategic satellites, Autobot ships, the Hydrus system's sun, and a small planet in the Kol system, often to devastating effect. None of the thousands of Cybertronians attributed as MIA due to Killmaster's strikes have ever been found.

No one ever asked which moon.

But none of that stream of consciousness is especially relevant.

There's a golden briefcase tethered around Killmaster's wrist and a moongun in his hand, millions of years before Brainstorm was cold constructed.

And that's really all there is to say on the matter.

"Oh," Mnemosyne breathes, then and now, as it all comes together. She's transfixed in the moment as Killmaster draws Cēnseō back against him.

On the far side of the facility, Kore's stream of consciousness flickers out. A small ship rockets away. The tiny, far-off lights of its thrusters quickly vanish against the black of space as it screams away from the moon, slower than Voyager, and makes its way toward the stars.

Then Killmaster pulls the trigger, the gun pointed straight down.

-

There's nothing beneath Mnemosyne's feet. Just the jarring, impossible depth of space below. She kicks once - reflex - but the movement cancels itself out. Drifting.

Overhead, the spiral of the Judge's vessel cycles around, the only point of reference left in all the world. Space flickers and warps around the flagship, distorting solid objects like something out of a glitch, or a nightmare.

A Matrix the size of a moon. A mask of death that never stops swallowing.

The cameras cut out.

---

I never asked to become something I'm not.

- Starscream of Kaon, to Bumblebee of Iacon

---

The crash registers gradually. In stages.

He stares at the back of Windvoice's head, and waits for the hammer to drop.

As it always does.

-

His extremities feel brittle. Burnt. Like he shoved a fist into a plasma lake, then a vat of liquid nitrogen, with consequences even a blithering idiot could infer. Occasionally he'll close a hand into a fist or brush it against a door, and a bolt of fizzling sensation shoots up his arm.

But the sensation's distant - dulled - like it happened centuries ago. Too long ago to matter. Resignation is a nice, numbing cloud, and he lets it mute him. He shoves the alerts out of his HUD with brutally absent-minded efficiency so they can join the backlog piling up to the side, and continues to go through the motions.

What the motions should be remains…up in the air. Undetermined. Starscream has more pressing concerns than the neuropathic feedback insisting that his body isn't his body. He has to deal with a Windvoice who knows.

A day ago - an hour ago - Starscream would've been taken refuge in the fact that whatever happens, Windvoice isn't Megatron or even Optimus. That she couldn't - wouldn't - demolish him single-handedly. For one thing, she lacks the heavy artillery. And no matter how little she may like it, they operate on the same wavelength, Starscream and she: politics, bargaining, intrigue. She negotiates. She still suffers from that annoying Autobot tendency towards self-righteousness, but she hasn't been completely insufferable in a while. Once Starscream (begrudgingly) stopped trying to undercut her, it grew easier to compromise.

Now, it occurs to Starscream that if Windvoice lacks the artillery, she can always outsource it. She doesn't need to shoot him to destroy him.

Before, she suspected. Now she knows what he's done, from Airachnid's own mouth.

Bumblebee was right. This was never going to end well.

-

There are a thousand things that need doing when they tumble out of Metroplex's space bridge; Neo-Cybertron didn't stop running while they were busy being kidnapped. Again. The belated wash of comms and messages that failed to deliver across the bridge needs to be tackled, and more. If there isn't already a media firestorm over their second abrupt disappearance in as many days, plus whatever fresh slag is leaking from Devisiun's 'net, there will be. Starscream needs to either get ahead of it or start massaging the story that's already out there into something more palatable. Hit hard on the main points - Onyx Prime; his Titan; Kathikon - and sweep the little things into a dusty corner - Airachnid; the Combaticons; Starscream.

Instead, Starscream stiffly keeps his hands at his sides as Windvoice strides out of the space bridge chamber without pausing.

He follows. He doesn't touch any of the comms or feeds.

Doesn't so much as glance at the threats pinging on his proximity sensors, even as his HUD auto-tags and tracks them: Bumblebee (Autobot, too close to his right flank), Chromia (pseudo-Autobot), Transmutate (traitor), Liege Maximo (Prime, in Starscream's place by Windvoice's shoulder, too close), and the empty air where Wheeljack should be. Doesn't dare make any move, electronic or otherwise, that might attract attention to himself.

The longer it takes before it dawns on Windvoice to deal with him, the more time Starscream has to scheme his way out of this.

If only he could think. All his useless processor will do is circle around to the same tired material. Chromia? Publicly confessed, did her time. No leverage left there. Conspiring with Starscream himself? Trickier, and he'd burn himself and his network in the process if he really took it public. There has to be something else to apply pressure with, yet he's paralyzed from the neck up. Any step now Windvoice will remember he exists.

Something softer. Squishier. He has…regrets. It was a mistake. He's trying to be better and not murder everyone to cover his aft, and isn't that progress -

Eurgh. Who is he kidding. That literally never works. Anyone with half a processor knows better than to believe him when he tries that line. An Autobot could apologize their way out of a court martial and into a cushy retirement - they have the remorse gambit down to an art, everyone always laps it right up - but Starscream lacks that certain je ne sais quoi. It sounds paltry, even in his own head.

So he does nothing as dread mounts in his chest. He does nothing when Ironhide smacks his own face with both hands at the sight of them. He does nothing when Bumblebee waves his cane a little too boisterously in Starscream's peripheral vision as he banters with Ironhide, their voices an unintelligible drone in his ears.

When they run into the Council after emerging from the closed, stifling halls in one of the open-air atriums, he scrapes together enough focus to pay attention. With Tigatron stuck on Eukaris, the Devisens down for the count, the Mistress of Flame supplanted by the Matriarch, and Strika-1 and Obsidian in Elita's place, the landscape of the Council has shifted drastically since Starscream's day.

Knock Out strikes an eloquent balance between incredulity and polite menace as he breaks away from the pack and extends a hand to greet Windvoice first, his sunny smile welded firmly into place. "Speaker Windvoice. Welcome back. Again," he says, as she accepts it. The Velocitronian doesn't even bother to draw her aside or lower his voice; he waves his hand in a flippant blur as he talks. "Just wanted to let you know - if you ever try to visit Velocitron again, I will personally launch myself into the sun to spare you the trip. Please stay away. You're an unstoppable force of chaos, and we'd rather fast-forward past our turn. In exchange, we've already sent out a ship to reconnect with Eukaris. The fastest ship."

Windvoice quirks a brow, her smile faintly rueful. "Sounds fair."

Moonracer and Breakdown sigh as one.

The interplay is probably amusing. Sure, the morbid note in Knock Out's field is genuine- but give it a few months for things to calm down, without Windvoice pulling any more egregious stunts, and it'll fade. Become an amusing, casual quip at Council meetings. Because even when Windvoice is being utterly terrifying, she's still likeable.

Circumstances being what they are, Starscream can't even roll his eyes.

Instead, he's numb all the way up the steps, their party shedding people like rust mites as they get called over or swept up in the general chaos of headquarters.

He should be one of them. Even if that just means chivvying Windvoice in front of a camera and making some droll comment as she reassures the public that she's not dead yet.

But he's still staring at the back of her helm when Windvoice walks out onto an exit balcony, and says, "Starscream."

Dread punches through the bottom of his tanks.

"You rang?" he replies, hollowly.

She folds her hands behind her back, the hammer clasped loose in her grip. "Let's talk."

---

THERE IS A PERIOD WHEN IT IS CLEAR

THAT YOU HAVE GONE WRONG

BUT YOU CONTINUE.

SOMETIMES THERE IS A 

LUXURIOUS AMOUNT OF TIME 

BEFORE ANYTHING BAD HAPPENS.

― a white granite bench on Earth

---

Windvoice flies out, and Starscream follows.

At least she has the decency not to make this humiliation a public spectacle.

The bluff she touches down on isn't quite the same as the one where Starscream met with Blast Off, but it's close enough that Starscream can taste hysteria in his vocalizer. Heavier and slower than usual with the Forge hammer slung between her wings, she skims over the crest of a shallow hill before setting down in a knee-high stand of lavender grass. 

Starscream lands without finesse. His thrusters char the organic matter unfortunate enough to wind up underfoot. His fuel levels have run low enough that the emptiness wants to register as queasiness.

Too bad - he's already nauseous with anticipation. He doesn't know what she's going to do; perhaps worse, he doesn't know what he's going to do.

He knows what he should do - what the resigned, tedious, dreadful inevitability of it all urges him to do. If he'd shot her before all this, it would have been a - a petty tantrum. Throwing away everything because Wheeljack went and died and left him. Now, it's the only option he can think of that will get him out of this.

Except that's not true.

He wants it to be true.

He'll just blame the acrid taste in his intake on backwash from that poison. Transmutate can handle more constructive criticism when he gets back.

The only problem is that Windvoice still hasn't done or said anything. She still has her back to him, the transparent screen of her holovisor almost opaque from this angle as she takes in the view. The extra blue and gold layers make her more inscrutable than ever before.

"Well. Let's get this over with," Starscream snaps. He's too tense to drawl. He paces instead, deliberately pivoting on a heel right where he knows it'll catch the arc of her peripheral vision.

Nothing. She doesn't say anything.

Starscream can't take it anymore. He could react to almost anything except being ignored.  "Oh, just do it already!" he demands, stopping mid-stomp, flaring wings wide. "Do you want me to talk? Apologize?! Beg?!"

By the end his voice makes his own head ring - always an achievement.

Windvoice looks at him, finally. Her frame language is perfectly neutral as she turns on the spot, her wings canted flat. Her EM field is held so close it's unreadable.

And no. She's not looking at him. She's looking, Starscream thinks, at a problem to be solved. Clinical, assessing, and just a little bit tired.

"The dramatics aren't necessary. Calm down," Windvoice says, heavy with resignation.

She's already made up her mind; she's not giving him any traction whatsoever. Starscream takes half a step back, thrown, and hates that he gave even that much away.

He rallies with a sneer. "I don't need your pity. I really would've thought we'd reached your threshold by now!" A well-timed laugh. Then he draws himself in, forcing himself to shrug a shoulder, elbows tucked in neatly and hand gesturing expansively at the horizon as he turns to pace, insouciant. "Well, Speaker? Am I not as much of a monster as you always suspected?" he asks, sweetly.

Windvoice cycles a sigh. Nothing - his words, his theatrics - makes an impression. "I knew perfectly well what you were when we started this. I've never had any illusions about what you've done," she says, flatly. "Having it confirmed changes nothing. You're simply more dangerous when cornered than you are running free."

She takes a step toward him with every indifferent dismissal, and Starscream - locks up. It should be menacing - Starscream's ready for aggression, for anger, for something - but as each beat hits he can't seem to react.

He has never felt more like a chore.

"You want to provoke me into punishing you, so you'll have an excuse to justify lashing out? You want to make things worse of your own volition, so you can feel like you're in control again? I won't give it to you," she says, disinterestedly ruthless in a way only Shockwave has ever matched. Then she's right in front of him, the slight slope of the hill all the advantage she needs.

Now, he thinks.

His weapons systems fail to online.

"I'll tell you the same thing I once told Chromia," she says, the center lenses of her optics ringed with pale pink glare through the visor, as the Lathe arranges panels and glyphs and calculations in her field of vision that have nothing to do with solving Starscream, the light shifting the shadows of her face. "I won't give up this peace for my own moral comfort."

He stands very still. Not numb - he feels very grounded, in a frame and a world that are unpleasantly present - but stymied. Char sticks along the inner rim of his right thruster. The temperature of his armor plating ticks up a degree under the radiating sun.

His ventilation system wheezes once, a throttled gasp. He can't seem to figure out how to break eye contact. Her gaze drills right through him, pinning him in place.

"Then what," he asks the air over her shoulder, cold seeping through his lines, "is your point."

Windvoice stares through him - then sweeps past him, her gaze perfectly dispassionate as her optics flick away. Her hands are still clasped loosely behind her back. Starscream falls back, unsteady, to make room for her to walk around him without wing contact.

"You're a monster. But you're my monster," Windvoice says, at the nearest point in her pass. "And when I need your input, I'll ask for it."

Completely unfazed by a conversation that just cut Starscream's legs out from under him, she takes wing and curves back around the hill in a low, long arc.

And that, Starscream thinks, dazed, wasn't right.

The thought seems to be coming from a long way off, from a part of his brain that didn't quite get the memo.

Dissociating again. How droll.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, to an absent audience.

-

He makes it back to his office.

For however much longer it stays his office. Part of Starscream expected to come back to half his datapads riffled through and his security clearances revoked. Judging by the fact that Windvoice walked straight into a major briefing with Ironhide, without waiting for Starscream to catch up, he's being cut out.

Easy enough for her to not include him, not consult him. Silently render him a nonentity.

Honestly, it would almost be a relief.

His processor churns away in a roil, at a safe, deliberate distance, while he lets his head thump against the desk and drifts. When someone has the temerity to walk in a few minutes later, he doesn't even look up. "Go away. Leave me to dissociate in peace," he mumbles from somewhere mentally about halfway through the ceiling.

Bumblebee snorts at him, then swings his cane up and waves it flippantly at the empty air. Starscream jolts back to the present. "Out of body experiences are my schtick. Get your own," Bumblebee says, mildly, as he saunters over to the far side of his desk. The absolute scandal of Starscream forgetting to lock the door doesn't affect Autobot sensibilities.

"Urrghghglhlgh," Starscream groans, and lets his arm flop out over the desk. If he pays attention, he feels disgusting. Like he needs to ignore their many, myriad problems and find the nearest washracks. Paint, glitter, energon sticking in his seams. His knee is fractured, the internal mechanism swollen and the pain sensors deadened so he can stiffly limp everywhere. He's covered in scorch marks, heavy dents, scores, and at least two shots that broke armor and reached internals. All the patch work done after the explosion the other day and fighting Onyx Prime on Eukaris aches. When he concentrates through the numbness, half of his face dented in the shape of Onslaught's hand.

Bumblebee pokes the side of Starscream's head, skeptical. "So what did she chew you out for? I'd guess, but you need to narrow it down first because I don't have all century."

"Not enough," Starscream mutters.

And that's part of the problem, isn't it. One of the threads he can't stop picking at, turned over and over in his head.

The elusive, tenuous sense that something…isn't right.

Bumblebee snorts. "Uh huh. I can tell by the way you're moping like someone stepped on your pet scuttler." He keeps talking while Starscream glares at a wall of datapads stacked centimeters away from his nose. "Arcee showed up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks, if you care. More like three days late, I guess. Apparently if she and Shockwave hadn't caught it in time, we'd be infested with cerebroshells and spy flies right now."

Starscream grunts.

Bumblebee pokes Starscream with that infernal cane again. "Helloooo? Spies? Internal security breaches? This is your wheelhouse, Starscream." When that doesn't work, Bumblebee sets his head on the desk and tries to make eye contact. "Hang on. Is something actually wrong?"

The banter's useful. Like slag will he ever tell Bumblebee that to his face, but using Bumblebee's chatter as background noise helps. It's familiar. On his good days, Starscream could almost convince himself that Bee was an extension of some useful bit of his processor, and not evidence that'd he'd cracked.

He's almost got it.

"Yes. Yes it is," Starscream says. He sits up and glares at Bumblebee properly, as he wraps his head around the thought at last.

It's not a fun thought. It's downright insidious.

He's going to need to be…careful. Because if he's wrong, he'll look like he's out of his mind.

If he's right…

The thought coalesces right as the floor shudders in a seismic tremor, and Metroplex's alarms blast through the speakers.

Bumblebee almost falls over, but uses the cane for its intended purpose for once in his life to catch himself. He stares up at the ceiling, then at Starscream, incredulous. "What did you do?!" he says, horrified.

Starscream rolls his eyes. "No, that one was new," he says, sardonically, as he looks at the security panel by the door. Metroplex's warnings are garbled, like always, but .5 klicks after the fact the audio speaker announces: [Titan inbound.]

"Oh, joy." Starscream stands. The humor's a pale shadow of the acid it could be.

But he feels more like himself as he strides out, Bumblebee's protests in his ears. He turns the thought over to consider it from all angles. It's dangerously sharp. If he's wrong - if he's not wrong -

Well. Plotting against his leader has never, in Starscream's long and storied history, worked out well for him. This isn't a fight he wins. Bumblebee would probably tell him this is one step forward, two steps back, with Starscream shooting the steps out from under him along the way.

-

If she wants to call him a monster, he'll give her exactly that. Nothing, he thinks, would make him savagely, spitefully happier.

But she wouldn't have said that.

So something has to be done.

-

By the time they get outside, it's already a clusterfrag.

The streets and buildings creak ominously, an eerie sound that cuts through the rising tumult of traffic and shouts. Which means the big oaf they all made the objectively poor decision to live in is on the verge of uprooting himself.

Thankfully, 'act natural' can mean anything. Starscream inserts himself into the Council's retinue like he still belongs there, his expression blanked out, Bumblebee by his side. Aside from a curious look from Fireflight, no one questions him. As far as they're all concerned, nothing has changed.

Good. If she doesn't intend to say anything, Starscream can work with that. It just depends on who he's dealing with.

Ironhide's up ahead with Windvoice, relaying orders as he walks, along with every bodyguard in her lineup. Chromia trails behind despite her best efforts to dog Windvoice's heels, awkwardly positioned. Silverbolt and Fireflight keep tabs on the Titan descending through atmo; Strongarm and Cae-whatever have positioned themselves so that they can keep tabs on Liege Maximo. Somehow, finally, they've got enough people to cover the Speaker from multiple angles.

Out of all of them, Chromia's the only one with her eyes on the Speaker.

Ugh.

"Hey boss," Vortex says, as he barrels through the Velocitronians.

Ugh. They ditched Blast Off in Sion with Onslaught's corpse, didn't they. Eventually, that's going to be a problem. Again!

Key word: eventually.

Kathikon falls out of the sky with alarming speed. As agile and quick to brake as Chela without - Starscream assumes - having been buried under a mountain for millions of years. Watching the Titan descend rekindles that old envy in him. Even when Metroplex spent half the war under perpetual siege, his tactical value was immeasurable. A determined combiner might compare, but it's not the same.

This is a Titan whose armor gleams like it's new. When it touches down, just hard enough to make them feel it, to know that it could've collided with Neo-Cybertron like a battering ram, it straightens with none of the ponderous hesitation of Metroplex. Vigilem, but well-oiled.

"Ah. There's Arcee," Jazz says, conversationally. Starscream twitches, but ignores the spark attack at Jazz's abrupt decloak from stealth mode. Jazz waves; only then does Starscream pick up on the smudge, barely visible on Kathikon's near shoulder. Blink and one might have missed it, but it's broad daylight and Arcee isn't trying very hard. From all the way down here, the dark figure is essentially unreadable, but Starscream's sensors pick up the movement as Arcee swings her feet up, strolls back across the broad shoulder, and drops off the back of the Titan. Once she's out of sight even that blip on Starscream's radar winks out.

Still. If Arcee starts bringing home Titans, Starscream gives up. There's a limit, and Windvoice reached it, like, two Titans ago.

[Stand, Metroplex,] Kathikon says. Under all the sleek upgrades and the color palette, her face is the same as Metroplex's. It's almost uncanny. [Face me with dignity.] She takes a step toward the city.

Rewind - apparently in charge of representing Rodimus's crew when Rodimus galivants off and Ultra Magnus is busy with actual work - just zooms in the camera on the side of his helm. "We're not about to have another giant fight, are we?" he asks, arms folded.

"Dunno. Do we know what she wants?" Ironhide shades his optics, looking resigned. More clean up duty, on top of the past week. "Anyone get a motive out of her?"

"If I understand the order of events correctly, when the Primes accused Megatronus of murdering Solus Prime, Prima, Quintus, Nexus, and Onyx sent troops to besiege Kathikon," Windvoice says. Presumably for the benefit of anyone who didn't get the gist of that during Liege Maximo's hearing. Her expression is still that cool, perceptive frown, analyzing the situation without even a flicker of concern or irony. The Lathe wraps all the way around in a golden wreath of blades, and the new HUD aspects of the holovisor seem to be here to stay: the original sheer pink screen, a gold lattice over her right optic, and a three-dimensional sphere of sky blue, the golden rings around it expanding and occasionally fanning out to reveal thinner rings. She seems to have no trouble following and translating all the calculations and data feeds blooming in her wildly expanded HUD, just like she never has trouble understanding Titans anymore, but who knows what it's telling her.

"So she has absolutely no reason to hold a grudge against any of us. Obviously," Knock Out says, deadpan.

"Kathikon is not unreasonable," Liege Maximo murmurs. "She never went to war; war came to her."

Of the Council representatives remaining, most are either side eyeing him or edging away.

Then - Starscream sighs - the ground starts to rumble in earnest.

Metroplex makes it about halfway up before he hesitates. His lower half stalls out mid-transformation, his waist contorted into staggered blocks and strained cables wider around than a mech, so that most of the city isn't uprooted - just tilted. Starscream can see fresh, almost iridescent grey metal where Metroplex's back rises but doesn't quite break contact with the ground. The Titan does finish transforming his helm, so that his gaze can ponderously sweep over all of them on his way to meet Kathikon's waiting, grave stare.

Kathikon's expression falls.

The contrast is pathetic, really. Starscream feels almost embarrassed that this is the best Metroplex can do without ripping up their infrastructure. Repairing him has always been a pain in his neck and a drain on their time and resources, which, thankfully, Lightbright took over the logistics of over the past year. But even with all that, the investment still isn't enough for their wreck of a city to stand.

Ugh. Starscream's not about to feel guilty for that, too. "Slag. Not again," he mutters, watching Metroplex for any further sign of movement. With Windvoice out here and Lightbright gone, it's not like there's anyone up there in his cranium capable of telling him to sit the hell down.

"A city does what it must," Windvoice says, absently.

Vigilem, on the other hand, isn't rooted to the ground. Liege's Titan circles around between Kathikon and Caminus in the distance, silent but still blindingly obvious in the broad daylight. None of the cities have drawn swords yet, but Vigilem's narrow battlemask slides seamlessly into place.

Metroplex's response, when it finally comes, is just as resonant, just more…fragmented. Rambling, like always.

[- and some outlive the last light of the sun.]

[To Carthage then she came                                                                  ^{[- splendid with swords -]}]

[(existential) How do you pronounce your name?]

[Kathikon.]

Kathikon shifts, a mountain of everything Metroplex still has to climb. [What has become of you, brother, that this is all you have to show for yourself? We, who once fought and strove side by side through the wreckage - you can barely stand. Your words are broken.]

Another minutes-long pause, while Metroplex struggles to string a sentence together.

["...and the stars grew distant and lonely in their orbits."]

]ϕωνάεσσα δέ γίνεω

                                      [no/yes]

[Deserved.]

Kathikon takes another step, and starts to kneel, reaching for Metroplex's face. [Very well, then -]

Just as she kneels, Vigilem snaps an integrated sword out and lunges in one stride.

Nothing that tall should move that fast. Kathikon finishes drawing the sword from her back and slices her arm out to rest alongside Vigilem's before Vigilem completes his step. She doesn't raise her head or turn her face, unreadable. Both of them freeze there, poised for the next move, the blades at their necks. Deadlock.

"What are his odds?" Starscream asks. His teeth feel like they might snap under the pressure.

Liege Maximo remains motionless; only the way his hands clasp behind his back betrays the tension. Just a fraction too tight. "Against Kathikon, in our day? Decent. Now?" He trails off. "Ask me again in a moment."

Strika-1 shakes her head. She very deliberately isn't looking anywhere in Liege's vicinity, in a show of restraint. Obsidian, stooped, never takes his eyes off him. "No. He can't win, not in a duel against a Titan in her prime. We made sure of it."

Kathikon is still searching Metroplex's face with Vigilem one wrong move from decapitating her. If she and Metroplex are communicating solely through the power of a stare, only Windvoice can follow it. They'd better get on with it - Starscream's too strung out to deal with giant baby fights right now.

Aloud, she says, [Hesitation, Vigilem? Didn't I teach you better than that?]

Vigilem's reply is smooth and dry. [Everything I know, I learn from your example.] He angles his head so he can slant his eyes toward Kathikon's sword, resting against his neck. [Naturally.]

A sharp burst of laughter. Then Kathikon slides her sword away and rises. Vigilem retracts his sword at the same time, his maskplate folding back to reveal a perfectly mild, innocent expression that fools absolutely no one, and turns to  march back to Caminus.

[Rest, eldest brother,] Kathikon says, turning away. [I am here now. You make me weary looking at you.]

With a sweep, Kathikon looks over the forest in the distance. Then she turns and walks in the opposite direction, the only one with any clear space left for another city-sized mech to walk around in. The ocean's off that way, but far enough away that the latest Titan will be in sight for a while yet. Metroplex watches her go, silent, even as his facial structure starts to sink back into city mode with dimming optics.

She doesn't say a word to any of them on the ground. Which simplifies things immensely. Why, if Kathikon never interacts with anyone shorter than skyscraper, Starscream figures they can just write off the paperwork and skip the Council seat.

Arcee owes Starscream a strong bottle of engex for this fresh hell. He's holding her personally responsible, as of right now this second. All he asked her to do was hunt down Airachnid, and now this. His nerves can't take it anymore.

"Well played," Airazor says to Liege. Her smile is a little unsure of what to do with him, but genuine. She's used it on Starscream before. 

Liege acknowledges it with a cant of his head and a faint smile in return. "We stop more wars with words than duels."

"Can you do it twice in one day?" Slash asks, cryptically, casting a keen eye - up.

Liege arches a brow. "Why do you ask?"

Oh, no.

Starscream covers his eyes with a palm and refuses to look up. It's just not worth it. "How many of you are there?!" he demands imperiously, despite the fact that none of the Titans themselves are listening. "Anyone else planning to show up?!"

Windvoice strides forward. "That's Tempo," she says, with more interest in her voice than she's shown since they got back. Liege's step stutters for only a moment before he falls in with her, his steps light on Starscream's radar.

"That's our orbit," Slipstream mutters.

-

Eventually, Starscream has to look.

Well. Bumblebee finally loses patience with him petulantly following the group around via proximity sensors, and drags Starscream's hands down for him. He blares worry like a well-intentioned emergency siren. Thankfully, they're too busy rushing to the next crisis for Bumblebee to get a word in. Ultra Magnus and a few others catch up along the way. It gives Starscream more of a reason to still be here.

The shuttle that sent a pending messages several days ago to request permission to land outside of Metroplex arrives and touches down gracefully on the field that keeps bearing the brunt of all these unwanted arrivals. It's primarily a marbled white, with solid bands of teal and a neat row of pink, continuously chained glyphs that run along the lower edge of the angular craft. Even the panel arrangement of the hull itself is decorative, fanned in a way that would never hold up under bombardment. It's by no means clunky or slow as it descends, but it's an antique style.

The Prime steps out into the now-blazing sun. She unfolds to her full height, a pillar of dark brown and black metal, sweeping a drape of metal weave back from her goggles so that her face catches the light. Her smile lands on the Council's party of envoys, light and open and unselfconscious, and she strides through the grass to meet them with a rather enthusiastic bounce in her step that doesn't quite match a Prime. She stops to duck her head in a half-bow, tapping her chest, the fingers of one hand pressed to the palm of the other. "[χαίρετε]," she says, optics twinkling, and her stride and smile widen with each step as she extends a dark, ivory-plated hand to clasp Windvoice's outstretched forearm warmly.

"Vector Prime," Windvoice says, clasping her wrist back. With the Forge hammer slung over her back and the Lathe obscuring parts of her face, Starscream can barely read her expression.

"Vector of Tempo," Vector supplies instead, with a quirk of her mouth. "And you can only be Speaker Windvoice."

If she's bothered by the fact that Windvoice is running around with all of Solus's gear these days, it doesn't show.

"Just Vector?" the Matriarch of Incaendium says. Her red optics shine with bright, banked curiosity under her heavy red hood. None of the Camiens except Windvoice are as subtle about their excitement as they think they are.

Vector dips another nod. "For a long time now." She steps back and sketches out some obscure sign glyph as she gestures at the Titan overhead. "Alas, I am not currently elected to a post in any senatorial, diplomatic, or speaking capacity. So far as the city-state of Tempo is concerned, in this, I am acting as a private citizen on a personal excursion."

"Elected?" Knock Out repeats, incredulous.

She holds both hands vertically in front of her chest, parallel. "By the will of both polis and demos. May their will ever be heard."

Ugh, how pretentious. She's clearly still a Prime where it counts, and Starscream intends to be annoyed about it whether anyone likes it or not.

"Did you ever manage to solve it?"

Everyone stiffens.

Liege Maximo hasn't been lurking, precisely. He just let others take the lead while they arranged themselves in preparation for Vector Prime's arrival. Starscream's familiar with the technique. The line of Council representatives between Liege and Vector screens him only until he raises his voice, unbidden. Vector's gaze snaps to Liege at once - she's taller than Windvoice, with a clear line of sight.

"Optimized democratic governance," Liege clarifies, when no one responds. He's a few paces out to the side, his hands loose as he pretends to inspect the shuttle instead. "Some variables were still unaccounted for in the last copy of the Dialogues I had downloaded."

Vector blanks out her expression. "Pardon me a moment, Speaker. Some private business," she says, and steps away.

She locks her hands behind her back in a mirror of Liege's postures as she approaches. "Version 346.b? Well, they did keep trying to vote me in as chief senātrīx for a few centuries there, which put a bit of a snag in the implementation process," Vector says, almost cheerfully. "Force of habit, I think. I spent a few hundred thousand years in self-exile, and eventually we got the hang of it. The algorithms are a living system, now."

Liege makes no move to run; he plants his feet and raises his chin as Vector stops before him.

Then they both offer their cheeks, and say, "Go on, then," at the same time.

Starscream can't even find it comical. He's too tired. His hopes of one killing the other and improving the number of Primes in his life by one just got dashed.

"You did nothing wrong, Vector," Liege says, after a blink. 

Vector clenches her jaw, sharply. "Correct. I did nothing," she agrees. A flicker of self-recrimination - but ugh. Starscream can't microanalyze it. "It was obvious that something was wrong. But my friend was dead, and when Tempo was ready, I chose not to stay." She juts her chin and offers her cheek again.

Liege uncurls one tight hand and taps the fingers against her face. "Forgiven," he says, any emotion choked back, tipping his face to the side. Vector returns the gesture.

"Will Tempo be joining us planetside?" Windvoice asks. Thank frag. Someone had to interrupt, before they spent the whole day dealing with ancient old people manners.

Vector welds her diplomatic, friendly smile back on, and faces Windvoice again like the private interlude never happened. She spreads her arms wide. "Alas again, Speaker Windvoice, I am not part of that advocacy committee. I could not say what their final decision will be. Tempo recently took on a large party of refugees under emergency protocols, and their rehabilitation and resource acquisition take precedence." Her grin brightens as she nods toward the shuttle's open airlock. "However, as a private citizen, I am happy to escort home two mecha whom I believe are technically your citizens. They were displaced right in the middle of the Musaeum's open-air venue. We have some experience with space-time sickness in Tempo, and it is my hope that we return them with a nearly clean bill of health."

For a horrible second, Starscream's spark does something - unspeakable.

"Where is he?!" an unfortunately familiar voice shrieks. The guttering twist cuts off. "Where! Is! Rewind?!"

A purple databank lurches out of the shuttle like something possessed. The camera between Requiem's optics fixes on Rewind like a feverish homing beacon.

Rewind, who's spent this whole time with his arms folded and his hip cocked to one side, unimpressed by everything even as he dutifully films it, abruptly realizes his danger. He starts, nervously, "Repository. You're, uh, oka-"

Requiem flings themselves into a dead sprint. "REWIND!"

"- oh slag. Quick! Domey's gone! Someone tall!" Rewind whips around and seizes on the nearest target - Ultra Magnus. Starscream half-expects him to get dropped on his aft, but Ultra Magnus stoically catches Rewind when he flings himself up and helps the minibot clamber to his shoulder.

Requiem tries to follow him right up. "So much creative output! Their archives date back millions of years!" they insist, trying to grab Rewind's leg. "Get down here and help me preserve this poetry!"

"I'm not that kind of archive!" Rewind shrieks back.

"Enough." With a long-suffering expression, Ultra Magnus trades them out. He scoops Rewind off and sets him on his feet, and hefts Repository over his other shoulder at the same time.

Then he just. Walks away.

Requiem, instead of trying to escape, starts recording as Ultra Magnus marches back off toward Metroplex. "Aha! The violence inherent in the system!" they declare, voice dwindling in the distance. "Autobot censorship -!"

Everyone stares after them.

Then, as one, they look at Rewind.

Rewind shrugs. "What? Ultra Magnus likes poetry."

Starscream rues the day they let Rodimus sail off in an unregistered quantum deathtrap. He pinches the bridge of his nose and filters his exvent very, very carefully. "If you're not a Prime, and you're not here representing Tempo, then what exactly do you do, again?" he asks, when it becomes clear he's the only one who will get things back on track.

Vector smiles, adjusting the straps of her goggles. "I survey. I mingle. I explore. I am -"

"She's a navigator," Nightbeat croaks, as he leans out of the shuttle.

Vector finishes with a dramatic flourish. "A scholar-adventurer." Then she's back to business, folding her hands together as she falls in beside Windvoice. "Also, were you aware that someone teleported a duplicate Cybertron from another timeline into your old star system? Necromancer had to beam them all up en masse -"

Nightbeat makes a valiant effort to walk to them in a straight line.

He succeeds. Mostly.

Rewind raises a hand to flag him down when it looks like Nightbeat might stagger right past them. "Hey, Nightbeat. Not dead yet?"

Nightbeat tosses a dizzy salute - then tips over.

Rewind nods, squatting to check for a pulse. "Awesome. Rodimus is back too. You're not gonna believe who he found."

---

My love said you're going off the rails

I know it's okay 'cause I do it so well

So turn the hourglass over and let's wreck this.

- <<all my friends>>

---

Starscream didn't think his day could get any worse.

Foolish.

-

He barely keeps up with Vector's rundown of what she and her people found or deduced about Cybertron-F. He's lagging behind so much he winds up at the back of the pack with Bumblebee, Rewind, and a still time-tipsy Nightbeat, which is the worst place to be if you're trying not to draw attention to yourself.

Combined with what Arcee apparently found while traipsing around Metroplex's lower levels, it all paints a disturbingly widespread picture.

This is more than one alien that Starscream fought on the bridge of Scorponok's ship. This is not one but two Primes who were Quintessons all along, behind a conspiracy billions of years in the making. Prima long dead, his hollow shell puppeted around as a shining figurehead. Quintus Prime, and a city of mind control and secrets: the spiders sent with Chela to found Eukaris and weave minds to their purpose, the insects all dead after the Swarm or vanished or - Waspinator, case in point - nervous wrecks.

Blackarachnia is around here sitting in one of the slagging guest rooms. Botanica vouches that Blackarachnia was Chela-forged, but that's hardly a guarantee. The rest of the arachnids probably spent all this time manipulating the Eukarians - sowing conflict, keeping the tribes constantly at odds.

And meanwhile, their legacy lived on through shadowplay, passed on through the centuries to the Senate, and the Institute.

If the Swarm wasn't all of Quintus Prime's army, they could be anywhere. A legion that can strike whenever the Quintessons finish strip-mining Cybertron-F down to its core.

What would have happened while Starscream and Windvoice were distracted on Eukaris or Devisiun, if they hadn't scrambled the Insecticons' signal? Either absence would have been the perfect opportunity for the Quintessons to strike here and enslave what's left of Cybertron.

It should have been the perfect opportunity.

And yet here they are. And here the Quintessons aren't.

Yet.

(The reappearance of two more of Killmaster's missing twists the knife again. Hope is garbage.)

"And you're sure this mech said that both Primes were actually 'evil tentacle guys'?" Windvoice says, with a perfectly straight face, as she leads them to the old Autobot command center. Vector flanks her on one side, arm linked conspiratorially with Windvoice's, with Liege Maximo on the other, and no one seems to mind this except Starscream.

It's enough to make a mech feel paranoid. Ha.

"Sari seemed distraught, but quite clear." Vector sobers. "I broke my promise to her. Necromancer assured me that he was capable of retrieving them all in one sweep, but neither she nor her spark brother are among the evacuees.

Windvoice scrolls through something on her holovisor, her mouth pressed together firmly as she strides into the war room. "Quintessons, again. I think it long past time we visited Luna-1."

"An excellent plan! We should all go!" Starscream blurts out, obnoxiously loud and earnest. A test. Bumblebee shoots him a weird look; Windvoice just nods absently.

Damn, damn, damn.

Someone brushes against Starscream as the Council representatives bustle through the door; he jams his wings in tighter, too preoccupied to growl as he locates a suitable lurking spot. Elbows and knees keep meandering into Starscream's side as everyone struggles to arrange themselves and he bats a stray wing away from his face, irritated.

"I agree," Shockwave announces, over the crowd noise. He's pink and gold and cerulean today, already lying in wait beside the holographic projection. He latches onto Windvoice with a fervent stare.

"Thirded!" Rodimus calls out from where he leans over the far side of the table. He and Vivere have a projection of Luna-1 twinkling in the middle of the room. His grin is incandescent. "Let's get this show on the road." He shoots a finger pistol at the ceiling with a wink.

And as Starscream looks up to grimace at them all, he realizes just why the room suddenly seems so crowded.

Something scorched the purple and blue sulk out of Rodimus, inside and out, and now he's ablaze.

And he's surrounded by dead people.

"Get out," Starscream says. No sound. His vocalizer feels obstructed.

He tries again. With feeling. "All of you, out!"

Bumblebee grabs his arm, startled; Starscream rips free. "Starscream, what the -?"

Everyone else jerks around to stare at him, dozens of shocked and startled eyes. Strika actually scans the room for whatever set him off, which is a gratifying testament to how seriously she takes Starscream having a screaming meltdown. Slash and Slipstream duck back, hissing as they shift their weight in unease.

Windvoice just frowns at him, like he distracted her in the middle of something important. Vector looks concerned, but only politely.

Can none of them see it? This room is crammed to the vents, the air so thick it could suffocate. Rodimus watches Starscream with a clueless blink, while his EM field shimmers in a boiling haze of light. Starscream can't move a finger without brushing up against another overlapping, insubstantial figure, and all of it feels so awfully familiar.

Something in his chest wants to be over there more than it wants to be in a frame. For a wild, insane moment, Starscream wonders if ripping open his chest and propositioning Rodimus on the spot would work.

Or he could just shoot him.

"Star -" Bumblebee starts again, hissing.

Starscream jabs a finger at Rodimus. "You! All of you, but you especially!"

Slash snarls, lashing her tail as Slipstream backs up against the wall, both of them still searching for the threat. When Starscream points, Slipstream plants one foot on the wall, an avid glint in her eye as she braces herself to pounce.

But even they're not seeing it. They're just reacting to Starscream's screaming.

"Why are we yelling at Rodimus, again?" Rewind asks. He sounds almost bored as he makes his way through the crowd to reach Rodimus. "Welcome back, by the way. Remind me to punch you later."

Rodimus looks alarmed for a completely different reason. "Uh, why?"

"Vanishing into the center of the earth without telling anyone? Ring any bells?"

"Okay, Starscream, reel it in. Hey. Deep vents," Bumblebee says, coaxingly. He keeps his hand clamped over the panel where Starscream's arm gun is, hard enough to dent. "Look, let's just -"

"Is he seeing things again?" Knock Out mutters.

Vivere answers. She doesn't take her optics off the projected light, her chin rested on laced fingers. "He was once of the Matrix. He seems overly sensitive to such things - spark manifestations, data ghosts, aura bleed."

She glances at Starscream, head cocked in mild curiosity. "Can you see them all?"

As if she's not part of the problem. She's like gasoline to Rodimus's fire - the ghosts coalesce even brighter around her, right in the thick of it. Starscream swells up. "Yes, and your ghosts are clogging up our war room!" he squalls.

The most solid ghost - the one that's less a haze and more an outline, the most familiar one of all - puts a hand on Rodimus's shoulder, silent. Starscream can't even remember their name, but the sight of them fills him with alarm sirens.

Windvoice exvents a sigh, and raises a hand to call them back to order.

He knows, in that instant, that she's about to send him out to get that order.

The mere thought is enough to cut through the instinctive denial and chill him to the core. Starscream gulps down air, cutting off his vocalizer. "Forget it. Just - forget it," he rasps, tight and clipped, so nothing else can escape. Then he welds his mouth shut, folds his arms hard, and stares at a convenient corner of the wall, refusing any eye contact.

He's too tense to shake.

Windvoice's mouth tugs down - and then she turns back to the projector unit Vivere and Rodimus and their coterie of ghosts were pouring over. "Done? Good." Most of the Council continues to side eye Starscream, distracted, but with the outburst is over they settle back to business.

Now he's mortified and haunted. Excellent work for one day.

Starscream's too busy icing over his internals to do more than prop himself upright against the wall, try to maintain a hand's breadth of personal space between him and the rest of the room, and ignore Bumblebee's frantic pings like his life depends on it. Rung is here, he notes, innocuously sitting in the far corner with some kind of protoform. How interesting. Nightbeat stumbles over and squints down at the little gremlin thing blearily; then, without warning, he drops to his knees and hugs it. Good for them.

Ironhide heads them off, holding up his hands in a T. "Uh, hold up. We need to talk bugs. Specifically, the fact that according to Arcee over here, Quintus Prime has had us bugged for Primus knows how long."

Oh look. Arcee's here, too. How nice. She picked up a Camien and Waspinator at some point, as well, with Waspinator as flinchy as ever. It would be mildly less annoying if he wouldn't audibly vibrate about it nonstop.

"Quintus had eyes here as well?" Vector's folded hands tighten as she exchanges a look with Liege. How wonderful.

"Not anymore. Shockwave figured out the codes to shut 'em down and we just finished clearing dormant cerebroshells out of about seventy-odd mechs downstairs. Maybe we're lucky, and they've only been spreading over the past few days, since Scorponok's attack. But the Insecticon swarm was under Cybertron for millions of years, and I don't know if we're ever that lucky." Ironhide folds his arms and scowls. "From the sound of it, I'm starting to think that when we find Killmaster, we find this Quintus and Prima and the Quintessons, too. It's been days since the pulse, and we've got to consider the possibility that they might come for this Cybertron next."

"Which makes it all the more imperative that I be allowed to finish my work on Luna-1 to locate everyone," Shockwave slides in, a smooth senator's overture. He rests a hand lightly on the table and commands attention just by standing there, adamant. "The key is there. Timing is everything, here at the end of all things."

Windvoice hears him out, then nods. Like Vivere, she mostly has optics only for the holographic projection of the moon. "I concur. Vivere, you and Rodimus are welcome to join us. Luna-1 has waited long enough."

Ironhide rubs his face. "Alright. I'll clear it with Red Alert." A sigh. "Somehow."

Arcee grunts. "Days, 'Hide? Only took a few hours to track this one down." She frowns at Ironhide. "I messaged you as soon as Aileron and I had Waspinator in custody. Then we come up here and no one would answer their damn comm because they'd been kidnapped."

That's odd enough that Starscream has to stop glaring at everyone for two seconds. "Wait. Hours? It took you days just to find this!" He jerks his chin at Waspinator, who emits a squeal of terror. He sent her after Airachnid and this is all she managed? Airachnid probably retreated to Devisiun long before Starscream woke up, but that's no excuse.

Arcee's glare shaves a few centuries off Starscream's life expectancy. "It hasn't been days."

Jazz, of all people, saves him. He doesn't even go here, but that doesn't seem to stop him from loitering everywhere in plain sight. "'Cee. What does your chronometer tell you the date is?" he asks, gently.

Arcee glares at him too - then twitches. "That's - impossible," she says. Aileron looks more openly baffled. Waspinator - well. He's too busy trying to burrow between Arcee and the wall to avoid Shockwave's amused stare to know what year it is.

Starscream snorts.

"You're missing time," Ironhide says, cautiously.

"So! That leaves only one question outstanding." Nightbeat interjects, out of nowhere. He stands from where he camped out beside Rung and steps up to the projection table. He looks around, and - for the first time since he and Requiem stepped off that shuttle - Starscream sees something in Nightbeat's face besides queasiness.

The look of a mech who is about to change everything.

Nightbeat raises a finger, and points it at Vector Prime. His question is deceptively mild. "Who is Necromancer?"

After half a beat, Vector catches her cue. Hesitantly, she frowns. "Ah. He and his conjunx were two of our first visitors. They've never expressed interest in becoming naturalized citizens, but they have long-term residency voices in the referendum, and are responsible for many of our temporary residents. Necromancer can be mercurial, but he has provided consultation for me in the past on time-space questions in my travels. He was the first to successfully enter Tempo's temporal stream without invoking dangerous amounts of spatial disruption." A frown creases her mouth. "He vanished after failing to beam up young Sari. His conjunx was already on sabbatical. I haven't been able to contact either of them since."

"No." Nightbeat keeps his finger up, before anyone can jump in. His visor never leaves Vector. "Sorry, but what is his real designation?"

Before Vector can respond, Rodimus apparently rams his knee spontaneously into the side of the table. He whips around to stare at Nightbeat. "Hold the phone. Necromancer?" he repeats, incredulous.

"Yeah," Nightbeat says. "Yeah. I was in denial too."

Rodimus mouths, 'No.'

Rewind lifts his head, slowly covering his mask with a hand as light dawns in his visor. "It can't be. That would be too much. Do you really think -"

Rodimus mouths an even more exaggerated 'No,' glancing around at everyone else like this is the revelation of the century.

"Not everyone in this room can speak Lost Light! Words. Use them," Starscream says, loudly. He has to do everything around here, doesn't he?

Nightbeat starts to pace. "There's only one logical explanation for a pun of that magnitude. And no one's gonna like it," he says.

Rodimus smacks the top of the table with both hands. "It's been right under our feet this whole time!"

He hops. For emphasis.

How did Megatron not kill them all. How.

"Metroplex?" Ironhide says, dubious. Thank slag, at least someone around here thinks the Lost Light squad is off their rocker.

"The Necroworld," Rodimus insists, waving his hands. Skids - good grief, that public ID on the protoform is Skids? - appears to be wheezing his way to a spark-attack on the floor beside Rung, who pats him on the back. Vivere - an honorary menace - just looks bemused.

"It's elementary, my dear Speaker." Nightbeat stops dead and pivots to face them all, with an irresponsible, gloating grin ticking up the corner of his mouth. "Killmaster wasn't in the Necrobot's basement because he was one of the missing. According to Tempo's very accessible public records system, Killmaster and Censere are - Tempo-present tense - conjunx endura." Nightbeat's bombast crescendos. "And the reason it took such a narratively convenient length of time for Arcee to get topside, and Rodimus and Vivere to do whatever, is because between him and the Necrobot and Brainstorm's timecase, they've been wherever and whenever they needed to be this! Entire! Time!" he says, and points dramatically at Arcee.

Why are they like this.

"No!" Rodimus exclaims, horrified and weirdly delighted, like Nightbeat is contagious. Rewind's slowly sinking into a crouch with a hiccupy noise, hands clutching his maskplate.

Nightbeat can't be stopped. "I checked the census records. All of Tempo's intake and temporary residence statistics, their time stamps and designations, and where they resettled after leaving Tempo." He smacks a palm down for emphasis, and stares Windvoice dead in the eye. "I don't think Killmaster has killed anyone. Ever."

"No," Starscream chokes.

The sound comes out too small. 

Nightbeat seizes Rodimus by the shoulders. "Censere had a cape made of space. He had quantum teleporters strong enough to send him halfway across the galaxy." He lets go to clutch his own face in the rapturous throes of the great reveal. "He died and left his husband locked up in the basement."

Rewind uncurls long enough to tug on Nightbeat's wrist. "I'll give you solid-light recordings of all seven seasons of Elementary if you let me and Swerve tell Whirl," he offers, hoarse after resetting his vocalizer twice.

Nightbeat strokes his chin. "You drive a hard bargain."

"And a Rodimus Star for stealing Rung's thunder!" Rodimus throws in.

Nightbeat snaps his fingers. "Sold." A pause. "Wait, what thunder?"

"His name is not really Killmaster," the Matriarch of Incaendium says, carefully. No one seems to know quite how to react in the wake of…that.

"It's Murderking," Windvoice says.

"Caesura," Shockwave murmurs. He watches the projected moon turn over the table, utterly serene, utterly implacable.

-

Someone needs to play host to Vector. Someone needs to approach Kathikon and figure out what the Titan is doing here, loitering around with solar panels spread in the distance. Someone needs to make actual arrangements for the Speaker to be off-planet yet again and prepare for how many people are insisting that they absolutely need to come along on this trip to the moon - including the ones like Shockwave, who are going to give Red Alert a conniption.

That someone is apparently going to be Liege Maximo. Vector herself fits in perfectly at Windvoice's other elbow, wry and witty as she recovers from everyone's first major, prolonged exposure to the Lost Light crew's…unique personalities. Windvoice herself makes most of the arrangements with a perfunctory manner, brisk and to the point, seamlessly passing completed orders off to Ironhide with her hands folded behind her back. Occasionally, Vector even manages to draw a faint, distracted smile out of her.

It's so perfect that it makes Starscream wants to gag.

Starscream extricates himself from Bumblebee - they're not talking about any of that, ever - and finds a room to brood in. The closest one he finds borders one of the interior courtyards, the tall stalks of some unfamiliar black and gold grass screening the lower half of the window. He seals the door with one of his stronger overrides and drops down beside the table with a heavy clatter.

He needs to have conversations. Several of them, if he plans to put contingencies into motion.

Scheming shouldn't drain him of energy. It's some combination of the chaos these past few days, Rodimus's entire - presence, and general malaise, and it leaves Starscream sour and distracted. He massages one of the weld seams in his torso with a fist with a glower and sorts through a mental list of names with effort.

His options are limited. Vivere and Rodimus are too horrifying to speak to. Too many people on his list of acquaintances these days are Autobots. Easier to manipulate in some ways, harder in others. Too many would pick Windvoice over Starscream, any day of the week. Not like it's a hard choice to make.

If he can persuade Soundwave to make the trip, that would simplify things immensely. If Soundwave's in a cooperating mood. If Chela and Metrotitan are accessible.

If Starscream is actually right, and not just unable to accept being…irrelevant.

(If Wheeljack is somewhere out there, alive -)

Too many ifs. Too little time. Even with Red Alert hesitant to give permission to visit Luna-1, at the latest they'll take off tomorrow at dawn, and Starscream needs to be on that shuttle.

Ugh. He hates moons.

And Wheeljack - Wheeljack might be -

He can't think about that right now. It's all too fragile for him to even consider the possibility. Nightbeat was on a speculative, time-sickness induced bender. That's all.

If need be, he can brute-force this plan. The one person he absolutely requires - er, well. Might be problematic. He's the last person she'll want to talk to. But she's vital if he's going to pull this off with no lead time and no (obvious) government pull. It'll take a while before word spreads, but soon his waning influence will be obvious to those in the know.

He can trick her into it through some convoluted setup, maybe - make her think he has some diabolical plot in the works, and watch her go tearing off to stop him. But there's no guarantee.

If he has to, he can do it alone.

In fact, that would simplify things immensely. He'll burn this slagging city to the ground if he has to.

And he needs a new coat of paint. Badly.

Exventing, Starscream scrubs his face and stands. The shadows of his optics feel raw.

Directly in front of him, the security panel by the door is a blur of static.

[…]

Starscream resets his optics, but it doesn't make the static take the hint to leave him alone.

"No, no, no," he mutters, darkly. Then - "What."

[Star-scream,] Metroplex sends.

Starscream snaps. "I said, what!" He stalks toward the door, incensed and ready to punch a hole through the security panel. "Go and talk to -"

[Where is Wind-voice^[?]][angry_[?]silence] Metroplex asks, aloud, through the speaker.

And just like that, it's out there. In the open. The thought that stops Starscream cold.

He slaps a hand over the security panel and leans in, dropping to a harsh whisper. "Don't."

When glyphs start to type under his hand, he hisses and smacks it again, glaring at the speaker in the ceiling. "Zip! Do not! If what we think is happening, is happening? The last thing we need is you sticking your giant nose into it and tipping her off!"

Silence.

He knocks his forehead against the wall. It doesn't make enough of an impact to knock the thought out of his head. "I'll think of something." Then, more quietly - "I will."

He doesn't know who he's trying to convince, here. Moreover, he doesn't care. Period.

When he moves his hand, there's another message.

[Doubt^[humorous].]

It startles a snort out of Starscream. "Everyone's a critic," he mutters, straightening. He resets his shoulders - he's going to make it from here to the frame painter without cracking if it kills him - and the door opens when he goes to step out. Thank slag. That would've been awkward, otherwise -

[can you hear me now?][please] _{[come home]}

"If there's anything left to bring back," he says, low enough that the Titan can't hear him.

He walks right into a gaggle of curious, expectant stares.

Transmutate, Bumblebee, Slash, and Nightbeat of all people cluster around the doorway - Transmutate bouncing on her heels, Bumblebee sitting with his legs crossed, Nightbeat nursing a steaming cup of oil. They take up so much space that Vortex, who is supposed to be guarding the door so Starscream can brood and plot in blissful solitude, can only wave a hand over their heads from where they've jockeyed him up against the far wall.

Where did they even pop up from? Starscream stares back, mouth ajar.

No one volunteers an explanation.

Starscream throws his hands up. "Oh, for - how long have you people been out here?!"

"Eh, not long. You're kind of loud, you know that?" Nightbeat comments, swirling his oil.

"I just needed your signature on this," Transmutate says, the most apologetic and wide-eyed of the bunch. He rewards her by signing it without reading, and by not informing her that his signature is probably useless.

"Would it help if we pretended you were talking to me through the wall?" Bumblebee asks, dryly, with significant concern in his face.

"You reek," Slash informs him.

Ah yes. The finishing blow. Just to kick him while he's down.

"No one asked you." They still don't move. It's like a horrible wall of disturbingly open faces, all scrutinizing him. Starscream rolls his eyes and starts soldiering his way past Transmutate - objectively the weakest link. "Ugh. Just having a nice spark to spark chat with Metroplex. Nothing to see here. You're back on planet for an hour and you're already bothering me?" he fires at Nightbeat.

Bumblebee bustles to keep up beside him. "I thought it might help if you heard more about what he found on - wait, Metroplex is talking to you?"

Well, he doesn't have to make it sound ludicrous. Honestly. "Can't get the big oaf to shut up! Which probably says something about the state of things around here!" Starscream announces, with a special glare for the next door they pass. "Where's Chromia?" he barks.

A set of city coordinates pops up on the screen. Starscream shudders. "Eugh. Disgustingly convenient."

"I'm just getting a whiff of scorch damage and cover-up paint. What do you smell?" Nightbeat asks Slash, leaning down as they all follow Starscream down the hall.

"Don't answer that," Starscream says.

"Anguish and anxiety. It's worse than it was the other day," Slash reports mercilessly, staring Starscream down with a raptor's eye.

"I hate all of you."

"Yeah, well, we're here to help," Bumblebee says, stubbornly. "So let yourself be helped, before you do something monumentally stupid and regret it two seconds later."

…He has a point.

Starscream stops dead.

Lo and behold. Volunteers.

His smile might not be within time-tested safe parameters for Autobot interaction as Starscream rounds on them. He rubs his hands together with an unholy glee. "Friends," he says, pleasantly.

He savors the switch that flips in Bumblebee's expression as he realizes his grave error. From grumpy, sage wisdom to dawning horror in less than a klik. Delicious.

Starscream snaps a finger at Transmutate, who salutes. "You - set up a full-body appointment with Contour, whenever I have a clear block, and send a message inviting Soundwave here." Nightbeat next. "You - talk to Rodimus and figure out why the slag he's haunted." Now Slash. "You -"

Slash growls.

He is in danger. Starscream hastily course-corrects. "- Don't take orders from me, yes, and you -" He lands on Bumblebee with a final snap.

And hesitates.

"Keep an eye on Liege Maximo," he says, at last. "I've been told not to leave Windvoice alone in a room with him, but honestly, if she let me hold her hand through every poor decision she made in the space of a day, we wouldn't be in this mess to start with."

"No, the mess would probably be worse and half the city would be on fire," Bumblebee says, flatly. "Maybe even the whole city, if you're feeling ambitious."

Already recovering from his momentary existential crisis, then. Good. They need to be resilient.

Nightbeat takes a deep, contemplative sip from his mug. "Huh. You're not actually worried about Liege Maximo. So you're either just trying to get rid of us with make-work, or…" He holds up a hand. "Don't tell me. Easier if I just deduce it through my own observations. I'll help, Bumblebee." Then he meanders off and turns at the intersection.

A beat. Then Nightbeat swings back in and raises a hand. "Also. Rodimus is haunted because he's a Matrix. Diiidn't really think anyone needed that spelled out for them."

Fantastic. Starscream lets his head fall back. "Just. Go. Please."

Nightbeat shrugs, and ducks back out.

"And where're you going?" Bumblebee asks.

To do the impossible.

"To play nice with Chromia," Starscream says, through clenched teeth.

Bumblebee and Transmutate exchange a significant look. Transmutate rapidly backspaces, and taps out a new note on her datapad. "I'll let Contour know to have a weld buffer on hand," she says, tactfully.

-

SS: Knock knock.
CH: I don't care what you want or where you are. Walk away.
SS: And here I thought I was making a generous concession by not literally knocking on the door. Come up here to brood often, guard?
CH: I don't think you're accurately assessing the situation here.
CH: Never mind. Come on in. I'm overdue for some weapons practice.
SS: No, no, I wouldn't dare presume on your patience like that.
SS: Let me just ask you this - why are you not with Windvoice right now? She's dashing about with Strongarm and the Aerialbots and the newbie - oh, look. Not you.
CH: Wow. You're a real piece of work, you know that?
CH: You think what you pulled isn't obvious?! Strongarm literally told me to my face that you were recruiting to replace me!
SS: Ah, the classic Camien sense of discretion.
CH: And do you know what she said next?!
CH: That she intended to ask Ironhide to request Caetra, despite you. That, even if I swore I regretted my actions and would never resort to such methods again, it would still be better for me to return to Caminus and seek a period of self-reflection and healing before returning to active duty as anyone's bodyguard.
SS: Ooh, the therapy card. Riveting.
SS: And why are you telling me this, again?
CH: You know damn slagging well-!
CH: Windblade is - !
CH: …
CH: Windvoice is busy running the damn planet.
CH: You won. You got exactly what you wanted, just like you always do. Cut her off from all her old support network, so she doesn't have anyone really watching her back. Isolated her from Caminus, so she's tied more closely to Cybertron instead…you think I can't see what you've done?
CH: You almost managed to fool me into thinking you were a walking disaster, and everything that went wrong was just - collateral damage, instigated by a monster who did it because he could. Because you get a rust-sucking kick out of backing yourself into a corner and then blundering your way out.
CH: No. You're just more careful than anyone ever knew.
SS: That's nice.
SS: So let me try again: why aren't you talking to Windvoice about this?
CH: BECAUSE SHE'S NOT TALKING TO ME!
SS: I wondered.
SS: You and me and Metroplex. A full set.
SS: Don't you find that a little…odd?
CH: I don't care what the frag kind of game you're playing, and I'm not listening.
SS: You and I both know something's off, and as nice as it is to always get the credit, I'm not actually responsible for it.
SS: If you'd paid a little more attention, you'd have noticed that I'm cut out, too. You know who she is consulting?
SS: Two Primes. One of whom is a better, more charming me known as the Prime of Lies, and one of whom literally showed up today and became her new BFF.
CH: Her what?
SS: Something's different. Something's wrong.
CH: Wow.
CH: Just. Wow. You really are paranoid, huh.
CH: You're trying to rope me into one of your schemes against her? Never. I'll never betray her like that. If she's cutting you out, as far as I'm concerned? That's progress. I'm happy for her.
SS: Not if it's not -

-

[REDACTED]

-

CH: …I'm in.

---

I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life.

I know this, and I love you.

- Killmaster and Censere, both of the High-Ceilinged Manifold

---

Chapter Text

---

And since for once in my life, time is at a premium, let's get on with it.

Where were we?

- Killmaster of the High-ceilinged Manifold, source unknown

---

Years ago (but how many?)

All things move.

When a civilization first maps the world around them, perspective is relative and often species-centric. Generally static. Such hurdles of presumption must be overcome before they can develop any kind of interstellar presence worth mentioning. Any semi-functional galactic coordinate-based map must be a living, updating, ever-changing system. Even now, to save processing power, the navigations systems of Cybertronian standard starships may only accurately calculate the gravitational dimensions of near-space, default to the nearest large object as a point of reference, and leave anything outside the immediate scope necessary to safely reach their destination to estimation.

But that is laziness, pure and simple. Shortcut piled on shortcut. Stars move, and galaxies. The velocities, the myriad angles, all in unfathomable motion.

Once he mastered that, there was nowhere Killmaster couldn't go. It would be the work of a lifetime to parse a single universal strand, and he long ago branched out into other worlds than these. One might never find an ending.

Time, though. Time is the cruelest aspect. Inevitable in the most bitter way. The best one can do is find a way to play the game so that what is inevitable is what one wanted all along.

That, and keep rigorous notes. Memory is not what it used to be. Were it not stored within the strata of compressed space, the database tracking what he has and has not done yet would be approximately the size of a moon. Even then, Killmaster refuses to confront the number of times he has had to contact himself to prevent...unnecessary repetition. There are few things more insufferable than dealing with oneself from another point in time. The earlier iterations are particularly heinous.

Case in point. He chose these coordinates on his own advice, after applying sufficient rigor to ensure they were viable.

Killmaster is still caught off-guard when the moongun deposits them in a quiet pocket of interstellar space, in the silent shadow of Unicron.

Luna-1 shudders violently underfoot and lurches into motion. The furious burst of its engines lights up Killmaster's HUD with warnings.

Too slow. Even if only the atmosphere and upper crust of this hemisphere falls within the curve of Unicron's killing field, their sparks will be sapped before Luna-1 lunges out of orbit. The Luna harvester units were built to keep pace with their factory planet. Not for this.

Censere crumples. The inexorable cold of death sinks into the tips of Killmaster's claws. It almost greys them both in the instant it takes to randomize a fresh set of supergalactic coordinates and initiate an emergency bounce. The moongun has not had enough time to fully recharge its cells. He has to resort to the timecase again.

These new, entirely random spatio-temporal coordinates teleport them to Alyon ([Cybertron-local geographic coordinates 36.8529°N by 10.3217°E, e = +500 m, g = 15 m/s²]), along with a patch of a Lunar hot spot in roughly the shape of a hand. Killmaster collapses to one knee with a snarl among the coils of heavy, pink-purple smoke that accompany every use of the timecase.

(No amount of tinkering will turn the damnable smoke off. Brainstorm's sense of aesthetic will not be denied.)

The rest of the moon is left behind, to wander as it will.

Just as Killmaster's currently errant wand gravitates toward major spatial distortions, the technology of the timecases seems drawn to important events, whether they're relevant to one's goal or not. That minor detour was, however, entirely pointless. He is vaguely irritated with the version of himself that gave him the coordinates in the first place. Luna-1 will have to run from Unicron, yes, but one day it will find its way back to Neo-Cybertron. He has witnessed this for himself.

It is irrelevant, now.

At the moment, countless vorns before the present limit, Alyon is uninhabited, a region of no particular worth. No surface energon nodes, no other resources worth mentioning, no major thoroughfares, and – until now – no spark fields. The nearest population center lies closer to the equatorial rift valleys.

This is convenient: it means there is no one to witness as Censere rams his elbow into Killmaster's side. He lets Censere rip away.

It is also inconvenient, because eventually Killmaster will need to have relocated the hot spot to some other point in time to prevent anyone from stumbling on it prematurely. If he still has time left. Perhaps a few million years forward. He will need to consult his records first. There are enough sparks here to populate a small city - rehoming them will not be so simple a task as sending them on to Tempo. The sparks shimmer, a field of glass stars, and then fall dark. The Luna-1 sentio metallico bed doesn't quite blend in with the local metal gradient, but it isn't immediately obvious.

"Where are we?" Censere demands. He is distraught. This is the first time, from his perspective, that they have met.

Cēnseō, technically. But Killmaster cannot.

Killmaster - who has just departed the facility where the DJD killed Censere and left him to fall to cold ash on the floor – cannot seem to speak. The timecase feels like a shackle around his wrist. He lashed out in his rage, and paid for it when Whirl bounced him to one of his own containment dimensions. The shock helped clear his mind. But gazing down at Censere once more – it is still too fresh.

-

When Killmaster realized what was coming, he attempted to prevent it. It was the only logical response.

Censere stopped him every time. He used the timecase to run circles around Killmaster before Killmaster even realized the danger: crisscrossing the timeline, saving the lost and unaccounted for with the patience of a census-keeper on one final mission.

"You know better than to create a paradox like that," Censere said, smiling sadly, as he sealed the pod from the outside. "I'll see you in Tempo. Until the end, remember?"

Once, Vector attempted to debate the ethical ramifications of a non-linear romantic relationship in which one of the parties possessed an inherent advantage in prior knowledge over the other. Killmaster did not indulge her. Censere was the one to first pick up Brainstorm's abandoned timecase and roll back the clock to pass the technology on to Killmaster. The ouroboros of their lives has been so entwined that Killmaster can no longer say when it began or who truly initiated it.

"I always wondered where you'd gotten this," Censere said, wryly, as Killmaster investigated the curious puzzle placed before him by a stranger. "I need it now, to help who I can – but your watch will be more stable, anyway."

-

The shape of their lives has never been a circle. The ending is still a ways off, yet. And they will always have Tempo.

Killmaster needs to track down his foolish nemesis and retrieve his wand. The moongun and his integrated modifications are not nearly as versatile without it, and the timecase approaches teleportion from the inverse direction.

But first. This.

Killmaster stares down at the only version of Censere he is able to save, and flexes his claws.

Censere shoves him when he fails to respond. He isn't strong enough to budge a mech in Killmaster's weight class, but he is overwrought. "Why did you only save me?" Censere demands. "We have to go back! We have to help them -"

"You cannot go back," Killmaster informs him. Of everyone on that ill-fated voyage to the stars, Censere was the only one whose fate was unknown. Those grey areas – the lost, the unknown, the disappeared, the forgotten – there is always potential there. "It is already too late."

It is the gentlest way to say it.

Censere stills.

He reassesses Killmaster.

He takes a step back. 

"Who are you?" he asks, as the full extent of Killmaster sinks in. Censere will be many things, but he is not afraid.

Tricky. There are too many things he cannot say, too many answers he cannot give. The simplest answer is the hardest. "Killmaster," Killmaster says.

Censere's expression falters at the sound of such a name.

He steps past Censere, and walks away. It won't matter for a long time yet, and Killmaster has miles to go before he sleeps.

"Wait - there has to be something we can do," Censere protests. He doesn't have to run to keep up with Killmaster, but he jogs. "Mnemosyne, she has sisters. The core needs to know what -"

The surface of Cybertron stopped communicating with the core long before the core became unable to respond. The technological regression of the Primal era and its wars ensured that. It would be unkind to let him go on under any such illusions. Killmaster halts long enough to rest a heavy claw on Censere's shoulder. "You are dead. And no one will listen to you."

No one will believe him; Killmaster tags [listen] with the appropriate subglyphs.

This time, when Killmaster walks away, Censere doesn't move. He stares blankly ahead, the light of his optics the only illumination over the dark sparkfield.

"Where are you going?" Censere calls. His voice sounds hollow.

Killmaster set scanners to detect [universal wave function discrepancy _{[0.97 Hz absolute]}], per his own advice. There is already a notification waiting in the queue of his HUD, a quiet ping from a future he hasn't lived, with a time stamp.

"To see a mech about a watch," he says.

On the next step he is gone.

---

I want love to change my friends to enemies,

Change my friends to enemies and show me how it's all my fault.

- j.w./r.a. of Iacon, <<love interruption>>

---

[Re-indexing database,] Mnemosyne says. [Please wait.]

Then -

"There. Activating remote diagnostic console -"

-

A tiny loading animation hovers in front of Wheeljack.

It morphs into a shifting, colorful planetoid, blurred and glowing at the edges, with a Matrix orbiting it like a moon.

Mnemosyne stands opposite him. The rest of the space around them looks endlessly deep, but when Wheeljack puts out a hand, he hits a transparent wall at arm's length. Beneath their feet, the floor feels - loose. Undefined. He gets a definite sense of depth overhead, too, as though they're at the bottom of an ocean.

"Clear?" Megatron asks, crisply.

Mnemosyne gestures, and the casing around the Matrix-moon splits to reveal the engraved spark crystal within. "Very much so," the Muse of Memory says, as the spark casts faint stars on the glass walls around them. "This was more complex than a hijacking leash would be to unravel."

"But you can shut the Lotus Machine down?" Wheeljack asks. He's braced for the 'no.' The fact that they're not already awake in the real world is less than ideal. Stuff like this is never easy.

"I can," Mnemosyne confirms. "I've already begun the process of ejecting your party from the Lotus environment. It should only take a few minutes for them to be clear of the mental field."

Megatron watches the diorama as Mnemosyne peels the Matrix apart, layer by layer, until it resembles petals. "Not everyone?" he asks, lightly. For someone who was enraged not five minutes ago, he seems to have got ahold of his temper pretty quickly.

"No." Mnemosyne hums, and expands one segment of the Lotus Machine until it's almost as tall as them. "You will need to remove my physical body from the Machine first. If I release everyone at once, we risk activating another, more drastic override. Anything that leaves me braindead will take everyone left in the network down with me. My mind is too enmeshed with the whole." A pause, as she glances at Megatron. Her cameras are unreadable. "You get your strike team. It will be enough."

While Mnemosyne works, Wheeljack rubs his optics. It's some kind of safe mode, but Wheeljack's scanner can't pick up much more than that. The lack of input is such a relief. The real headache of the Lotus Machine was dealing with the constant subconscious barrage, queries and data and borrowed sensory input pressing in on all sides to simulate reality. It took effort in the way the real world doesn't.

They've been navigating dreams and nightmares like it was a real landscape. Meanwhile, Megatron treated it like - well, an archive. He queried the Lotus Machine through layers Wheeljack never noticed for the answer to a question no one even realized was missing. Each search spread a little further, unearthed older memories, lit up new retrieval cues based on how closely they were conceptually related to the search terms. When the restrictions in the Machine prohibited Mnemosyne from accessing her own memory directly, Megatron used spatial cues to walk them through memory to the answer.

Wheeljack is so tired. "So,  uh. How long has Killmaster been able to time travel?" he asks, only half-jokingly. It's a trick question, anyway. Once you start being able to time travel, 'how long' gets hilariously irrelevant.

Megatron snorts. "I'd be better off asking you," he replies, wry. The faint starfield shifts over his plating as Megatron paces the small circle of the endless space they're in. "More importantly, this means Censere concealed his true origins from everyone until the very end. He told Nightbeat a very different tale. The Matrix, Luna-1's fate. For whatever reason, he never attempted to pass on what he knew."

"Or it was suppressed." Wheeljack shrugs when Megatron grants him the point with a knowing nod. "Or just...no one believed him."

"He claimed one of his census coworkers died, and it went unrecorded. So he began to record it all." Megatron pauses beside Mnemosyne; she studiously ignores him. With a shrug, Megatron goes on. "At first, he didn't even try to rescue or prevent what he saw. But even after retrieving one of Brainstorm's timecases and going back in time to retrieve the missing and unaccounted for of his list, he never went back to that moment."

Noninterference as a policy always sounded easier in concept than it was to pull off in practice. At least for Wheeljack - just look at how well things worked out any time a human got threatened by Decepticon action under an Autobot's watch. But slag, with time travel involved, anything you changed might cause something worse. Perceptor took the paradox locks off Brainstorm's time system for a hot second, and it spawned an entire new universe just to accommodate the drastic changes that ensued. Trying to make sense of the repercussions from Killmaster getting his hands on that tech boggles the mind. Wheeljack has a headache on multiple levels right now, and he doesn't want to slap another one on top.

"He would only have been captured in turn. Our old masters would give much to obtain that kind of power - they assassinated that ingenuity out of their ranks long ago." Then Mnemosyne shakes her head, her veil clicking faintly around her shoulders. "Wheeljack. You have a headache."

Weird questions are kinda par for the course right now. Wheeljack sheepishly stops rubbing his audials. "Yeah, a little. I'm starting to get used to it, to be honest." When this is over, he's gonna have to bug Ratchet for some weapons-grade migraine meds.

Mnemosyne snaps her fingers, and the shifting, blurry planet reappears under their feet, bigger than before. "We have a problem," she says.

Oh yeah. Here it comes.

"One of your number is attempting to merge every mind in the Machine under his command." Mnemosyne presses another section of the moon as the planet full of minds below slowly stops morphing.

Instead, slowly but surely, it begins to realign itself. Lines of red and purple spread out from the center, segmenting the landscape.

Maybe from the inside, the lines would look clear and straight. From this perspective, it clearly refracts at broken angles, jagged and raw as things start to crack along the edges.

"I would ask who re-awakened and manipulated the ancient combination coding," Mnemosyne continues - and Wheeljack realizes abruptly that without a blink, Mnemosyne is pissed - "but the source is clear in the collective memory pool. An immense tentacled alien hailing from a dead universe forcibly mesmerizes and merges an entire subgroup of the populace - and you thought it seemed like a good idea to emulate that?"

Mnemosyne pulls up what appears to be a screencap of the Deceptigod and flicks it up to hang in midair for five seconds. Then she waves it away, and glares pointedly at Megatron.

Megatron shifts his weight. He looks like someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar - awkwardly not-guilty. "The gestalt energy the D-Void used to merge the Decepticons into one originated within Cybertron itself. I simply -"

"- wanted to harness it for yourself, yes. Even at the cost of breaking others' minds and will. You were well past caring, at that point."

Megatron inclines his head. Point granted, once again. His expression just looks bleak.

The Muse of Memory vents hard, and dredges up the last fumes of her patience. "We are not the Stentorian model. Forced combination formatting, even if it doesn't go horribly wrong, alters what you are on a fundamental level. Those who survive it only do so because they're forced to bend or break. No one you inflict that on emerges unscathed, in shape or in mind."

"So much for 'til all are one,'" Wheeljack quips. What else is he supposed to say?

He knows who this is about.

"One from many, many from one." Mnemosyne resettles her shoulders, raising both arms before her to adjust the Matrix-moon one last time. It's a lotus flower in full bloom, now, scaled to fit in the palms of her hands when she spreads her fingers. She turns her full attention to it. "But he has the will, and he has the means. His logic may not be sound, but his fixation is ruthlessly persuasive, and the Lotus Machine will permit him to line them all up in a row. With me isolated here, the mindset of combination suits the Lotus Machine almost too well. He thinks he has cracked the code. He'd replace me just long enough to get them all killed."

Megatron doesn't get it first. He just says it out loud first. "Prowl." He sounds almost thoughtful.

Mnemosyne turns to stare Wheeljack down. "Wake him. Then free me."

Wheeljack is already scanning for the way out, turning away from the center. 

"Do you need assistance?" Megatron calls after him. 

Wheeljack can't think of any idea that could possibly go worse than that one. So it's nice to know that Megatron is still fallible. "Just let me talk to him," Wheeljack says.

"You think you can make him see reason alone?"

The floor tilts a little more under Wheeljack's feet with each step he takes; as he scans, he can detect the transparent panels rising up from the abyssal depths of the Muse's mind to guide him down. When he swings around to look back, Megatron is almost at a forty-five degree angle. Mnemosyne hangs at the center, balanced over the drop.

"Yup. Easy," Wheeljack says, utterly blithe, pretty much just to see the look on Megatron's face.

Then he swings back around, takes a step, and hopes it's true.

---

People don't understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.'

It's not about being mean. It's about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end.

It's about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it.

- Marco, <<Book #30: The Reunion, pg. 71>>

---

Wheeljack never got pulled into a combiner. Most of what he understands came from observation, from repairing Superion, and from interviewing Superion and the Aerialbots, before and after.

In the worst cases - Monstructor - the mechs involved lost themselves completely, defaulted to violence, and never found themselves again. In the best cases, it was a conversation. In the end, the experience seemed to be unique to each combiner unit. Superion was forced together against their will, but the Aerialbots might've been able to accept and adapt after that if the damage they sustained hadn't locked them together as Superion for almost two years - long past the point their psyches could bear it. Strong shared emotions too easily escalate into a rampage. Particularly when the combined mechs are people like the Combaticons, who could and would escalate into a rampage regardless.

"You start to - smear together," Silverbolt explained. Wheeljack and Starscream hadn't been on speaking terms for a lot of that month, so Wheeljack had spent a lot of time in the hospital helping Ratchet work out the Aerialbots' physiotherapy. Looking for answers, offering solutions. Trying to take his mind off things.

Silverbolt lost a wing before Superion formed, and Superion's formation filled the gap with non-wing circuitry. Between that and the newly developed acrophobia and the fact that none of the Aerialbots wanted to risk being in the same room at that point, Silverbolt talked all through the physio sessions. "Doesn't take long, after the first few days. You have to cooperate just to move. You can override the others, if you got the authority in you, but it goes easier when it's a collective decision. After a while it's...hard to say where a thought started. It's just you, having a thought. 'Cept you're not you anymore. You know you used to be something different, dimly, but for the life of you, you can't remember what those were." He laughed, short and sharp. "I didn't feel like I belonged, before. Now..."

And then there was Devastator.

And there was Prowl.

-

"No, no, no."

Prowl stands on a white, transparent plane that looks a hell of a lot like the one Wheeljack just left. There's no sign of Springer or Whirl or Mesothulas. The roiling, collective hallucination of a planet boils overhead, too bright for Wheeljack to stare directly at it, with a faint rainbow cast to the light where it flares around the edges. Maybe it's even the same model Mnemosyne had above, viewed from a different perspective, so that it seems larger. Overwhelming. Too much for one person to grasp.

Prowl tries. A wave of white ripples over the surface of the shifting planet - then stalls out as Prowl collapses to one knee.

"I need you all to see," Prowl insists.

The Lotus Machine obligingly provides him status updates on his failure. The neat glyphs drift around Prowl, applying their own subtle pressure while he struggles.

[Unification at 35%]

[Stability decrease ↓11%]

Then, in bright, strobing red - [Intruder detected. Most likely candidates: Muse^{[danger 100%]}, Megatron^{[danger 100%]}, Wheeljack^{[danger 100%]}]

"Now that's just rude," Wheeljack says. "Lumping me in with Megatron? Yikes, Prowl."

He approaches carefully. They're way past the point where the Lotus Machine will simply hurl Starscream at him as a distraction. After the way Megatron sent Mnemosyne on a tear down memory lane, the Lotus Machine couldn't really miss what they were up to. That same mechanical, algorithmic awareness that fixated on Megatron and Springer - two anomalies - to the exclusion of all else now ripples around Prowl, an unseen force tracking Wheeljack's approach with a newfound circumspection.

It knows, and Wheeljack knows that it knows. It slips another urgent, subliminal marker into Prowl's crowded field of view, politely insidious.

So Wheeljack circles wide around the roots pressing up from under the transparent ground. They're creeping up around the back of Prowl's legs - a net, a web in lines of red and purple, inexorably making their way to the back of his neck. Wheeljack shuffles so he's at least in Prowl's peripheral vision, backlit by the collected minds of everyone trapped in here.

After all that, Prowl looks tired. One optic has gone completely dark, so dim there's not even a spark left. Energon pulses from his nose in a constant stream, dripping down over his mouth and chin and streaking his neck.

Maybe Mnemosyne didn't need to worry after all. Wheeljack doesn't think Prowl will survive the strain long enough to pull everyone's minds together. Just looking at him makes Wheeljack hurt all over.

But then, the last thing anyone needs right now is for him to underestimate Prowl's sheer bloody-mindedness. Prowl closes a hand into a fist, and uses it to shove himself up from his kneeling position. He sways as he rises, his face settling into brutal, cold, resigned determination. "You are either compromised by Megatron, or a hallucination generated by this place to distract me," Prowl says flatly, with no hesitation. "I have access to the memory of your logs now. I have access to everything here. Once I have control, everything will be fine. I'll be able to do what needs to be done. There won't be any more distractions. We just need to clear our mind -"

Wheeljack didn't even feel him ramping up for another go. Prowl just raises a hand and the red and purple lines jolt over the surface of the globe as he focuses. Trying to take the blank slate of the world, and wrap his perspective around it. The effort it takes buckles the mental field around them, making Wheeljack stumble. He recognizes the push - the way the Lotus Machine backs Prowl, shoving him along with the force of its own coding. It picked up the trick from observing Megatron.

Prowl collapses again. This time he catches himself on his hands and knees - and his arms give out. More energon splatters the ground as he braces himself on trembling forearms. "There must be a way," he breathes, and spits up a clot of energon.

When Wheeljack tries to gingerly kneel down and help him, a familiar wall of green and grey comms pastes itself right in front of Prowl's mismatched, pain-hazed optics. The Lotus Machine scrolls through Wheeljack and Megatron's chat for him, rapidfire, just enough to remind Prowl of the gist of it.

Prowl twitches away from Wheeljack without even reading it, betrayal in his glare.

Wheeljack shoulda known that conversation would come back to bite him in the aft. He also should've known not to leave Prowl alone. Prowl thinks he's cracked the Machine's code - but he only got in this deep with the Machine shadowing his every step. Hell, it might even be using him to try to reach Mnemosyne again.

"What happens if you're not in control, Prowl?" Wheeljack asks. He holds up his hands, palms open. Just talk it through, he thinks, but doesn't dare say. Think.

Prowl's gun might not be real, but the Lotus Machine just needs an opening.

Prowl answers on auto-pilot. He swipes away the energon dripping from his nose mechanically, but there's too much already on his hands; he only smears it across his lower face. "Casualties rise the longer this drags out." The Lotus Machine helpfully provides a new counter that follows Prowl's train of thought, informing him of just how many people are left in the Machine. Wheeljack doesn't need the reminder that people are being harvested as they speak - but he doesn't think the number should be ticking up that fast, either. The Machine's skewing the data. Prowl keeps going, too fixated to notice. "Eventually we won't have the numbers to counter whatever we'd face in an exit strategy. Autobot and Decepticon numbers are dropping roughly at the same rate; there's no advantage to prolonging this."

Abruptly, Prowl lets out a sharp bark of laughter and throws his arms wide as he meets Wheeljack's eyes. The intensity is almost enough to knock Wheeljack backward. "You should be pleased! Yes, I'll save the 'Cons, too!" he announces to the world, loud and mocking. His smile is jagged. "They're a part of me, after all. That will never go away."

Then, as though he only just caught himself making desperate eye contact with Wheeljack, Prowl jerks himself away. "The predictive model is sound. There's always a bigger picture, Wheeljack. This - I can't waste time with this."

He says it like he's trying to convince himself. Prowl cycles a vent to steady himself, and when he resets his optics, focusing on the planet rather than Wheeljack, one of them pops from the strain.

But it doesn't work. Even as the Lotus Machine winds up behind him for another shove, a transparent coil in reality at his back, Prowl jitters with agitation. His remaining optic darts to Wheeljack and away again, distracted.

Wheeljack can work with that.

"The Lotus Machine will give you control. It wants you to take Mnemosyne's place. Just long enough to harvest everyone that's left," he says, talking fast. "Think, Prowl. It lures you in, keeps you complacent by giving you what you want. You know you've got a blindspot. You told me yourself."

Prowl jars. The gathering force of the Machine sputters out, cracking reality in a tessellated pattern under foot. The full-spectrum light of the boiling planet refracts sharply, half-blinding Wheeljack with the brightness.

Cursing, Prowl presses his fist to his forehead, digging into the chevron. "Stupid of me. You, Tumbler, Optimus - this is just to make me second-guess myself," he mutters. "People lie, people fail - but I can still save everyone. I can stop this. I can."

Then his remaining optic snaps to Wheeljack, and Prowl breaks off. He looks stricken. "There has to be a way to end the war. We'll be safe. There must be," he insists, and Wheeljack doesn't think they're talking about the Lotus Machine anymore.

The Machine latches on, regardless. Prowl hisses and clutches his head as a fresh barrage swamps him. It smashes every button Prowl has and more, far more than Wheeljack can track as the transparent glass of the floor cracks and crazes. It crunches uncomfortably underfoot when Wheeljack hesitantly shifts his weight.

[They'll always fail you.]

[False peace is no peace at all.]

[All that remains is such perfect order.]

[Peace. Resolution.]

["I finally understand -"]

[- they must comply.]

[You are alone, always.]

[All you need to do is -]

[make them see][ɯǝɥʇ ʞɐǝɹq]

And that's the crux of Prowl, Wheeljack thinks. That's the emotion knotted up at the heart of all the numbers.

But even as the Lotus Machine applies pressure, Prowl doesn't make a move. The process hangs, impatiently stalled, waiting for the push. Prowl trembles, the floor judders and crunches, but no one acts.

Until, finally, Prowl erupts. "Well. Aren't you going to say something?!" he demands, whipping around to glare at Wheeljack.

Wheeljack shrugs.

"Nah. You're good," he says, eyeballing the floor and judging how much longer they have before it gives out.

The Lotus Machine tries to shove an override through - and Prowl waves it away with an impatient shake of his head. He's more concerned with staring at Wheeljack, non-plussed, as the world cracks around them.

"You're trying to do better, and I believe you," Wheeljack says. He shrugs again. "I can talk, if that'll help. You want to fix things so they stay fixed. The war's over, but you don't trust it to stay over. None of it feels genuine or secure. You've tried to end it so many times before, in the worst possible ways, and it never stuck." He waggles his hand noncommittally. "And hey, maybe we'll start fighting again over something new in a few years. No guarantees. No short cuts, no way to make everyone sit down and agree to think the same things. Things just have to change, slowly but surely. That's life. Waiting is frustrating. People are frustrating."

Wheeljack crinkles his eyes in a smile. The best one he's got. "You've started changing, Prowl. You put in that work. This place, this Lotus Machine? It's just desperate. This isn't the only way. Mostly 'cause we already solved the problem, and the Machine is just throwing one last hissy fit. And it's wrong about you. It's wrong about all of us."

Prowl kneels there, watching Wheeljack.

The unseen roots of the Machine writhe.

When Prowl doesn't do anything - when Prowl shakes his head unconsciously, one last time -  they rip loose.

The floor crashes out from under them, shattering in unpredictable chunks. There's nothing underneath. The Lotus Machine, after all, isn't alive. Even calling it sadistic probably isn't right - it's just what it's programmed to be. Wheeljack lunges, reaching, but reality breaks at an angle, and Prowl wrenches out of range as Wheeljack plummets hard.

The collapse shudders and stops, halfway. The cracked floor hangs over the abyss in shreds, with Wheeljack clinging to one chunk and Prowl hanging by one hand from another almost a tier above.

Wheeljack has something solid under him, at least. He gets one foot underneath and straightens, but it feels - wobbly. Like standing on a lab stool to reach something on a higher shelf.

Prowl kicks once, reflexively, and tries to swing his other arm up to get a better grip. It doesn't go anywhere; his arm just falls slack again by his side, like he's too exhausted to pull himself up.

Or maybe he's just given up.

He glances down at Wheeljack. The gap between them is too wide, the angle too steep, and neither of them can fly. The shifting planet still boils, far overhead.

[Join us, Prowl / See our mind.]

[only clarity of purpose -]

"This is the only thing I can do," Prowl repeats, one last time.

"Nope. It's all about perspective." Wheeljack reaches up. "So come on. We can do a trust fall, if you want?"

Prowl tries to swing himself up again instead. This time when he falls back, it jerks his arm, and the edge he's clinging to snaps downward. "There's no room for a person like me in a world like that," Prowl snaps, without looking at Wheeljack.

Wheeljack snorts. "Don't be dumb. Megatron's, like, twice your size," he says. "At least." He has never felt more sensible in his entire life. He spreads his arms a little wider. "I will definitely catch you."

Prowl whips his head back around one last time, and Wheeljack can see him taking in the impossible angle, the distance.

It's all in their heads, though. All of their heads. If Megatron can manage a door, Wheeljack can finagle this one.

By the time Prowl screws up his optics and lets go, the gap yawning between them is just a trick of the light.

Prowl drops five meters straight down and hits Wheeljack like -

Well. Like a car.

-

The impact nearly flattens Wheeljack. Which doesn't add up, because five meters is nothing for them. Prowl might be dense, but he's not that dense.

But the sheer mental effort it takes to pull off the depth perception trick whammies Wheeljack right between the eyes. The trust fall winds up being more of a trust tumble. But they both land in the middle of Mnemosyne's diagnostic space instead of plummeting into an abyss, so. Good enough.

"Lies," Prowl says, face flat against the floor.

For a second, Wheeljack can't remember how to talk. That second is more alarming than he wants to admit. "It was 70% metaphorical, I swear. Sorry." A belated chill flushes through him as he pushes up into a careful crouch. "We need to get you a penpal on Neo-Cybertron. Someone low maintenance. Ease you into it, so you can experience things changing without getting an itchy trigger finger," Wheeljack decides. Someone low maintenance who definitely isn't Wheeljack, for several reasons he's too tired to think through right now.

Prowl's not doing much better than him, at least - when the two of them pull it together and head toward Mnemosyne and Megatron, they're both hobbling. But Wheeljack thinks that the difference in the atmosphere here in the isolated area makes an impression. Prowl grunts, but his face clears as they walk, and he takes in their surroundings with an attention that looks more like alertness than paranoia. "Not Starscream."

"I said low maintenance. You two would start a two-mech cold war between us and the moon in an hour."

Springer has already popped in on the far side of the Muse. Whirl shows up a second later; he emits a loud, carrying whistle, craning his neck so far around his back bends. When he spies Springer, he sprints to catch up.

Prowl just shakes his head. "I'm not sure of anything anymore," he says. "Wheeljack - how do you know what to trust?"

Wheeljack shrugs a shoulder. "Sometimes you just have to give it a shot."

Mnemosyne doesn't look up at their approach. Megatron, observing her work with folded arms, does. Wheeljack does not know how he feels about Megatron getting an in depth look at how the Muse of Memory operates, but there's not much they can do about it now. "Back with us?" Megatron asks, neutrally. 

"Yeah. How far did things get here?" Wheeljack asks. Mnemosyne seemed pretty sure this would be doable, but her cameras remain fixed on the lotus in her palms. Even with all of them here, she seems engrossed.

Just a little longer, he thinks. He just needs to keep them all on track a little while longer. But if Megatron tries what Prowl just attempted, he's done. Kaput. Today's been long enough for a lifetime.

"You need to disengage," Mnemosyne says. It's not quite the subliminal whisper she used while slipping through their hallucinations, but Wheeljack can tell it's mostly aimed at him.

He waves wearily. It's nothing his scanner hasn't informed him of already; he's just disregarding the little warning notifications now. "Yeah. We'll be out in a minute, right?"

Mnemosyne nods, but tilts her head to the side. "With the way you've positioned yourself adjacent to me and the Machine, there is a great deal of stress on your processor. Once you're out, I would recommend that you rest and perhaps avoid interacting directly with a large-scale simulation program in this way for the next 250,000 years," she says.

Wheeljack snaps his fingers in defeat. "Darn. There go all my plans for the decade." She's not wrong though. He's got half a dozen tweaks to make to his scanner before he'd want to test out anything like this again. And also take a good hard look at the Creation Lathe's deep code, to get some pointers. Using the Lathe to make another Lathe out of his poor, jury-rigged scanner sounds like fun.

"I can hear you thinking that," Mnemosyne says, dryly, "and it's exactly what you should refrain from doing. Uploading a copy of someone else's -"

She doesn't get to finish the thought. Which is probably good, because both Megatron and Prowl look ominous at the off-hand way Mnemosyne mentions she can pretty much read their minds still. Wheeljack isn't sure what else they expected - this is Mnemosyne, focused and in her element at last, and they're all still within the domain of her outlier ability.

But a rumble rolls through the diagnostic space, rattling like thunder. Whirl hops from one foot to another as the transparent floor shivers beneath them, his optic a blank circle of alarm. Wheeljack scans the perimeter, and sees the others doing the same with their eyes, but there's no indication of where the noise is coming from. 

"Almost there. We're waiting on three more. Then I will eject you all from the field," Mnemosyne says, as Springer reaches them. "They approach directly. No need to worry. They reached me last time, too."

Another rumble. It sounds almost like a Titan taking a step.

"Wait. Someone's broken out before?" Springer repeats, incredulously. Whirl's just rubbing his claws together in anticipation.

The transparent wall cracks with another jarring boom - less like someone taking a step, and more like someone ramming it.

"They just had to ask. As I said, that particular loophole was closed after their successful jailbreak," Mnemosyne says, flippantly. The Lotus Machine cupped in her hands is very small now, the crystalline petals of what used to be a Matrix peeled away until all that's left is a stump of a core. Mnemosyne closes her hands over it, and steps down from her hovering position to land on the floor with a light tap, completely unconcerned. "When you wake, you will have everything you need to shut down the Lotus Machine and leave this place."

This time the noise is clearly a roar.

"Oh no," Springer mutters.

"OH YEAH!!!" someone hollers, and Grimlock smashes through the wall.

-

There are two Decepticons perched on Grimlock's neck. One is a monoformer clinging for dear life; the other is a K-class suicide bomb with one hell of a chin, his goggles pulled down as he surveys the glittering wreckage Grimlock just made. "Good job, Grim," he says, with a sigh.

Then he does a double-take at the group staring up at him, and shrieks. "Megatron! Holy frag!"

Megatron does have that effect. Apparently.

The other Decepticon groans, nursing the side of his head. "Fulcrum, what are you looking at? Because there's no way it's actually Megatron." Then he peers over the top of Grimlock's head. His optics go round. "It's actually Megatron."

Fulcrum emits another high-pitched squeal, and either ducks behind Grimlock's neck for cover or faints.

The monoformer skids down Grimlock's flank and lands roughly on his feet. He approaches Megatron with a look of quiet desperation, and lifts his hand to salute. Megatron intercepts it with tactical precision, clasping the monoformer's hand. "Krok. Fulcrum," he says.

"He knows our names!" Fulcrum exclaims. He sounds simultaneously terrified and delighted by this. Abruptly, he topples off his perch and hits the ground with a clank as Grimlock transforms. "Wait, Grimlock, no!"

Grimlock can go from dinosaur to root mode while still in motion. Each heavy step eats up the ground violently, and the transition from having a tyrannosaurid come at you to a furious frontliner isn't a transition at all. Megatron lets go of Krok and quickly steps away from the other Decepticon - getting him out of the line of fire - but Grimlock reaches out and hauls Krok effortlessly out of the way. He sets the monoformer down behind him, then shoves forward to come chest-to-chest with Megatron, red visor seething as he glares directly down into Megatron's upturned face. The roar of his engine is very familiar as Grimlock stands there, poised on the edge of violence. "Megatron," Grimlock growls; Wheeljack half expects him to vent literal fire.

Megatron's chin rises; he doesn't break eye contact. But both of his hands are out to the side, lowered. Between that and the medical symbols, it's almost convincing. In a place where any of them could think up a gun whenever they wanted, for all the good it would do, Wheeljack hasn't seen Megatron slip yet.

"Slag, where's Swerve when you need to make a bet on the match-up of the season?" Whirl comments. While Springer and Prowl are both armed, having once again drawn weapons out of thin air, Whirl has produced an entire Cybertron-sized bucket of Earth popcorn. The bucket bears a weird resemblance to Megatron's helm. Whirl clanks a claw against the side. "FIGHT!"

Springer doesn't even try to shut Whirl's rabble-rousing down; he's too busy bracing for the ensuing explosion, his teeth bared in a grimace. Neither Grimlock nor Megatron respond, but the tension winds tighter as Grimlock leans in, the shadow of his masked face looming inches from Megatron's.

"Grimlock, no! He'll kill us all!" Krok yells.

"Not that it wouldn't be an honor, sir -!" Fulcrum adds, as he peels himself off the ground, "we're just very big on survival, us - it's a personal preference -"

"NOW KISS!" Whirl shouts over both of them, with a cackle.

Wheeljack may be tired, but he also refuses to die because Whirl decided to antagonize both Megatron and Grimlock at once. He raises his voice, with immense effort. "Will everyone just stand down?!" he and Krok yell, at the exact same time.

Krok blinks, taken aback. Then he nods, awkwardly, raising both hands. "We're good, yeah? Megatron is an Autobot, and the war's done," Krok says, a little too fast. "We're all civilized mechs, no sore feelings on either side. Please, we can handle this."

Meanwhile, Fulcrum sprints to Grimlock and starts hauling on his arm. Grimlock doesn't stand down, but that's not surprising; Wheeljack doesn't think Grimlock has ever taken orders from anyone in this room, ever. Fulcrum yanking on him is about as effective as a human trying to drag a tank, though.

In the face of the ongoing standoff, Krok starts shuffling sideways. "Just gonna, uh. Sidle on through here," he promises. As he passes Wheeljack, Wheeljack picks up the distinct tingle of raw desperation off Krok. "Yup. Just gonna slide on through, have a quick chat with Mneme, and we'll all be on our way. And we're sidling...and we're sidling," Krok continues, trailing off between each chant. He proceeds to sidle between them that way, unaccosted. "Oh no," he says when he reaches Prowl. Then - "Oh no, oh frag -" as he angles around Whirl. Whirl fakes a dart of his head at the Decepticon when Krok edges too close, optic unblinking, and Krok flinches. "This is an awful idea."

"I know, right?" Fulcrum agrees. He has now wedged himself between Grimlock and Megatron, and is attempting to lever Grimlock away by pushing with his legs. The only reason he looks like he's making progress is because Megatron is carefully easing back, and Grimlock - incredibly - isn't pursuing. "Literally everyone in this room is so above our paygrade. Do we even get paid?"

Krok doesn't respond. He falls abruptly mute as he passes Springer; his maskplate doesn't hide how Krok looks suddenly, genuinely nauseated. He's clicking something clutched in his hand frantically, but in Wheeljack's professional opinion it's not a detonator. Springer's too preoccupied with keeping optics on Megatron and Grimlock - objectively the two biggest potential threats in the room - to do more than glance down at the Decepticon as Krok cracks and bolts past him.

"Wait," Prowl interrupts, belatedly. He looks about as close to passing out as Wheeljack feels, and entirely put out about having three new people show up at the last minute to turn everything on its head. "You know about the Muse."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Fulcrum says, dismissively. "Been here, done all this. You just have to ask and she'll let you out, no problem."

You could've heard a pin drop. A human-sized pin, no less. The only sound, as Prowl processes that, is the scrape of Fulcrum's feet as Grimlock huffs and gently scoops Fulcrum up under his arm.

"Ask. Nicely," Springer repeats.

But for Wheeljack, this is sounding awfully familiar.

"Impressive ingenuity," Megatron says. He sounds like he actually means it.

Fulcrum snaps a finger. "That's going on the resume. Misfire is gonna have a field day."

"Yup," Krok says, voice clipped. Despite being past Springer, he doesn't appear to have recovered. He reaches Mnemosyne at last and raises a hand, stiffly. "We're back again. Hey Mnemosyne. Mind letting us out?"

"Not gonna lie, don't like what you've done with the place. We ran into some real weirdos on the way here," Fulcrum adds. "Better than the eating lotuses thing, but still."

They appear to be completely blasé about all this. Which is incredible. "You mean the hallucinations of the dead?" Megatron asks, his brow arching.

Fulcrum either shrugs or swoons a little - it's hard to tell while Grimlock has him stowed under his arm. "We've done weirder. This is like training wheels compared to the perspective trap incident." He raises his head a little. "Remember that one with our evil twins from another universe?"

"No," Krok says, emphatically. "No one remembers that one. I gave an order as the highest ranking Decepticon in the room. You're getting as bad as Misfire, you know that?" Then he winces, and glances gingerly back at Megatron. "Uh. I mean."

Megatron waves a hand. "Technically, you are still the highest ranking Decepticon in the room," he assures Krok, clearly amused. Krok looks the opposite of reassured by any of this.

"You had a mustache." Fulcrum snorts. "We reappropriated his kneecaps because yours kept squeaking, right?"

"Never happened." Krok's hugging his fist to his chest now, apparently unaware of just how much he's clicking it as he turns back to Mnemosyne. "Anyway. We'll call up Crankcase and the W.A.P., hop on board, and be out of your way."

 Mnemosyne smiles warmly, and rests a hand on Krok's shoulder. She holds him there, quiet, until the uneven, frantic clicking fades, and stops.

"It was good to meet you again," she says. Then the cameras of her eyes scan them all, finally coming to rest on Wheeljack. "Good to meet all of you."

"Wait. How do we get through the barrier around the machine?" Megatron asks.

"For you? That won't be a problem," Mnemosyne says, cryptically.

Then she raises both hands, and snaps.

---

I thought I could master memory, map it, make story-stuff from its raw guts.

Instead memory is a pit within me, a deep white hole.

- Aurora E-P, <<ÄLPHÄ>>

---

And then they're out.

Wheeljack onlines his optics.

The crash is immediate.

-

He blinks awake again. His backlog of warning notifications has a clean, empty slate, courtesy of the fact that his internal notification system crashed. [Full defragmentation recommended,] it informs him, as Wheeljack stumbles and pinches his brow. He feels light-headed; if he had a nose, it would be leaking energon.

At least two people grab him and ease him down onto the edge of the slab before he can totter sideways again. So they figured out the cuffs, which is handy.

Megatron of all people tries to tilt Wheeljack's head back to check his optical dilation. Wheeljack lets it happened, one optic squinting more than the other; might as well, right? The whole situation is silly. Even as Wheeljack woozily registers Springer supporting him on his left, his audial system finishes rebooting and the overlapping voices start to reach him through the bubble in his ears. "He said he was fine -" Prowl is saying, agitated.

"He wasn't." Megatron holds up Wheeljack's arm, then lets go.

Wheeljack's wise to that trick, though. Despite the internal protest as four of his processor's subsystems finish rebooting, he holds up his arm on his own. Easier to confirm that yeah, the scanner he and Mesothulas integrated into his wrist is currently billowing smoke everywhere. He's not getting anything from it except mixed up pain signals where the wires got crossed. Poor thing has scanned its last hurrah. "I'm fine. Gonna need a moment of silence for the scanner, though," Wheeljack sighs.

Megatron just rummages inside his medical kit. It's neat and compact, with a lot more packed into it than a standard emergency kit, and - Wheeljack fixates on this, because he really does need a moment - it's organized both by tool function, expiration date, and color. Megatron shakes a small red cannister and dispenses fire suppressant foam directly onto Wheeljack's smoking wrist. Not once does his frown of concentration falter.

"I'll be even better once we wrap this up," Wheeljack says. Prowl's eyeing the medical fire extinguisher like Megatron just sprayed aerosolized acid on them, so Wheeljack hops off Megatron's old slab and heads for the center of the room. Springer doesn't look convinced, and Prowl even less so. He has to concentrate a heck of a lot more than he usually needs to in order to walk in a straight line, but with his wobbly head start Wheeljack manages to keep ahead of them.

Krok, Fulcrum, and Grimlock pick their way between the concentric rows of unconscious bodies a quarter of the way around the circle. As they near the middle, though, both Prowl and Springer stiffen. Fulcrum recoils and says, loudly, "That better not be what I think it is."

Oh. Right. Looks like Mesothulas redecorated.

Whirl sprints the rest of the way down his row to beat the rest of them to the center. He reaches the silk web mapping out the invisible force field and raises a claw with the clear, express intent of plucking a strand. Springer's sharp, "Whirl!" only makes him pause for a moment.

"I'm being repressed," Whirl complains, shooting a baleful stare at Springer. "You put temptation like this before me, and expect me to not? Rodders is ten times the leader you are. There. I said it. Everyone is thinking it."

Springer just sighs.

"Ew," Fulcrum chants as they approach. Right, the Scavengers. They showed up with Grimlock a while ago. A lot happened last week. "Why are we walking toward the giant organic web thing? We know where the exit is already."

"Good to know. But we need to bust Mnemosyne and everyone else out, first." Wheeljack taps the web. Whirl screeches in thwarted fury, which they all ignore. "Mnemosyne said we'd have everything we needed when we woke up, and we wouldn't have a problem but - and I hate to say it - I haven't got any ideas left." Slag. This is gonna be awkward. "Mesothulas? Any luck?"

A tiny spider descends from the web-blanketed ceiling, dangling on a silver cord.

To his relief, Springer hisses but doesn't freak out. He looks away, folding his arms over his chest in an oddly self-conscious way.

Prowl folds his arms, too. His withering stare is just a little wry, though. Progress. "You're real. Of course. The scientist who could take this place apart. I should have guessed."

Wheeljack shrugs, unapologetic. Mesothulas alights on his shoulder rather than Springer's, probably out of self-preservation. "Alas, Wheeljack," Mesothulas says, rubbing the legs of his alt mode together in a way that makes Fulcrum pretend to retch. "I have ventured out further, but the shielding of the Machine defies us still. It would only absorb the energy," the scientist adds, without breaking stride, as Grimlock draws a sword and activates the burning edge. Grimlock scans the web around the force field, visor narrowed, still clearly considering it. "And you may find yourself short a sentimental object, depending on what it's made of. More than likely, the blow would simply rebound."

Grimlock hums, disgruntled, but stows the blade.

"Why an organic spider though?" Fulcrum mutters. "Why not literally anything else -"

Grimlock - with immense, weary care - closes Fulcrum's mouth to muffle his vocalizer. "You really are spending too much time around Misfire," Grimlock says. For someone infamous for his temper, Grimlock is weirdly patient and steady for the Scavengers.

Satisfied, Mesothulas continues. "Brute force simply will not do. I have analyzed the nature of the shield exhaustively. But if time is of the essence, I must confess that I have failed to determine what is necessary. There are simply too many potential energy signatures to narrow it down before we are noticed, and it disregards all of my attempts to simulate a key. I have yet to trigger a response from the forcefield at all."

Mesothulas sags a little on Wheeljack's shoulder, downcast.

Wheeljack had been really hoping this one would solve itself. "Alright. The floor is open to ideas," he says, planting his hands on his hips and facing the crowd. "Mnemosyne didn't exactly give us a time frame, but I doubt she can hold out indefinitely."

From the way Krok and Fulcrum glance longingly at the vast, curved doors set in the far wall, they just did a runner last time. But peer pressure (or maybe just the presence of Megatron) keeps them awkwardly rooted in place while the rest of them try to figure out what to do. Prowl and Megatron both get that look. "'For you,' Megatron murmurs, like he's feeling out a thought. "For you, that won't be a problem."

Massaging his forehead, Wheeljack eases down into a crouch. Just to take a breather. They've probably got a minute before anyone has any revelat-

Except he underestimates who he's dealing with, here.

"Each of us was positioned this way because Killmaster somehow found it to be to his advantage," Megatron says, thinking aloud. "He wants us here, attempting to take down the Lotus Machine. We have all the pieces here that we need."

Whirl paces away from the web-lined forcefield, prowling around their clustered group in circle. "Hm. The age old question - WWKD? 'What would Killmaster do?'" he muses, as he taps the bottom rim of his helm thoughtfully. "My nemesis. My -"

Whirl's head snaps up. "No. The best question. WWWD - what will Whirl do?"

With absolutely no run up, without any hesitation whatosoever, Whirl leaps straight up vertically in the air and dropkicks Megatron into the forcefield.

Megatron stumbles forward and hits the forcefield with a grunt. Wheeljack expects him to rebound, apocalyptically furious in that classic Megatron way.

Instead, the forcefield turns a soft, opaque white. The rotating sections of the shield stop and contract to focus on the point where Megatron hit. "It is scanning!" Mesothulas shrieks, delighted. 

A bar of blindingly white light scans up and down the now-visible outer surface of the shield. It crackles, and fries a section of Mesothulas's sensor-web on the third pass.

Then, as suddenly as it lit up, the forcefield turns off. Megatron finishes stumbling as it releases him from its grip. His expression is less apocalyptically furious and more...flummoxed.

[Energy signature recognized. Access granted, Judge Pentius,] a pleasant voice says.

A perfectly normal door slides open at the base of the vast Machine.

"...Pentius," Megatron repeats. "You...can not be serious."

"Wait. Who?" Springer says.

Fulcrum raises a hand. "I have questions."

Wheeljack really can't blame him.

---

I have to wonder...if something is getting lost in translation.

- Starscream of Kaon, to Windblade of Caminus

---

SS: I know you're standing right outside my office door.
SS: I know you're not messaging me from your hippie commune.
SS: I know you're not blowing me off in my time of dire need –
SVV: Chela and Metrotitan are currently touring Saturn.
SVV: This is inconvenient for many reasons.
SVV: Starscream: does not even rank in the top ten.
SS: How dare you. I should be at least number three in your list of inconveniences at all times.
SVV: A valid point. But there is another.
SS: What.
SVV: Sanctuary cannot contain her for much longer. She is coming.
SS: Who.
VC: HEY!
SVV: She is here.
VC: ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!
VC: I KNOW YOU CAN ALL HEAR THIS!
SS: STOP! YELLING!
SS: HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF VOLUME CONTROL?!
VC: THE CAPS LOCK IS ENTIRELY INTENTIONAL! NOW TALK! WHERE IS HE?!
SS: WHO?!
VC: SPRINGER!
SS: HOW THE SLAG WOULD WE KNOW?!
SVV: Please. Desist. Both of you.
VC: Someone took him! And since none of the Autobots left on Earth feel like taking my calls or care about the fact that he's gone missing –
SS: Oh, for – a lot of people are missing! The memo on the mass disappearance went out days ago! It's a work in progress!
VC: Yeah, no shit! Days ago! If none of you are going to find him, then I will!
SS: WHO EVEN ARE YOU?!
SVV: Designation: Verity Carlo.
SS: Wait.
SS: WHO LET A HUMAN INSTALL A COMMS SYSTEM?!
SS: IS THAT EVEN CROSS-COMPATIBLE WITH ITS MEAT?
VC: Cross-compatible enough to let me KICK YOUR ASS if you don't let me through!
SVV: Orion did not provide her any of the immigration visa forms to fill out. I will sponsor her personally once access to the space bridge is secured.
SS: Oh. Absolutely not. You are not trying to foist that thing off on me.
VC: That's [Verity]^{[pronoun: [she][alt: Veritron][house: Ambus][unit: Wreckers (disbanded)[adjunct consultant]]} to you, asshole.
SS: Who taught her how to do that. It's like I'm having a stroke.
VC: I can hear you! And answer! Crazy, I know. Almost like I'm a real person!
VC: And I've spent half my life living with Cybertronians; God knows I've picked up enough along the way.
VC: Just – tell Ultra Magnus I need to see him. We - Springer and I have been keeping an eye on the Cybertronian feeds. I know he's there still.
SVV: This can be arranged. Atmospheric and surface gravity conditions on Neo-Cybertron are within tolerable human parameters. Required supervision would be minimal.
SS: They are? Ugh.
SS: How did a human even make it onto the station in the first place?
VC: Hotwired Optimus's shuttle and floored it.
SS: Intriguing. I do like making Pax's life worse.
SS: Also I'm not even going to be on-planet for the next day, so why not? It's not like my life can get any worse if I import an invasive species! Send her over, Soundwave, I'll have Transmutate handle the paperwork.
VC: Cool. Thanks, or whatever.
SVV: Your assistance in this matter is. Very welcome.
SS: Yes, whatever. I haven't slept. You owe me.
VC: Yeah, yeah. Like everyone on this station wasn't giving me the runaround 'cept for Cosmos.
SVV: What was it you required, Starscream.
SS: Forget it, you won't get here in time. A little privacy?
VC: Hey! Don't you d-
-- Verity Carlo [VC] has been banned from the chat! --
SS: Humor my curiosity.
SS: How long would you say that Speaker Windvoice has been, quote-unquote, 'difficult to read.'
SVV: ...
SVV: What has happened?
SS: I'll get back to you once I figure that out.
SS: Like I said. Humor me.
SS: You owe me.
SVV: Over the course of this past year, I have noted low-key but persistent levels of signal interference. Insufficient to fully scramble output, but present. 
SVV: I have not spent enough time in close proximity to determine the origin. Detecting it from here, with the space bridge network in flux, would not give an accurate read. It differs significantly from known Autobot and Decepticon shielding measures.
SS: Did any of those ever really work?
SVV: Classified.
SS: Bah.
SVV: You are worried.
SS: Shut up. It's just a bad feeling.
SVV: It is the only reason I am assisting you in this. Your genuine concern is, as ever...ominous.
SS: Just don't go tattling to Pax.

-

Ironhide sees them off, precisely five minutes after Windvoice's shuttle leaves.

He looks deeply troubled as the two of them approach, his squared off jaw shifting as he scratches his head. The crooked orbital seams under his eyes underscore heavy shadows. But he scrounges up a haggard smile for Chromia.

Too easy.

"Remind me why I'm helpin' you two pull some secret agent nonsense when a perfectly good shuttle just took off with empty seats?" Ironhide asks. Then he does a double take at Starscream, and his brow makes a bid for the sky. "Uh...huh. Nice paint job?"

Starscream doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Because you're a good friend and you love me," Chromia says. She holds up a fist, and Ironfist taps the side of it with a deep sigh. But his smile picks up, more crooked at one side than the other, which means they're in. "I owe you one."

"Yeah, well. Take care up there. Red Alert and Fort Max are good people who've been through the wringer. So please don't let this one jettison the moon into the sun. The mech's got a vendetta." Ironhide indicates Starscream with his chin.

Starscream strides past Ironhide with a prim wave of his hand. "Tish tosh. No one would miss it."

"Solus, give me strength," he hears Chromia mutter, as she stomps up the ramp after him.

Poor choice of words.

-

SS: Transmutate.
TM: Yes sir!
SS: Some constructive criticism.
SS: Never schedule me for a paint job at the same time as Shockwave again.
TM: D:
SW: o]

---

Luna-1, Perceptor! The Miracle Moon! The answer to everything, ever. Aren't you excited?

Very.

- Rodimus of Nyon and Perceptor of Iacon

---

Luna-1 is a dump.

This is simply a fact, which Starscream is stating for the record. He stares out the viewscreen, slumped against the side of the cramped shuttle, and scrapes at the metal of the control console with the tip of his finger, vaguely aware that he's starting to dig a groove in it.

"If you don't stop that, I'm going to lose it," Chromia hisses. She sits wound up in her chair, arms folded so hard that he can see the joints of her elbows straining. As though that's the only thing keeping her from lunging across the too-small gap between the seats to throttle him.

Starscream digs his finger in deliberately, so that the metal squeals. Chromia taps her foot with increasingly violent intent.

Oh, from a distance Luna-1 looks impressive enough – the etched highland plains, the deep shadows of ventilation canyons, the city-spires of communication arrays the size of mountains. Hideously retro and clunky, exactly the same as Luna-2. The more discerning viewer might recognize the planetary engines embedded in the far curve – unlit, cavernous pits – and the well-hidden transformation seams, so vast that they vanish over the horizon.

But even from afar, as the shuttle enters an approach vector, it's easy to see that the moon is ever so slightly...askew.

Luna-2 survived a war, bombarded and scraped barren and abandoned – and yet it's Luna-1 that looks like someone used it as an intergalactic dump for all their junk. The hemispheric sector they're aiming for, where Tyrest and now the Luna-1 crew have made their headquarters, is one of the most cluttered. The vast metal plains don't actually lie flush against the surface of the moon; the sharp panes of metal look like someone plucked them half off and left the dark, internal layers of the crust exposed, like a human nail peeled back from the fingerbed. Random spikes of metal and half-severed cables jut forth from the underside of the uprooted panels, support columns snapped raggedly in two and left to slowly weather and rust. Some of the deep, vaulted canyons in this sector are the stored ranks of dead Titans – the ones too damaged to fly off with the rest of the undead hoard to assault old Cybertron. They've been dead so long that the fading grey of their frames has finally started to turn a dull reddish-brown. The gaping spaces where the undead cities used to stand form their own checkerboard of chasms.

And then there's the wide crescent where the living grey metal of the crust takes on a faint, silvery-blue tint. The nearest lunar hot spot starts one plateau over from the Luna-1 headquarters – they can't avoid flying over it on the way down. The spark field, even semi-dormant, is massive. The pustules of sparks grow more distinct as they approach the landing platform, little bubbles of deep blue that brighten to a white-blue along the ridge nearest the shuttles.

Megatron used to be one of them, apparently. Tyrest's greatest crime, in Starscream's humble opinion, is that he didn't step on him while he had the chance. Just one good stomp, and they would've had a nice puddle of shattered crystal and plasma (and possibly a minor, moon-rending explosion) where Megatron used to be.

Starscream lingers on that mental image a little too fervently.

There's a soporific injector waiting back in his office where Transmutate left it, on his request. He left it there, untapped. He cat-napped instead, restive and fitful, waking in bursts late in the night to fire off another message, adjust his position, and drop back off. When he woke up from one last, hard rest cycle, he stared at his desk for almost ten minutes, thinking.

In the end, he tucked the stimulant into subspace. But he is grimly awake. Less like he was teetering on the edge of some hideous drop, and more like he's already in flight.

And lo, with any and all official and unofficial duties excised from his life - he is very focused.

-

Despite the ten-minute delay, Windvoice's group waits for them on the landing field.

The culprit is obvious: Shockwave watches their approach with patient hands locked behind his back, unblinking.

He's up to something. Personality and emotional core reset, Starscream's aft. Emotions or no, Shockwave is still Shockwave in all the ways that matter. He always has been. While they've been rebuilding, he's been playing the game. Wheeljack and Ratchet's supervision was only ever a band-aid solution. It wouldn't surprise Starscream if Shockwave was quiet this past year only because he set everything he needed in motion long ago.

Starscream's not sure any of them ever truly understood Shockwave. Which makes it all the more ominous that Shockwave anticipates Starscream's arrival like it's all according to plan.

(It would be just like Shockwave to deliberately suck himself into a black hole as part of some diabolical master plan. Honestly.)

The party gathers as the shuttle land: Liege Maximo, Ultra Magnus, Rodimus, Skids, Waspinator. And of course, the Speaker herself, flanked by Caetra and Strongarm. Starscream woke from another hasty, Flatline-induced power nap/surgery to find himself back to 85% functionality - the marvels of modern medicine - and most of the Council representatives choosing to check in with their own cities over the moon trip. Starscream was not included in the schedule, with an oddly empty inbox. Uninvited without a word.

So he made his own arrangements.

"After you," Starscream says, with a magnanimous smile.

"No," Chromia says, flatly.

After a brief exchange of elbows – she aims right for the new bodywork, the prong – they march down the ramp in mutually antagonistic lockstep. Starscream waves grandly for the crowd, aware that his fake, deeply pained smile is a travesty. Chromia's grimace is only just as bad, not worse. One trip stuck in a small shuttle with each other was far too many.

For the most part, the group seems vaguely puzzled. Windvoice's face doesn't alter - she's as firm and inscrutable behind the Creation Lathe as she was before they walked out. "Starscream. Chromia."

It's barely an acknowledgement. Starscream checks off another box on his list.

"Who invited him?" Rodimus asks Ultra Magnus, through the corner of his mouth. Becoming an abomination haunted enough to set half the moon alight hasn't improved his manners.

"Who invited you?" Starscream shoots back, and then immediately smooths his snarl back into a sunny smile. "Oh, don't mind us. We're just - here to see the sights! You all know Chromia, of course. My new bodyguard." He gestures to her with a jaunty bow.

Chromia's grimace twitches as she bares her teeth in a bold, painful new take on a smile. She somehow refrains from snapping her ax in two.

"Your new bodyguard," Ultra Magnus repeats, slowly. The very picture of formalized doubt. "I find it difficult to believe that Red Alert would sign off on landing clearance without the correctly filed paperwork."

Starscream brandishes a datapad. "Naturally," he says, smoothly flipping it over. Once Ultra Magnus takes the datapad with a brusque frown, Starscream strolls toward the building, pretending to inspect his fingertips. "Carry on, carry on! We'll see to ourselves."

Strongarm is still staring at Chromia, stunned. The new Camien, Caetra, arches her pale green visor, and Starscream catches the brief flicker of comms on a frequency that's only secure by Camien standards. Chromia avoids both eye contact and the comms, and stiffly marches after Starscream.

Windvoice dismisses them from her mind. She simply turns, unreadable, and says nothing as the rest of them follow.

She didn't even notice. Or if she noticed, she didn't recognize the warning signs for what they were.

Starscream's agitation ticks up another notch; he throttles it. Throwing a shrieking fit won't help him here. It would be like railing against the empty air. Worse than useless, if it gets him shunted into one of Luna-1's convenient cells until they think he's 'cooled off.' Red Alert and Fortress Maximus aren't exactly known for their softline, flexible approach.

A blink in the corner of his eye. If he starts getting nostalgic for Skywarp, he'll know he's gone too far. "It would appear that we're headed in the same direction," Liege Maximo comments, mildly, as he falls in step beside Starscream. His gaze flicks up and down Starscream, a little too intrigued.

Starscream merely snorts, eyeing the others as Windvoice pulls ahead of them. "An incredible coincidence."

Liege softens his voice, measured and calm. The kind of tone you use when you're a career diplomat who mastered speaking to people like a close confidante before most people figured out their transformation sequence. A graceful, sly insinuation of camaraderie with someone is equally aware of that fact. "What are you looking for, Starscream?" Liege asks. He's matched his step to Starscream's almost perfectly, despite the height difference.

Even sporting a fresh coat of paint, Starscream still feels vaguely outclassed by the brisk polish of the mech beside him - the way Liege Maximo walks with perfect poise. The solution to that is usually murder.

"Answers," Starscream says, tabling the murder for later. He has too much else on his plate. If Liege Maximo wants to insinuate himself closer, try to gauge whether Starscream's a threat, fine. It's what Starscream would be doing right now, if it were him.

Liege Maximo cants his horns back. The amusement in his eyes doesn't quite cancel out the intrigue. "Who isn't, these days."

Out at the edge of the field, Vivere straightens from her crouch. Her eyes haven't left the horizon this entire time; she didn't even twitch as the shuttle landed. She stares out over the sprawling fields of pale blue dots for a few moments more, absorbed. Then she turns and starts toward them.

The absence of a smile on her face sends an odd chill through Starscream.

-

But really.

Ironhide, of all people, gave him a weird look. A weird look is the bare minimum. Chromia is too bent out of shape to pick up on the obvious, but Starscream doesn't need her input for this. Half the people here don't have a reason to associate Starscream changing his color scheme with any significance, but the one person who should -

Windvoice didn't even pause to rescan him. Her faint irritation lies with him and Chromia crashing an otherwise orderly trip; a blink and she's already redirected her focus.

The fact that Starscream is back in #CD3F3B, #0B1225, and #FED786 – red, black, and gold, heavy emphasis on the first two – doesn't even warrant a remark. 

Paint is superficial, easy to change. Just look at Shockwave. A major palette overhaul after a long absence might be worth a compliment or comment, but everyday touchups and disparities only matter if you suspect someone's been replaced with a special ops plant. There are idiots who think being purple magically makes you a Decepticon by default; there also are idiots (read: Spectralists) who assign symbolic meaning to every fragging hexadecimal color code known to mech.

Camiens care. Art motifs, metal choices in sculptures, the way they choose to paint their faces – Starscream tunes most of that blather out, but it all matters, in a way only a colony at peace for however many years would bother to cultivate.

If Windvoice doesn't care that Starscream just turned up in the paint he wore when she first arrived on Cybertron – back when they first clashed, before their little cold war of blackmail and intimidation began in earnest and Starscream started to spiral out of control? Then she's ignoring a gauntlet thrown down at her feet and she deserves it.

If she doesn't notice – if she's not even making the connection to his old paint job, on a fundamental level – then they're dealing with a different sort of monster entirely.

And Starscream still can't say which it is. If he had days, weeks to dissect and pick apart her every action and microexpression – maybe that  would only make him second-guess it more. If he could throw his cares to the wind and start ruthlessly, indiscriminately undercutting her every move, too vindicated to care about the disastrous consequences, the answer wouldn't matter. It would be simpler and easier – the insulted, simmering fury is right there, waiting for him to stop dithering and start breaking.

When the paint job was almost done, Starscream had traced the lines.

The sharp edge of his finger caught in the paint, and Contour scowled. "Blue accents?" she said, disdain dripping as she reviewed the mockup and raised a skeptical antenna. "In #179FDB? Really?"

Red armor, dark shoulders, torso, wings, legs.

Blue collar and wrist sockets, gold framing the sides of his face.

If Windvoice doesn't notice that he's painted like Starscream at his worst, she certainly hasn't caught on to the fact that he's painted like her.

-

Compared to the rest of the moon, the Luna-1 headquarters is a modest, modern structure: a slim, dark metal slab that rises up alone into the sky, with a wide foundation that links to several smaller facilities around the edges of the site. One of the tenants erected a wide, open-mouthed basin the size of an oil lake – a cold, defunct smelter, ashen-grey and flaking around the rim.

Classy. If it was Tyrest, so much for that section of the Code of Interplanetary Conflict.

Red Alert waits at the entrance to the main building to scan them in. He clutches his datapad like his life depends on it. He checks Liege Maximo over three times before relenting, though it clearly pains him to do so. Shockwave sails by without stopping, while Red Alert stares at his screen like he's seen some eldritch horror.

By the time Starscream reaches the front of the line, Red Alert vibrates like he's on the verge of spontaneously combusting. "Name?" he says, tightly, as though following a script will save him.

Starscream preens. "Starscream."

"Absolutely not," Red Alert replies, swiping left on the datapad to call up Chromia's profile next.

Starscream beams. "Oh, my mistake. Is this not where we embark on the Lost Light?" he asks, innocently.

Red Alert shudders like he swallowed something organic. "Next!" he demands, with a note of desperation.

Starscream reaches over and swipes the screen back to his profile. "You'll find my paperwork is in order."

Red Alert immediately triple-taps the screen, initiates a complete memory wipe, and snaps the device in two. He pulls out a replacement with ruthless resignation. "'Your' paperwork. Right. You really expect me to let you just waltz into our center of operations?" he says, skeptically.

"You let Shockwave through. Trust me, he's worse."

"No, pretty sure you two are equally bad," Red Alert mutters, not quite subvocal. He scowls at the datapad and finally jerks his head. "You can go in, on the condition that you don't touch anything. Don't even blink in the general direction of seized contraband or confidential intel. If you do, I'll know. Same terms as him."

It will do. Still. Once he's a safe distance from the entrance, Starscream makes sure that his muttered, "Cops," isn't subvocal, either.

"I heard that!"

Starscream whips around to fire a sharp smile back. "Have a sensational day!"

Chromia storms up to him, seizes him by the arm, and tries to march him away from Red Alert. Starscream allows it. Chromia's clearly been torturing herself about the dark compact they've made, and it's entertaining to watch her at it.

He has to find it entertaining. Otherwise he'd scream.

-

CH: I hate you so much.
CH: Can you not antagonize people for five minutes?
SS: That was friendly interfactional banter. And what does it matter to you? You're not my real bodyguard. If Red Alert decides to shoot me in the back, you have my permission to give him a round of applause.
CH: It matters because it's annoying me by proxy.
CH: Let me guess. 'That's a bonus.'
SS: See? We do understand each other.
CH: I'm here for Windvoice. That's it.
SS: She ignored the paint. She didn't even blink when we showed up together. If you're keeping score, that's a bad sign.
CH: Solus help me. No one cares about your paint job. That's not proof that something is wrong with her! You're just weird!
SS: Sorry, you're absolutely right. My mistake.
SS: Either something's wrong with her, or we're just paranoid idiots who can't handle being ignored for five minutes!
CH: Speak for yourself. I can't believe I let you talk me into this.
SS: Oh, by all means, ignore me.
CH: Best idea you've had all day. And get a new text color. This is stupid.
-- Chromia [CH] has muted Starscream [SS] --

-

Fortress Maximus greets them as they file in. The Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, leader of nominally-unaffiliated moon cops everywhere, dwarfs everyone but Ultra Magnus; his own tank treads stack another meter of height over already-tall helm fins. He salutes Rodimus and Ultra Magnus, his red optics friendly for a moment - then he turns and scans the rest of the party.

At least this time, Shockwave gets it worse than Starscream. Starscream was never dumb enough to get himself locked up at Garrus-9. Shockwave ignores it, amused. Waspinator, busy trying to cower behind Shockwave in the hopes of going unnoticed, starts wheezing on top of his usual buzzing. The pity play is surprisingly effective - after a moment's hard stare makes Waspinator sob, Fortress's expression cracks.

Starscream's still not sure who invited him. Something insect alts, something Quintus Prime, blah blah. He glares at Waspinator himself to see if that'll shut him up, but Waspinator just emits a weak whimper of distress.

Windvoice steps forward, undeterred. "Fortress Maximus."

Fortress nods and offers her a crisp salute. "Speaker Windvoice. Welcome to Moonbase-1." He glances at Starscream again, then eyes Chromia. Chromia shifts her weight and ducks her head. Her face is an open, guilty book. So plant her in front of law enforcement harder to crack than Ironhide, and she folds. Good to know. "Some additions to the guest list, I see."

Windvoice doesn't stop; when she reaches Fortress, he unconsciously steps out of her way. "I'm aware. Please disregard them. We will try not to trespass much longer on your patience."

Fortress grimaces. "So long as we're clear that I am not comfortable with this."

"Warden. You're looking well," Shockwave says, serenely, as he sails after Windvoice.

"Very uncomfortable," Fortress Maximus repeats, optics narrowed. But he still turns to lead them through the security gate, deeper into the Luna-1 facility's heart.

"We've cleared the requested area of the facility," Fortress explains as they go. "Chief Justice Tyrest used it as his HQ. Our modifications to his setup have been minimal – he centralized access to the main control terminal, criminal and court database, the adjacent communications spire, and the space bridge. It's - well, it's convenient. We just repaired and upgraded the bridge with more modernized controls. Tyrest was only interested in locking on a particularly narrow set of coordinates, and had the bridge linked up to the killswitch. But we've successfully used it to connect with Metroplex's bridge; it has been invaluable since then."

They enter the main room, which has a broad, high ceiling that makes the space feel half-empty. The space bridge itself is eight times as tall as a normal Cybertronian. It's a ramshackle antique, isolated in the center of the wide room, clearly pieced together multiple times before the Luna-1 crew stabilized it. Right now it glows a blank, pale blue, so quiescent and neutral that it barely resembles an active space bridge at all.

Or perhaps Metroplex isn't supposed to crackle and pop like that. To each their own.

A short black and grey mech hovers by the sizeable monitor of the control terminal; he gives them a wave, which everyone ignores.

"Ah, yes. Most excellent," Shockwave says, sweeping the room with a canny optic.

Shockwave doesn't have a mouth, yet Starscream can't shake the feeling that the scientist is smiling.

Fortress Maximus accompanies Windvoice to the terminal and folds his arms as the third crew member - Cerebros or something like that; his public ID is some kind of semi-classified mess - hastily disengages their security. The fact that Fortress eyes Shockwave and positions himself so that his body forms a wall blocking both Shockwave or Starscream from spying on the process is mildly amusing. "What exactly do you need access to?" Fortress asks Windvoice, firmly.

Windvoice doesn't even glance at Shockwave, who is at least nominally the reason they're all here. She waits patiently, hands folded behind her back as the Creation Lathe analyzes it all. Starscream would kill to know if Windvoice just essentially downloaded the Luna-1 crew's security specs right under their noses. "This will do."

But the Forge hammer rests against her back, and Starscream can't find much about this situation funny, at the moment.

Except for the endless opportunities to needle Chromia, of course. The little things.

"There you are," Vivere murmurs. She skips right up to the dark, flat slab of metal beside one of the control terminals. It's quite clearly not part of the original construction of the room or even the space bridge: the metal quality stands out starkly compared to the generic Cybertronian whites and greys of Tyrest's old command center, and it's studded with panes of blue crystal that look dull and dark. Just looking at it makes Starscream feel ill.

"Is that the killswitch? Didn't we toss that thing in a garbage compactor?" Rodimus blurts out, incredulous. He whips around to Ultra Magnus - then changes his mind and points at Fortress Maximus. "Didn't you?"

"No, actually. I think the last we saw of it Perceptor wanted to take more readings after he unhooked you," Skids says. He stops beside Vivere for a second, then wanders over to look up at the space bridge, stroking his chin. Starscream rather forgot he was there, because he's still a gangly, short little protoform. Shouldn't he be finished cooking by now?

"It should have been sealed in one of the vaults under Protocol III, technically," Ultra Magnus says. Sheepish is an odd look on him. "But I would understand it being overlooked when I handed off my duties as Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord...if you were not actively using this room and looking at it on a daily basis."

Cerebros pipes up. "We think it actually boosts the space bridge signal. Y'know, now that it's not an instrument of mass destruction. Also it's pretty much embedded in the floor with a lot of these super fiddly screws -"

Naturally, Vivere raps on the killswitch with her knuckles, her expression distant as she listens to the faint tnk. "What a curious design," she says, cryptically. Rodimus comes over to stand on the far side of it, his expression - complicated.

"Luna-1 has been broadcasting its own signal," Windvoice says to Fortress. "If it wants to talk, we're here to listen. Shockwave believes he's close to pinpointing where Killmaster sent the rest of the missing."

Shockingly, Shockwave - for someone sooo interested in visiting the moon - seems content to simply look on as Windvoice takes point, surveying the room with a smugness that is palpable.

Meanwhile, Waspinator shies away from everyone and everything, including the walls, the ceiling, and Shockwave himself, and moans miserably with a helpless glance at Windvoice. She's more concerned with the screen, though. His desperation peaking, Waspinator crouch-runs over, dives behind Chromia, and cringes, keening just quietly enough to be annoying.

Chromia twitches, chagrinned, and moves to push Waspinator away. But she checks herself at the last minute. Then she turns away, rubbing the side of her neck, her expression abashed.

CH: Waspinator's panicking.
SS: That's generally what he does. So?
CH: Yeah, well. That's a bad sign, if you're keeping score.
CH: There. You're welcome.

Then she mutes him again, before he can demand an explanation.

"Oh, Prowl caught that," Cerebros says, distractedly. He's already activating the control terminal, pulling up the relevant files.

That's not a good name. "He's back?" Starscream asks, screwing up his nose in distaste.

Cerebros shakes his head. "Before he left. Chief Justice Tyrest filtered out a lot of what he considered background cosmic noise while taking readings – after a while he stopped caring about the war, and started focusing on one set of signals in particular. But the Lunar signals had a special channel, and Tyrest used it to piggy-back sometimes. He had a communications terminal powerful enough to communicate across the galaxy; you can't not hear it. Prowl had himself convinced it was some conspiracy before we caught him trying to hack in. But even after we repaired the comms spire and removed the filters, the lunar signal Tyrest piggy-backed on contains data packets that are too large for the terminal to process and interpret into something legible. For us, anyway," Cerebros adds, with a stuttering laugh. "It was a side project, for a little while. B-but things happened."

"Hm. I see," Vivere says. She treats the communications terminal with more suspicion than she did the killswitch. She claps her hands together. "But nevertheless, I wish to hear the moon's tale. I suppose we'll simply have to go down to the core and talk to it ourselves."

That gets Windvoice's attention.

Waspinator having a fit on the floor hasn't; Starscream interrupting hasn't. But Vivere mentioning the core of Luna-1? Bingo.

Goal-oriented to the exclusion of all else. Decisive, unwavering, and almost curtly to the point. But deft enough at sweeping them all up in her wake that the absence of Windvoice's usual care flies under the radar. The shift isn't subtle, now that he knows what to watch for.

Credit to Chromia - he chalks up a grudging point.

Thankfully, he anticipated this sort of nonsense. Before Vivere can do something impossible, Starscream strolls up to the terminal. "Way ahead of you," Starscream drawls, smiling silkily at Fortress as he ducks under the mech's arm and drops the object from his subspace on the keyboard with a heavy CLUNK, forcing Cerebros to yank his fingers away before they get crushed. "Our Titans are naturally very interested in helping to communicate with Luna-1. Isn't that right, Metroplex?"

[Correct,] Vigilem says, his speaker the very picture of innocence.

-

His chronometer was shot to hell, by that point. It was probably still the middle of the night, but the night had been going on for...a while now.

Transmutate tapped her chin with the end of her brush, staring at the speaker. Starscream did the same, hands steepled in front of his mouth, optics dead. Transmutate sat crossed-legged on top of his desk, which seemed perfectly reasonable, given the hour.

They sat and intently regarded the lump of metal for a long time.

"Yeah, I think that's good," Transmutate said, at last.

Starscream jolted out of his stupor. Then he nodded, only vaguely aware of what he was agreeing to.

Transmutate peeled the stencil off the speaker with relish, flapping it wildly off to the side so that speckles of red paint hit the wall. Then she held the speaker aloft, with a solemn nod.

[I can't see. What have you done to me.]

The freshly-stenciled Autobot symbol gleamed red on the side, the lines crisp and even.

-

This plan is foolproof.

"You are not plugging that into our system," Fortress Maximus says, flatly.

Starscream raises his voice, shrilly. "Rodimus! If I don't, is she going to dump us all into the bowels of the moon?"

Rodimus opens his mouth - shuts it - then shrugs. "I mean yeah, probably. We have very high standards for melodrama to live up to around here."

Starscream rounds on Fortress, brimming with self-righteousness. "So unless you want to spend the rest of the week climbing back to the surface of the moon, let's just skip the formalities, shall we?" he says, sweetly. Before anyone can object further, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead with a flourish. "Go on, then, Metroplex. Share your infinite wisdom."

The speaker has already plugged into the terminal without waiting for anyone's permission or assistance. Liege Maximo draws closer, idly, as though he's just interested in standing beside Windvoice. [Patience is a virtue,] Vigilem says, smooth as polished glass, with overlapping fragments of Metroplex talking at cross-purposes. ^{[the sound of a word was shed / the sound of the wind as a breath -]}

It adds passably to the effect, since Metroplex isn't coherent at the best of times. But still. The longer this takes, the greater the chances that Windvoice will come to her senses and realize that there's two Titans speaking at once.

-

VM: Does this mean you trust me? How charming.
SS: Oh, no. You're still on my list of suspects for whatever this is. And also obviously you're informing Liege Maximo that I'm having a paranoid break as we speak.
SS: But that's never stopped me from colluding with the enemy before.
SS: More importantly, I need someone who can concentrate and spit it out when they need to say something, because I'm not Windvoice and I'm on a deadline here.
VM: Fair enough. You've omitted enough detail to have piqued my interest.
SS: Delightful.
SS: Meet your new best friend.
MP: Truce^{[cast out of the bound of love]}
VM: ...
VM: You cannot be serious.

-

Starscream has to bite his tongue to keep from cutting them off. Surely someone will notice the voice modulation, with these two idiots incapable of maintaining their cover. This is it. The final test.

But the one person who should doesn't. Starscream watches, eyes sharp under the cover of his hand - but she ignores him. She watches the speaker like it's nothing special, waiting for it to spit out an answer.

Metroplex can't talk like Vigilem can. With the Creation Lathe active, she must be picking up something.

Windvoice doesn't care. "Carry on, Metroplex," she says, as the screen begins to fill with progress bars and archived gibberish. Fortress visibly bites his tongue, and looks away, any authority he might have usurped in a blink.

"We're firing this up, now?" Rodimus asks, uncertainly.

In the context Starscream last noticed Rodimus in, that is an alarming statement. Starscream swivels sharply, almost cracking a wing against Fortress and inviting doom, but Rodimus has moved on from the killswitch to the base of the space bridge. Thwarted in her nonsensical ways, Vivere sits on the killswitch, kicking her heels and peering around at a precarious angle to watch the screen.

When she catches Starscream's eye, the Muse winks.

"Indeed," Shockwave says.

Again, without waiting for any input from Luna-1's residents, he has commandeered a smaller control terminal closer to the bridge, his optic fixed on the bridge. Ultra Magnus looms beside him, frowning, but doesn't stop Shockwave.

"You went through it, Skids. You didn't make a lot of sense afterward, though," Rodimus says.

"What do you recollect from the experience?" Shockwave asks, without pausing.

Skids grimaces. He's at the top of the ramp leading up to the space bridge; he hops down the side with one last backward glance, and rejoins them. "Yup. I was the only one who got through the forcefield. Rung said maybe...I was at peace." Skids shrugs knobby shoulders. "Don't recall that it really looked like a Cyberutopia, but to each their own."

"And do you remember," Shockwave asks, serenely, "who greeted you on the other side?"

[Ah. I see now. I hear now,] Vigilem murmurs, a crackle in his voice. ^{[- where the face of the moon is taken / the ways of the stars undone -]}

Skids's expression slowly goes slack. "Uh – huh. Now that you mention it, I remember that pretty clearly," he says, slowly. Then he raises a hand. "Hang on. Why does Shockwave know a giant, sparkly ball tried to talk to me in feelings on the other side of Tyrest's portal years ago?"

"Why does Shockwave know anything? Don't ask questions you're afraid to know the answer to!" Starscream snaps, stalking over. If Vigilem and Metroplex are going to take forever, someone with a functioning processor needs to be in arm's reach to stop Shockwave.

But it's too late. Shockwave's already set off some inexplicable chain reaction in the Lost Light crew. Rodimus raises both hands in front of his chest. "Wait. Terrible realization incoming. Skids, you said you saw a giant spark. There is no Cyberutopia. The map in the Matrix was actually a warning about the Grand Architect of the Quintessons." Rodimus pauses, letting all that sink in. "So where the heck was that bridge pointed, and who were you talking to?"

It's not Windvoice who says it. It's Chromia. "Space bridges don't just point at random places. They point at other space bridges," she says, slowly, as the light dawns in her eyes. She takes a few steps forward, forgetting herself for an instant.

"Naturally," Shockwave says, diffidently. The space bridge begins to hum, a pale flicker of white cycling around the edges of the blue in a surge of power that's still too calm. "Restore the original coordinates to the bridge, and it will take us precisely where Killmaster sent the missing. This is the key. And as to who you spoke to - dear Waspinator knows. The answer is all around us."

[Oh. Oh my,] Vigilem says. He sounds caught between consternation and awe. ^{[- the light of the whole sky shaken / the light of the face of the sun -]}

"Tell me, warden, are you familiar with insect alt modes?" Shockwave continues, smoothly. He swivels and walks away from the terminal, his steps perfectly even as he approaches Waspinator.

Fortress Maximus grimaces at being Shockwave's target du jour. "Minimally," he forces out.

Chromia left Waspinator huddling on the floor. With his face buried in his hands, Waspinator failed to noticed until it was too late. Shockwave places a hand on Waspinator's back and propels him onto his feet, ushering him toward the space bridge. "A phenomenon noted during the days of the Swarm," Shockwave recites, like a smug textbook. "Arthropoda boast an intriguing advantage over other beast alts and standardformers. They are naturally forged with optics capable of seeing on the ultraviolet spectrum."

Waspinator tries to bolt. Shockwave clamps down and propels him forward again. Waspinator digs in his heels, still keening at a rising pitch, and with each step Shockwave pushes him toward the space bridge Waspinator thrashes harder, pleading and scrabbling at Shockwave's hand with his claws.

Fortress's expression hardens; he shifts his weight forward as Waspinator's distress reaches unbearable levels. He only has time for an aborted step. The Autobots all look concerned by this point, but no one's worked themselves up enough to make a move.

"For them, it is just another part of life. For the rest of us – well." Shockwave stops at the base of the ramp. Waspinator clings to his hand now, limp and dangling, his sobs absolutely incomprehensible.

Then Shockwave tips his head toward Starscream, his optic a searing white hole. "Starscream. If you would be so kind?"

Numbly, Starscream activates the UV light embedded in his arm. He flicks it on its widest setting.

The plain, bland control room burns.

-

Apparently, Tyrest had a lot of time on his hands.

The high walls are filled corner to corner with neon blue and pink lines, the glyphs as neat as if typed on a computer. It's only as it nears the space bridge and extends along the floor that the ruler-straight lines begin to subtly warp and curve, bending toward the mouth of the portal like light lensing around a black hole.

[come closer come closer come closer]

[come closer come closer come closer]

[come closer come closer come closer Tyrest]

Over it all, crowning the upper edge of the space bridge – the only line of Tyrest's obsession that matters - the one that chills every drop of energon in Starscream's lines -

[THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE.]|[Veritas liberabit vos] | [ή άλήθεια έλευθερώσει ύμᾶς]

Starscream can still hear Airachnid saying exactly that, the echo ringing in his head like a droning bell.

Well. At least that part's not shock. Waspinator is just acting like he's dying. The woozy drone of his vibrating wings floods the room as he covers his eyes and shakes his head frantically. "Waspinator doesn't want to go back! Waspinator can never go home!" he insists, trying to kick away from the bridge. Shockwave doesn't budge. "Do not think the name!"

Who else. Who else was in that room - who else would recognize it that phrase. Windvoice. Jazz and Transmutate, neither of whom are here. Blast Off.

Starscream says nothing, though he's sure all the color just drained from his face.

"[άλήθεια]," Windvoice reads aloud. Then, in Neo-Cybex, "The Titan Aletheia."

And that, apparently, is the last straw.

Waspinator can't take it anymore.

"WASPINATOR CAN'T!" Waspinator shrieks. Everyone flinches; something in Fortress's knees onlines with a thump.

But Waspinator just rips free from Shockwave's passive grip with a bloodcurdling, clicking shriek, and flings himself into the air in a desperate spiral. "WASPINATOR WON'T!"

Then Waspinator hits a patched section of the ceiling and punches through headfirst.

Starscream rather expects him to fly off over the lunar landscape. Possibly crash into one of the nearby facilities. But instead, as they all watch, dumbfounded, Waspinator keeps zooming up in a straight line. He vanishes from visual range before long, but his signal leaves Luna-1's atmosphere in mere minutes, aimed for Neo-Cybertron.

...Starscream always forgets Bludgeon's Insecticons were spaceworthy.

"Wow. There he goes," Rodimus says, at last.

"We just re-patched that hole," Cerebros laments.

Shockwave gazes after Waspinator. He cycles a faint vent in what is, to Starscream's horror, an amused huff. Then Shockwave returns to business. And oh, what business it is.

"No matter. The Titan Aletheia has been manipulating events far longer than she's let on," Shockwave says, backlit by the round halo of the space bridge as he takes a leisurely pace toward it. "It takes a very particular kind of processor to bear the weight of interpreting a Titan's thoughts. It takes an even more particular kind to understand a Titan's spark. And one even more particular still to handle the trans-lingual electromagnetic synesthesia favored by the children of Aletheia. Far easier for her to influence Tyrest along the pattern of his pre-existing conceptions. Just a nudge or three." Shockwave indicates the room around them. All of it. "Chief Justice Tyrest heard the singing. The light of a Titan, pouring in to guide him to a destination he fundamentally misunderstood. He mistook it for a religious experience. She simply did not permit anyone through, even after Tyrest succeeded in matching her resonant frequency."

Shockwave's inevitable, inexorable stare lands on Skids. "But she had no such qualms about you, Skids. Did she."

Unfortunately for Shockwave's monologue, the shock has worn off. Starscream switches off the UV light with a snap of his wrist.

"You knew this," Starscream says, breathless with murder. "You've always known."

He can't even bring himself to tone it down. Chromia shoots him a look like she thinks the tremor in his voice means he's about to cry, and she wants to be anywhere but here when it happens; Ultra Magnus looks considerably more alarmed.

None of this is a revelation to Shockwave. Maybe the others can't see it, but Starscream can. Shockwave isn't coming to these conclusions on the spot.

He knew all this going in. He made them suffer through all this waiting - almost a week - to have his moment.

Shockwave stops, head still cocked at Skids. "Curious, isn't it," Shockwave murmurs, as though it's an inside joke. Just between the two of them.

Starscream stares long enough that his neck begins to ache.

"Oh no," he says at last, stepping toward Shockwave. "Oh no. Someone, stop me. Or don't."

Ultra Magnus steps forward, carefully. "Starscream, no."

Starscream lunges for Shockwave. "Starscream yes!"

Unfortunately, Fortress Maximus has warborn reflexes. Starscream's furious enough that a tank tackles him, slamming him to the side, and it barely registers. Shockwave doesn't even flinch.

Starscream hits another terminal and goes through. Fortress stops, braced to intercept again, but Starscream is running on pure, unadulterated spite now. "FOUR MILLION YEARS! FOUR MILLION YEARS OF LIVING WITH THIS! LET ME END HIM!" he shrieks, flaring his wings and lunging again.

This time, Ultra Magnus catches him. Rather than tossing him through a wall, Ultra Magnus simply slings Starscream under his arm. "Your feelings are entirely understandable. It would still be murder," Ultra Magnus says, wearily. "Tempted as I am to let you two reduce the number of problems in the universe by at least one -"

"A PUBLIC SERVICE!" Starscream bawls.

"- I am going to ask you to stand down before I put you down."

Give him back, Starscream wants to scream. His throat locks up before he can blurt it out. Even incandescent with rage, he's not giving that out. He can't.

Chromia, objectively the least supportive bodyguard ever forged, shrugs in sympathy at Fortress, rolls her eyes as she comes over to stand by Starscream when Ultra Magnus finally deems it safe to put him down. This is a mistake on Ultra Magnus's part, because Starscream is never safe. But he stays put, shaking with every heavy vent. Between Chromia and Ultra Magnus's stiff presence, he's pinned.

"What did she say, Skids?" Windvoice asks. Vivere's leaning over precariously - and unnecessarily - again, her smile inscrutable.

Skids considers the space bridge, tapping his chin again, lower lip jutting thoughtfully. Slowly, he says, "My best guess would be something like... [Skids Exclamation Point | Autobot Badge Decepticon Badge | Lost Light | Lost Light | Gear Surrounded By Five Planets]."

He pauses. "But in an emoticon way. And then I said [Question Mark?] [Question Mark?]."

Shockwave stares at Skids. "How...refreshingly literal," he says, at last, in the same bland tone he'd use to logically explain how someone was an idiot.

"If it spoke in pink and yellow," Liege Maximo says, "then yes, you spoke with Aletheia. Emissary spoke in gold."

"I mean, if pink and yellow were a feeling, absolutely -"

"You're sure of this?" Windvoice asks Liege, and Starscream's too overloaded to check off another box.

Liege nods. His posture mirrors Windvoice's, down to the hands clasped behind his back; he's careful, so very careful, as he keeps tabs on the room and the tangled threads of Shockwave's mess. He's probably doing a better job than Starscream, humiliatingly enough. "If we're dealing with creatures who control the mind, I believe Emissary is fully compromised. Before returning, I attempted to uncover the whereabouts of the Titans I remembered. There was a similar delay from both Emissary and Aletheia. Aletheia kept pinging my beacon, faster and faster. It was...unsettling. Emissary sent his coordinates, and then a request for my own."

Rodimus points his finger with a snap. His brow is currently furrowed in a frown of deep concentration. "That's a trap."

"Very much so," Liege agrees.

Then Rodimus waves at Skids. "Anyway. How about - 'Hey Skids! Come back with Autobots and Decepticons together to Quintessa when you don't have the Lost Light anymore!'"

Rodimus hasn't even finished speaking before the space bridge erupts into a whirling boil of energy. Everyone flinches; the Luna-1 crew duck behind terminal, shouting to each other as several computers crackle with electricity. The bland, blue surface churns like the corona of a sun, a ring of blinding light, until blue whites out completely.

The voice that speaks through the space bridge is indeed very pink.

[Welcome back, Skids. So good to see you.]

[You have five hours to prepare. Come to Quintessa. Save them. We are running out of time.]

-

Shockwave strides back to the terminal, as close to rushing as Starscream has ever seen him. The scientist stoops over the control terminal, typing rapidly. "Confirmed. Aletheia is located in the same sector of compressed space where Killmaster's pulse deposited the majority of the displaced. It is also, coincidentally, co-located with the backend of Galactic Council operations in regular space. With Aletheia's space bridge providing a beacon, mounting a rescue via Neo-Cybertron's resident Titans will be trivial. We can begin the retrieval whenever you wish, Speaker."

He then turns, arms folded innocently behind his back.

The relevant information reaches Starscream's inbox in the form of a group message.

"If we can even trust this Titan. Who's to say this one isn't brainwashed just like Chela was? Or luring us into a trap because it works with Quintus Prime by choice. Why am I the only one who thinks of these things?!" Starscream demands, short and snappish. These are the most basic questions, and he is sick to death of pointing them out to an unappreciative audience.

Rodimus, of all people, is his backup. This is the state of things. "You're not the only one. We still don't know why Killmaster teleported everyone there in the first place. If he's spent half the war sending people to his holding dimensions or to Tempo, why sell us out to these Quintessons now?"

Starscream rounds on Shockwave, livid. "You know."

Shockwave radiates calm. "I assure you, Starscream, that Killmaster's motivations are as opaque to me as they are to you. Even after we worked together, he was able to scramble the parameters of the pulse so that I could not trace it directly without significant investment of resources. I suspect that his timing has been impeccable." 

As far as Shockwave's concerned, Starscream is fairly certain that logic is a fake concept made up solely to justify whatever Shockwave wants. It's cheating.

Liege Maximo raises a hand. "Vigilem might have a better idea of Aletheia's nature than I. But Quintus's city was incredibly isolated. Very few were permitted to visit in person." Liege pauses, then delicately adds, "Metroplex would have a better idea still." He glances at Starscream, unreadable.

Maybe not unreadable on purpose. Starscream is just - tired. He jerks his head curtly at Vigilem's speaker. As if he's the one in charge of that thing.

He shouldn't be. He really shouldn't.

Vigilem's response is delayed. Distracted. [Aletheia? A long-range strategist and tactician.][[ruthless]/[peerless] Aletheia]^{[not forgotten]} Then Vigilem's tone hardens, cutting through Metroplex. [But we have more important matters to attend to. Luna-1 was not alone.]

"So enlightening," Starscream says, sarcastically. Titans have the worst priorities, sometimes. 'More important,' honestly. "Do go on."

[All these years, travelling so far. Luna-1 was not alone.]^{[entreat me not to leave you -]} [Think, think! Remember, you old fool – why did it leave in the first place?][σιδεράς]^{[the first and final smith][smelter of stars]} [FOCUS!]

 They're getting more and more erratic, the voices obviously at odds, and finally Windvoice frowns at the speaker, her optics tinted pink by the Lathe's visor from every angle Starscream has been able to find.

"To lead death a merry chase," Vivere says. She lies flat on the killswitch, perfectly framed by the outline. One foot bobs as she observes the hole in the ceiling. "To buy us another day, when the Quintessons called Unicron before its time, and sing death on its way. They called it, but they never understood it."

Vigilem's voice intensifies. The files on the terminal screen flicker by faster and faster, all of them audio files being analyzed too fast for anyone to make sense of it. Vigilem's drawing lines between them, layering files over each other with no rhyme or reason anyone other than a Titan can follow. It starts to look more like old glyphs than compiling files. The terminal starts to chug with the effort as Vigilem turns the results at an angle and begins to layer even more on the three-dimensional glyphs. [Luna-1 never stopped singing. It never stopped. It continues even now. What he channeled through that device was based on Luna-1's own communications. This fool, Tyrest - he had no idea what he was playing with, in this place. Death haunts it.]

"What do you mean?" Windvoice asks, quietly.

The audio files coalesce into a sphere on the terminal screen. The terminal's built in speakers blow out with a sharp, gunshot pop.

[Welcome, old friend,] Luna-1 says, through Vigilem's speaker.

A cold, shredding voice replies, and everyone in the room throws up simultaneously.

[Old. Friend.]

---

Hear that sound, Rodimus? That's the sound Death makes. That's the sound of creation in reverse. Of life being unwritten, line by line.

- Chief Justice Tyrest of Protohex, to Rodimus of Nyon

---

Aletheia gave them a completely arbitrary deadline.

Windvoice choses to abide by it.

Five hours til the end.

-

[Don't you dare leave me here,] Vigilem orders indignantly, when they start to file out of the room. Starscream stuffs the speaker into subspace under Fortress's critical eye, and Vigilem sulks the rest of the trip back. [Moons. I wanted no part of this.]

Between that and Chromia in the other seat, the atmosphere is suffocating. Chromia rests her chin on the handle end of her ax, occasionally tapping it with the underside, and stares out the viewscreen, disquieted and pale. Starscream knows for a fact that she only went along with this charade because she was just as worried about Windvoice as she was about what Starscream intended.

Now, she gnaws the tip of her finger in stricken silence.

Starscream is too tired to feel vindicated.

-

Shockwave and Vivere stay behind on Luna-1. Starscream would ask who had the privilege of talking Fortress Maximus and Red Alert into that one, but frankly, Vivere does whatever the frag she wants in a manner which is both disarmingly blasé and annoyingly cryptic. Shockwave has the excuse that he is still their best scientist and thus needed to coordinate this rescue mission, and also has that bad habit of doing whatever the frag he wants. The fragger.

They don't even know what they're walking into. The space bridge on Luna-1 is now an open link to Quintus Prime's Titan. All the preparations now are based on Aletheia and Shockwave's word, and that's nothing, and Windvoice is acting on it anyway.

But Wheeljack might be alive.

Starscream's done so well at shutting that line of thought down, at not grasping at the thinnest of straws. But everything's up in the air now. Maybe they're in freefall. Maybe the boiling desperation is a lie.

Or maybe Killmaster is the greatest Decepticon ever to lie to Megatron's face and get away with it. Maybe – just maybe – Starscream can claw his way out of this burning clusterfrag with one last scrap clutched in his hand.

And Wheeljack might not appreciate it if he comes back to this raging dumpster fire of a situation. Potentially. Particularly not if Starscream aggravates the small problem of Windvoice not being herself by blowing it all sky high. So he'll make an attempt. Throw everything he has left at this problem, including the knives, and see what sticks. He has a sneaking suspicion that almost none of them will, but by the time he runs out he'll have a better picture of what he's dealing with.

He's not invited to any of the meetings.

Which, remarkably, means that he has no paperwork to do. It's all someone else's problem, and he didn't even have to shunt it off onto Transmutate! He hasn't felt this relieved - verging on hysterical - since he quit being leader of Cybertron. He could get used to this. All he has to do, really - apart from plot on the fly, with furious, wild abandon and a brand new deadline looming - is show up five hours from now and invite himself along again once it's too late for anyone to kick him out.

Wherever Windvoice goes, he needs to go. That's really all there is to it.

"Giving up?" Arcee asks, dryly.

Her voice is rather distinctive. It's only carrying because she wants it to, low and amused.

"No, oddly enough. If someone like Starscream can do better, maybe there's hope for the rest of us -"

"Penny for your thoughts?" Starscream interrupts. He intends it to come out cutting. Mostly he sounds testy. It's been a day.

Bumblebee and Arcee have no one but themselves to blame for having this conversation in the middle of the hall. Especially Starscream's hall. Neither of them have the Autobot decency to look guilty about it, either. Arcee leans against the wall, one leg hooked over the other, her expression reserved. If they've reached the assassination stage of plotting, she must not be on board yet.

Bumblebee taps his cane twice against the bottom of the wall and steps back, fidgeting. A wince fades from his face as his studies Starscream. Whatever he sees must inspire him - he draws himself up. Preparing for a nice, self-righteous spark-to-spark chat.

Starscream evaluates Arcee one more time, and makes the executive decision that it's safe to bypass her and hide in his office. Anything to avoid dealing with Bumblebee. "Not now, Bumblebee," he says, holding up a hand and keeping it firmly in front of Bumblebee's face until he's past the two of them.

Bumblebee deflates a little, exasperated. "Starscream."

"You must have misheard me. I said, no, Bumblebee," Starscream snaps, and picks up the pace. A nice, brisk power-walk. Definitely not him running from a fight.

Arcee tchs and turns her head away with a roll of her eyes. Her arms stay folded. "Let me know when you're finished," she says, her noncommittal posture at odds with the fact that she still watches sidelong as Bumblebee hurries after Starscream.

So they'll have an audience, whether she's in the room or not. Until she loses interest, presumably.

Starscream strides into his office and attempts to shut the door. Bumblebee is already talking, bright cheer slathered on top of his words as he catches the door and marches in. "I heard the good news. Killmaster doesn't kill people. Wheeljack is probably alive."

Maybe if Starscream ignores him, it'll be like he doesn't exist. A blissful inverse of where they were a year ago. Starscream just needs the willpower to pull it off. He limps to his desk - getting mechhandled by Fortress Maximus and Ultra Magnus twice in quick succession didn't do his repair jobs any favors - and keeps his back to Bumblebee. The soporific injector Transmutate left on his desk still waits on top of a stack of deactivated datapads. A reminder that his fitful recharge was entirely self-inflicted.

He chose this cramped, cluttered office to fly under the radar. As much as he could, really. The fewer people who knew where to find him, the more time he bought for his reign over Cybertron to fade to a nostalgic memory for the general populace. He shut himself in here like good old uncomplaining Soundwave, employed Transmutate as his sole liaison for the first few months, and for nothing. He hates the damn room more with each passing second stuck in here with Bumblebee emoting at him. The irritation claws under his plating as he digs his knuckle into his brow and scowls at all the evidence of how much wasted effort he poured into it all. For nothing.

He wants to torch the place and brood until the world ends. Or until they kick him out. This is technically Metroplex - the building itself might object.

Bumblebee locks the door behind him.

Starscream snaps abruptly to the present. He tenses without turning, armor drawing taut.

"Yet you're still acting like it's the end of the world," Bumblebee says. He coughs into a fist to clear his vocalizer - as though that'll distract Starscream from the door. His voice softens. "Your credentials don't work anymore. Transmutate is worried."

Bumblebee isn't locking the door for privacy. Not for this.

Starscream's temper ices over. His knuckle hovers just above his forehead; he lowers it slowly to rest against the desk. "Newsflash! That's what happens when your world leader cuts you off for doing crimes! Funny how that works," he says, mocking.

"And what are you going to do about it?" Bumblebee asks, still too gentle, too quiet.

Bumblebee was never a particularly adept political actor. His discomfort is too obvious. He's always been painful to watch, an example of what happens when a dependable, likeable middle-ranked person gets promoted too far and can't handle what they're now in charge of. Put him in charge of the Autobots, and Bumblebee fumbled. Too many messy choices, too reliant on other Autobots to continue shoring him up with their own competence. Put him in front of a mixed audience of neutrals, Autobots, and 'Cons, and he got drowned out by the crowd. He wanted to be nice and diplomatic more than he wanted to get things done. He wouldn't commit, and it always showed. Niceness became ineffectual. Dependability left him unable to establish a presence.

He didn't want to be in charge, so he did it out of some morally-derived Autobot duty. Mediocre.

And now here he is again, as reluctant as ever. He sounded more engaged as a ghost, unable to actually affect the world, than he does now. He's going to interfere because he feels like he has to. He's already made his assumptions.

Starscream is too done to deal with this right now.

Bumblebee isn't gesturing enough. Bumblebee points and throws up his hands and rolls his optics like any other mech. Starscream latches onto that, but his mind leaps erratically, jumping from analyzing the way Bumblebee watches Starscream without moving from the door - his bleak, sober expression as he judges Starscream for the umpteenth time - Starscream just doesn't care.

"Problem, Bumblebee?" Starscream asks, in turn. He leans more of his weight on the desk.

"Depends. Do I need to stop you?" Bumblebee asks. By now, he's forcing his voice to sound light.

Starscream turns on a heel, armor flaring. "You could try," he snaps. He's the opposite of interested in coddling whatever slag Bumblebee's cooked up in his head over this. He's done.

Bumblebee fans a hand wide. "Just don't do this. Whatever you think you need to do; what you always do. Just sit this one out, cool off, and wait. Let them handle this. Trust them to bring everyone home. When Wheeljack gets back, re-evaluate." He pauses to reset his vocalizer, then starts again, his voice utterly reasonable. Placating. "I know you and Windvoice are both upset right now -"

Starscream snorts. What drivel. Windvoice hasn't been upset since Devisiun, and if Bumblebee can't see that, he doesn't have a clue.

"- but give it time," Bumblebee finishes, firmly. "Give yourself time. You all need a break after the past week, honestly - consider this a headstart on a badly needed vacation."

He wants to laugh in Bumblebee's face. Vacation. That's the most hilarious joke Starscream's heard in the last century. "What," Starscream asks, an edge of mirthless laughter slipping out, "do you think I'm going to do?"

"Sabotage things. Sabotage yourself, but tell yourself it's the only way to stay relevant. No. Talk to Windvoice a month from now, after you both cool down," Bumblebee urges. "Right now, all you're going to do is dig yourself a deeper hole to climb out of."

The best part is? He's probably right.

He's just too late.

Starscream takes a step towards Bumblebee. Bumblebee's optics tighten, and he plants himself more firmly as Starscream takes another stalking step. "This little lecture? About a week too late," Starscream says, acid sweet. "I'm already there."

"I'll talk to Windvoice myself, alright? Will that work?" Bumblebee demands, cracking.

It's too much. It's hysterical. It snaps the last thread of Starscream's caution and self-restraint.

"Not," Starscream screeches, wings flaring, "if it's not Windvoice!"

And just like that, the sickening, inevitable thought is out in the open, where anyone can hear. The adrenalin of having finally said it makes something in Starscream's chest slam unevenly.

Naturally, instead of considering it for even a single second, Bumblebee's face creases in pity. He came in here with his mind already made up. He hangs his head, sighing.

That's what Starscream gets for trying to communicate. "Whatever," Starscream snarls, and with one final, withering glare for the room, goes to shoulder past Bumblebee.

Bumblebee doesn't even shift his weight. All the body language Starscream's waiting for - nothing. Bumblebee simply says, quietly, "I can't let you," and flips his wrists, swinging the cane straight out in front of him.

Starscream walks right into enough electrical charge to drop a Constructicon.

In his defense - there is no defense. Starscream's just tired. His reaction is sloppy, and he saw this coming a mile away but didn't parse it. The jolt of targeted electricity paralyzes his system, and he drops to the floor in a sprawling crash. Someone's been upgrading their cane, Starscream thinks, sourly.

His spasming hand smacks the wrong stack of datapads off the desk on the way down. Typical. The injector winks down at him, out of reach, as he struggles to get his elbows to work.

Bumblebee has the gall to hop over Starscream and peer at his face. His expression is a pathetic imitation of Orion Pax's stern, sad frown of disapproval. Starscream's in an uncharitable mood.

Gritting his teeth, Starscream starts overriding the paralysis alerts. He digs his elbow in and pulls himself along the ground one jittery centimeter at a time. Insult to injury, Bumblebee doesn't even try to zap him again - he just sighs at Starscream being unreasonable.  When Starscream's legs come back online, it's all over for -

"Metroplex. Just until Wheeljack gets back - please. Keep the door locked? He needs to rest. I don't like it, but I don't see any other way to make him sit on his hands. I'll tap on the brakes for him," Bumblebee says, regret in his voice. He sounds almost like he means it. "We just have to get through today. He can blame me if he needs to. Better me than Windvoice. I'm not that important anymore, and that's fine. She doesn't need Starscream giving her the real Megatron treatment. She's swamped enough as it is without him gunning for her head."

Bumblebee tilts back on his heels, searching the ceiling for some sign of Metroplex's attention. Fat chance. Neither of them rate on the giant oaf's radar, on a good day.

Unless.

A pause hangs in the air - the silence of someone on the other end of a call, present but silent. Starscream waits.

Then - [Choice: Windvoice,] Metroplex says.

Bumblebee softens, his smile wistful.

It's visceral right now. The fury curdles in Starscream's tanks. Starscream has overridden the errors and has a gun armed and ready to transform out; he just needs an opening -

Then the floor tips gently, and spills all the contents of Starscream's shelves and desk in an avalanche. Bumblebee splutters and catches himself on the damn cane as the room subsides. Meanwhile, hundreds of decoy datapads slide down and hit Starscream in an endless, drumming clatter. One lands square between his wings and falls flat between his shoulders. Something else bounces off the back of his hand with a thin clink, and rolls off.

It jolts him out of his violent reverie.

Bumblebee gets over his surprise, non-plussed. He scratches the back of his head as he steps through the piles of datapads carpeting the ground. He squats beside Starscream with a sigh. "Let's figure out how to keep you calm," he mumbles to himself. "Where's Wheeljack with an antigravity unit when you need -"

It's a split second call.

Starscream grasps the injector that Metroplex so ponderously knocked off the desk, and snakes up to jab it into Bumblebee's neck.

Starscream's starting to suspect that they've severely underestimated Metroplex. Something to be grim about another day. "Metroplex," he spits, coldly, "couldn't hold me, even on a good day."

Bumblebee has just long enough to look stunned; then the sedative kicks in, and his optics blank out with a fizzle before you can say 'smaller frame weight class.'

He drops. His head whacks Starscream like a small metal boulder; then he's out like a light.

It takes another minute for Starscream, fuming but mollified for some inexplicable reason, to get his frame cooperating. When it does, he staggers upright and sourly surveys the half-buried mound of his chair and floor. The thought of unearthing what matters amidst all this junk to sort out his system of clever, ingenious misdirection - it's all he can do not to scream.

How the tables have turned. "...Dammit. That's going to be a problem. Keep him in here, then. Until this is over," Starscream asks, disgusted. He's going so soft.

[Magic word^[?]] Metroplex prompts.

Starscream is even more disgusted now. He snags Bumblebee's arm and makes a cursory, limping effort to drag him around behind the desk. Bumblebee has no right to be this heavy with all his war upgrades gone. "Ugh! Please! Who did you learn that one from. Have you ever even been to Earth? It's a dump!" he complains at the ceiling.

[ [bored] Metrotitan_{[current status - updating resonance network]}]

"Whatever. I hope you're happy," he says, irritably kicking a pile that just slides further down around his feet. He strategically pushes some of it on top of Bumblebee's face, then gives up and storms to the door. "I hate this room," he continues, systematically pounding countercodes into the security panel until Metroplex glitches the screen to unlock it for him. "Useless. Drab. I want a window again, so the whole world can see when I have another body to dispose -"

The door opens on Arcee's flat stare.

"- of," Starscream finishes.

Arcee arches a brow.

Before she can murder him, Transmutate peeks in, bouncing on her toes. Starscream strains a wing trying to block their view of the wreckage behind him, but Transmutate's reflexes are too quick. Her wide, red optics blink several times in rapid succession. "Please tell me that's not Bumblebee dead on your floor," Transmutate says, anxiously. "I'm supposed to ask for a bonus if I have to help you dispose of a dead body." The thought of asking seems to daunt her more than the dead body part.

"He's not dead. He and the floor are old friends," Starscream assures her. Persuading Transmutate of that isn't really the problem, though.

Arcee stares at him.

Aileron leans in on her other side. "What are you all looking a-"

Arcee gently cups the side of Aileron's head and turns her away with a light push between her wings with a wry smile. She drags it out a moment longer; then she takes half a step back from the threshold, the smile becoming her usual smirk at Starscream's expense.

It opens enough space for Starscream to edge out sideways. His proximity alerts admit defeat in the face of Arcee. The door shuts behind him. "And stop taking advice from Flipsides," he tells Transmutate, belatedly, while the Arcee-induced fear pounds in his chest. "Come on. We don't have all day." With his office now on temporary lockdown, he needs another place to wait out the hours. He starts down the hall. Arcee strolls alongside, close enough that Starscream may never feel safe again. "Still don't have anything better to do? Nothing to add?" he adds, waspishly.

Arcee shrugs. "'Bee thinks you're conspiring with one of the usual suspects. But you haven't bored me yet. Unless you've gone the way of Prowl." Her tone - and her bloodless, thin smile - strongly imply that that would end badly.

He shudders. "I have standards, thank you."

But here's his chance. Arcee is notoriously difficult to get ahold of unless she wants you to.

And Starscream needs every knife. He needs every angle.

He needs someone familiar with the other side of things.

"'I wonder what she would think of me, now,'" he quotes, without breaking stride. "Gotten around to asking yet?"

That conversation happened a year ago. Even Arcee can't be blamed for hesitating a fraction of a second as she draws a blank, her footsteps slowing almost imperceptibly. Starscream coasts, trusting that she'll catch on.

She remembers.

Her voice goes cold. "Where."

Starscream marches on. "If we're right? Somewhere she has no right to be." 

-

SS: Requiem. Rewind.
RP: Starscream.
SS: Remember how I asked for anything you had on Unicron?
RP: Vividly. Let me guess – you don't remember where you saved the files, and you want me to forward it all to you again.
SS: No.
SS: Though if you could send more on this [Hyperuranion Suite] and Eu-whatever, it would be...useful.
RP: Eucryphia of the Citadel of Light. How astonishing. Who would have thought you'd ever show a spark of good taste.
SS: Whatever. What you sent was fragmented, marked-up, repetitive garbage, but -
RP: How. Dare you.
SS: - but it mentions those five-faced Quintesson freaks and Unicron and bunch of other slag some random late-Primal era nobody had no reason to know about, a billion years after the fact.
RP: -- away --
SS: Get back here.
RW: Why am I in this conversation again? I'm archiving right now. Rodimus is in the middle of a speech and it's actually not half bad, considering Drift's not here.
SS: I need your unedited recording of the destruction of Cybertron.
RW: Uh, sure. You were there, too. I have like two days' worth of footage here.
SS: Just send it.
RW: What's the magic word?
SS: Oh for the love of -
SS: Pleasksgkghklh
RW: I'm sending this out of pity.
RP: I have completed a set of deep ventilation cycles. My internal temperature has returned to acceptable limits.
RP: Let us. Continue.
SS: Go on, then.
RP: You suggest that it is suspect that Eucryphia alluded to events prior to their known period of creative work. Given our lifespan as a species, it's not out of the bounds of reason - just highly unlikely.
RP: The qualities that you refer to as 'fragmented' and 'repetitive' are actually what sets the Hyperuranion Suite drastically apart from Eucryphia's only other extant work of epic symphonic-poetry. The Empyrean Suite is perfectly preserved in its entirety, most likely because its pseudo-patriotic overtones made it more palatable for Trion-era translation and later passed under the radar of Senatorial censors –
SS: WRONG TANGENT.
RP: Incorrect. This is entirely relevant.
RP: The Empyrean Suite is a primarily instrumental arrangement of triumphant praise, in homage to the Citadel of Light, Prima, and the highest fires of the firmament. The Hyperuranion Suite, in contrast, utilizes verse to attempt to reach beyond that – an outside, absolute perspective.
SS: Did I ask for this?
RW: Yeah, now live with it.
RP: It repeats constantly. Deliberately. The traditional invocation to the Muses is echoed, over and over, as Eucryphia tries – and seemingly fails – to communicate what they want to describe, and tries again. The sub-glyph layering is complex, but can be easily misinterpreted. Most of the glyphs used have multiple meanings. As recently as a year ago, the most complete edition existed solely as a fragmented audio file, in keeping with Eucryphia's listed function as [aoidos], and was marked by periods of long hesitation. By the end, the surviving audio is distorted enough that we can only speculate, but Eucryphia seems to break down and beg the Muse of Voice to understand them, and help them understand in turn.
RP: Naturally, there was no response. Shortly after those timestamps, the Citadel of Light and its broadcast signal tower were lost in the war of Primes. Rumor had it that the Fallen Megatronus snapped the communications spire with his own hands before confronting Prima. 
RP: We used to speculate that it was an unfinished work. Perhaps a meditation on mistranslation and miscommunication, the inadequacy of memory as mecha aged enough to start documenting medical phenomena like eidetic decay. The Muses were treated as nothing more than a literary device.
RP: But Eucryphia is a pseudonym. It means [well-hidden]. Well-hidden, in the Citadel of Light.
RP: Given recent revelations concerning Prima's true identity and motives, and the reemergence of a Muse of the Core, I cannot help but speculate that we were being deceived.
RP: And then there is a previously unrecorded verse, recited for me last year by a Primal contemporary who memorized many ancient historical ballads at the time. I must note that while he ascribed it to Eucryphia, and I managed to locate several glosses in the Tempo archives linked to it, it must be considered apocryphal until its authenticity can be verified. I shall transcribe it here, as literally as I can.
SS: Oh?
SS: Do go on.
RP: CY: The Hyperuranian Suite^{[section 0: till the whole world sings]}
RP: CY: Sing in me, Ōrāre^{[Muse of Voice]} , and through me tell
RP: CY: Of the end of all things^{[literal/figurative case absent?]}
RP: CY: Of duty, time, and truth -
SS: Scratch that. Make them designations.
RW: What? That isn't how the grammar works -
RP: CY: Of Kathikon, Tempo, and Aletheia, alive after infinite changes
RP: CY: Of memory fatigued; of gloss mistranslated; of a symphony impossible to play
RP: CY: Of those set free from the one^{[note: ūnus|prīmus glyph layering]} war
RP: CY: Of how to say goodbye and mean it
RW: Oh.
RW: Dammit Cyclonus.
SS: Amazing.
SS: It really is just all nonsense, isn't it.
RP: That is because you have no appreciation for raw, unalloyed talent. Perhaps WV would be able to glean something more from it. It's certainly more relevant than it appears at first glance.
SS: Hmph. Good luck with that.

---

I am also thy brother.

- Lightning on the Wave, <<sacrifices>>

---

There's not a lot interesting to see until right before they land. Sari spends most of the time feeling the Infinite murmur amongst themselves.

It's strange. When it was just her brother, singular, Sari didn't really think twice about it. That layer of communication that was easier for Brother than words, a secret way for them to talk, even if Sari couldn't respond the same way. Sometimes there were gaps between what Brother meant and the way Sari translated it in her head, just because.

But this is hundreds of Infinite talking at once, fluid and almost seamless. If one feels something strongly enough, it ripples through the rest in a wave of acknowledgement and requests for elaboration. Sari can almost understand it better half-asleep.

She needs to figure out if she can upgrade to a frame that can do that, pronto. For sure. It'll probably mean going back to the drawing board, and she can never show it to Papa, but -

And there's that dip of unease in her stomach. Like a missed stair. It wakes Sari right up.

It's - uncomfortable. She wouldn't want to show it to Scorponok, and she shows all her edits to him so he can tell if the design is still physically possible, and none of that is easy to think about right now when she remembers how Papa treated Brother all the time.

It never is. But Sari's been really, reeeally good about not thinking about it since Brother left. There wasn't anything she could do to change it. Any time they tried, it went wrong. Scorponok made it clear the first day that questions about where her brother had been sent to and other stuff like that weren't welcome. Now it's...uncomfortable and jumbled up again in her head.

It hurts again. But Sari doesn't think about it like that on purpose.

"I missed you," she mumbles. "Sorry."

The affection that pulses back is just as sad. [Sari and [self], together in the escape pod under the stars^{[mission status: failed]/[alternate tense infix: future promise @Sari]} ], he sends.

Sari mashes the heel of her hand against her eye.

The smooth shift of the Infinite shakes her out of the bad thoughts. Which is good, since once again Sari has no idea where the heck they are or what's happening. Five huge metal planets hang around in the queasy night sky, and their names pop up on the green-tinted HUD of Brother's internal screen as he identifies them for her. [Heîs, Dís, Triás, Téssares, Pentás]^{[collective: decorative/trap]} . But they skip past all of those and aim for the tiny gold planet at the center of the ring instead, and that's the one that reads [Quintessa]^{[local species designation: Quintesson[stagnant]]} _{[Weaver|Makrī, at the center of the web]}.

"[Super ugly]," Sari whispers. Brother obligingly updates the tag on the Quintesson part.

Sari is like. Ninety percent sure this isn't how star systems work. But she's been on exactly one planet before, and that didn't turn out so well, so maybe she just needs to explore more. The shuttle angles to approach a silvery white ship the size of a city, attached to the side of the planet - [Emissary]^[Titan][corpse-ship[literal] ]. But an excited jitter runs through every Infinite and shocks Sari upright. She peers through the screen, trying to figure out what they're all looking at.

The only thing is another ship. It's green and pink, but mostly greyish, faded silver - nothing really special. Brother adjusts the screen to keep it in focus even as the ship starts its descent toward the original one. "Who is that?" Sari hisses. She elbows him in the gut when he doesn't reply.

Even after that, he hesitates before a label pops up on screen. [Aletheia, a hollow shell^[Titan] ].

Which doesn't explain why they're all so amped up about her. In fact, there's a weird lack of emotive tags on that; the Infinite are all about emotive tags.  Sari scratches the back of her head and shrugs when no more explanation happens, but she tucks it away to bug him about later.

As the shuttle comes in for a landing, the Infinite drop away from the sides. Brother falls along with the brilliantly-patterned mechs to blend in when they hit the polished gold landing strip. They can have thrusters, landing gear, sproingy-legs, whatever they want to make out of their lower bodies. When they touch down, they cluster together more tightly than they did before. Even when the Infinite hold themselves perfectly still, there's a nervous, scared shuffle. [Take [Avya]?][Won't]^{[case: negative imperative]} _{[conviction lacking]} -

Meanwhile, the tentacle dudes in disguise walk down the ramp. A few more of these Quintesson bozos, waiting on the runway, drift closer, but they don't approach Prima or Quintus Prime directly. Instead, about ten or so Quintessons fan out, gathering around the Infinite in a sharp-edged ring. The Infinite outnumber them by, like, a ton - but it doesn't matter. The Infinite on the outer fringe cringe as the ring closes into a pentagon.

Sari can't blame them. She wants to shrink back, too. These guys are, objectively, just floaty heads the size of a Cybertronian. But something about them makes her break out in a cold sweat. There aren't a lot of them, but somehow it feels like a lot. The beam of energy holding them in the air stings her eyes when she looks at it too long, even through the buffer of Brother's viewscreen. One of the nearer Quintessons snaps out a metal limb and flicks it at a green-edged Infinite, and cackles with laughter when the Infinite stumbles into the pink one next to it.

So, they're also just mean. Sari straightens up, pressing one hand against the roof over so she won't knock her head against it. "'Never let them see you scared,'" she mutters. She wishes she could pass it on. Except not, because even now, she hears Papa's voice in the words. His lesson. "Unless it's useful and then you can fool them with it," she adds, to be exact.

Steadiness. [Never let them see you scared,^{[You are not alone.]]} Brother says, for her, and with a barely perceptible twitch every Infinite falls into the exact same stance. You could draw lines between each row with a ruler. Every face is a blank, rigid copy of the one Sari grew up with, and as the Quintessons circle in on their fancy hover beams there are a few grumbles when the Infinite fail to react.

Another group of Quintessons gathers around the next group to descend the ramp of the shuttle. To Sari's mild, uneasy surprise, the eleven remaining members of the Functionist Council have come along for the ride, along with some of their entourage. Their entourage includes the massive blue-and-purple dude who Sari is pretty sure is Overlord; he walks idly alongside the Inquisitor, looking faintly bored. He doesn't care that the Councilors move like puppets on strings, or that they're surrounded by floating tentacle eggs. One of the Quintessons turns a sneering face at him; Overlord simply smiles back, drumming the drills of his fingers against his arm to a staccato beat.

Quintus Prime steeples his multiple hands together in a complex crisscross as a bright red tent thing floats up through the floor on Prima's other side. Then a violet one ahead and to the right, and a deep, honey amber one on the left. A flat blue panel shows up a second later, hovering almost sadly in front of Prima to complete another pentagon.

The yellow one has the panels folded up and pinned back like curtains, and the Quintesson inside lounges in plain sight. She's a swirl of metallic, orange tendrils connected to an ovoid head and a single elongated mask: five sets of soft, dark, expressive eyes stacked over a barely closed mouth.

The faint smile would be sneakier if Sari weren't absolutely, positively, freakily sure that the eyes don't belong to her.

"Generals Neech, S'Auk, and Yr Darya have been appraised as to the strategic position the Galactic Council is to take in the coming campaign and the associated propaganda feeds," the red one drones from behind his floaty tent curtains. "Generals Cyrene and Cyrene-F of the Consortia stand ready on the edge of the sector, on our mark."

"Ah, the great game," the yellow one says. She sounds half-asleep; her eyes twinkle as they all blink in slow, deliberate unison. "How lovely, Emissary Dolus." Then, without breaking cadence, she changes the subject. "High Judge Ostraka has emerged from the Shattered Imperium to claim Emissary Bellica's seat. There has been no signal from Judge Pentius - it is unclear whether Judge Ostraka pre-emptively assassinated him^[pl] at this time."

"Dull," the violet one fires back. Something rustles the purple panels of her seat, and the panes bristle and fan out like glitched scales. "You lack scope, Emissary Ker. The initiation of the Andromeda design does not wait on petty games. Our Architect knows already who will succeed."

Quintus Prime resettles his hands. "Now, now, Emissary Achlys. The Junkion system's signal interference due to end-stage accretion of space debris is known. Judge Pentius may well achieve something interesting, if he yet lurks and thrives in the garbage."

"Duller still," the violet one counters. Then all of the panels fold together, and the whole tent thing starts trembling. After a long pause, her voice choked - "After all, as they say: garbage in, garbage out."

The yellow Quintesson laughs, the panel curtains of her seat shivering in amusement. 

Quintus Prime hums, too - and then vomits himself inside out.

It only takes a second, but it's in the running for the grossest second of Sari's life. His face splits in half along his jaw, and a fluid rush of green tendrils fountains out of his neck. The metal of his frame inverts along the way, the curved panels forming a new, oblong egg for him to pour into. A pale green panel snaps into place underneath him, and when the curtains sweep back Emissary Quintus has his own floating seat in the arrangement.

At the center of it all, Prima waits for the Emissaries to subside. Or rather, just stands there like a shiny statue, at the center of it all. The Emissaries keep firing barbs back and forth around him, but then they make announcements like they're still reporting to the Grand Architect in the empty puppet body.

Except -

When Sari squints, Prima's face isn't blank anymore. Somewhere in the last minute or so, his optics tightened in a faint, quiet frown.

Somebody's home.

Uh oh.

Something punches Brother in the abdomen.

It knocks him back and jerks him to a stop in the space of only a fraction of a meter. Just enough to knock him out of alignment with the other Infinite. The force slams Sari back against the compartment wall, and her spark stutters in her torso in a belated, dropped beat. Scarily similar to how it felt earlier - like just one more note, one more spasm, and her spark won't restart.

The other Infinite stand motionless as the beam plucks Brother effortlessly out of the rank. But their EM fields are full of tightly-constrained fear. [Deception failed.][Camouflage = discarded?] One sends, daringly loud, [Assistance request?|Request assistance -]

Brother just pulses back, [Acceptance.]

Prima doesn't even look, though. The beam is coming from one of the random Quintessons on the perimeter. It retracts the beam until Brother floats behind it.

"Preserve it," Prima orders, distantly. His expression sharpens another fraction, and Sari thinks he's realized - surely he's noticed her this time. He picked Brother out of the crowd still, somehow, but not her?

But the Grand Architect's frown deepens, and the Emissaries abruptly snap to attention. Despite the frown, Prima speaks in a flat, dead monotone. "The Lotus Machine has been compromised. Deal with the vermin. Which of you has brought me Killmaster."

The silence hangs in the air. Nobody seems to have an answer to that. Or maybe they're scared the Architect won't like what they have to say.

Sari needs to blink. Like, really bad. So she does.

When she opens her eyes, all four Emissaries are being flattened against the ground. A faint, high-pitched whine screams in only Sari's left ear, as the floating tents spasm and glitch out, twitching under the weight of unseen pressure. The Quintessons inside them must have some give, but they're definitely getting squished.

Prima hasn't moved.

The red one cracks first. Dolus is the only one of the Emissaries not thrashing under the pressure. He just drones, "The Lotus Machine has registered no unauthorized access -"

"The slave designated Killmaster cannot be located at this time," Emissary Ker gasps out, overlapping with him.

"- and only a Judge of sufficient standing would even be able to approach the central terminal -"

"[Judge Pentius has done so,]" Prima says, shutting both of them up. His voice scrapes through Sari's head. Brother drops toward the floor as the Quintesson floating him reels at the horrible sound. "[And Judge Pentius is dead.]"

On the last word, something snaps like ice.

The pressure eases off. The four Emissaries rise unsteadily. The panels of their tents have all gone transparent, and through the screens Sari can see how each one's mask cracked right down the middle.

The Quintesson holding Brother titters gleefully. "How delicious," they murmur. Then they turn and drop, as a section of the ground opens underneath them, and levitates Brother down in their wake. Prima and the Emissaries disappear over the edge, and then the hole seals shut.

"Ohhh no," Sari breathes.

This Quintesson's three masks rotate constantly as they descend - a twisty smile, a studious frown, and the hungry sneer it wore on the runway. But other than them, the vertical hallway they drop through appears to be deserted. Sari thumps the roof of the compartment. "There's only one! We can take him," she says urgently. "Trust me, we do not want to go wherever they're taking you." Both she and Brother can fly, and Brother can totally be a space ship, and once they're out they'll be golden.

Brother tenses. His right arm moves, testing the limit of the energy beam holding him, and the Quintesson doesn't react.

But Brother doesn't transform. [Wait,] he replies, except it's more of a really nervous, uncertain, [Satya, in the heart of the hive,] and Sari doesn't know what that means at all. Sari can't think of any better moment to get a jump on the Quintesson.

Meanwhile, the Quintesson keeps stroking their three chins. "So nice to add the next piece to the display," they say, cooing. "And not a scratch on you? Superb. But that is the nature of the latest model, we suppose."

Yeah, Sari has a bad feeling about all of that.

They level out in a horizontal hall that's so huge it would take ten of the Quintesson egg-heads to reach the ceiling. There are bubbles of clear crystal set in each divot of the wall, and three of them are full of liquid: rust orange, green, and blue, all in a row.

And people. Sari recognizes the skeletal protoform in the blue pod because a basic grasp of Cybertronian anatomy is key for anyone wanting to build a body from scratch. Its spark is exposed, pinned in place. The rust person is clunkier, the green one a tenth the size, but all three stare dully ahead like nothing registers for them anymore.

The fourth pod is full of purple fluid, and otherwise empty.

"We need to go, right now!" Sari says, alarmed. There's a giant glowing archway beside them and that's close enough to an exit to count. But Brother still won't move. "Brother! Hurry!"

Brother's nerves spike into dread. [Wait]_[wait], he echoes, wrapping his arms around his torso. He's shaking so hard that Sari can feel it. [Vōtum, a promise-prayer.][It has to be [this one].]

Sari raises both hands, ready to start banging on the screen - and freezes. "You knew this was gonna happen," she says.

[If not [this one who was first], an[other] would take this place.] Under the dread, Brother is perfectly clear. [They preserve the first. I will not allow the others to im[person]ate me in this. Discarded camouflage. (She will keep her promise.) We [all] will be free]

Then the Quintesson shoves Brother forward, and the glass exterior of the pod melts away. They plunge right into the purple fluid, and for a second all Sari can make out is a rush of lavender bubbles and the dark, back wall of the pod. Brother reaches out at once and tries to touch it.

A set of tiny needles shoot out all along the surface, glint, and switch on.

[PAIN] whallops Sari across the face as her brother spasms. He swings for the wall again with sudden urgency, but can't make contact. The fluid they fell into has gone weirdly thick and visibly jelly-like, and right before the edge he can't push through it at all.

Another glint of the needles jostles Sari in her seat. Bright red alarms flare on the viewscreen as Brother transforms his arm. It extends out, his frame going smooth and malleable, sharpening into a lance -

Then the metal starts to melt away. Bubbles of silvery metal bob away through the purple fluid, without mixing in. Brother reaches for the nearest blob, frantic, but it just spins away from his shredding fingers.

A display. Sari sits back, numbly, as Brother tries to rotate around and fails. His legs are kicking, and globes of metal float and ripple, sometimes bouncing off each other as more of him falls apart. Like oil in water, or a ferro-fluid lamp, or something else immiscible. He can't get any traction. Sari can think it through, her thoughts cold and clinical and very numb. If he keeps moving, or the fluid starts circulating, who knows how long he can hold himself together? Until there's nothing left but Infinite metallico and a spark and - if he's lucky, if it's not affected by the needles - a brain module, all floating on display beside the rest of the pods. Brother's shock is awfully, terribly real.

He had to know this was coming. But Sari's not sure he realized exactly how the Quintessons intended to keep him on display. Infinite can change into anything; nothing else could hold him. Not forever.

She's still in here, too.

The Quintesson chuckles, burbling through the fluid and the pod wall. "A delightful addition," they say. "But there is more interesting entertainment today. Farewell." The sound of their voice falls away as they leave Sari and her brother adrift.

A jet of fluid bursts through the floor of the compartment. A shrill, sharp beep rings out as Sari yelps and stamps her foot down on it. Brother just sprang a leak. "If you have a plan, now would be a really, super good time to make it happen!" she hollers. Another leak bursts out to her right; Sari slaps her hand over it.

Metal burrows under Sari's foot to try to seal the leak. But the purple stuff's inside now, and when Sari pulls the sole of her foot away the edges of the seal already look wet like clay. It starts to smear again as Sari watches.

Yup. They've got maybe a minute before Brother's just a bunch of goop and Sari has nowhere to sit. She doesn't technically need to breathe, but no part of this is okay. Sari plasters her heel back over the liquefying seal. There's nothing in here to mop it up with. Brother can't reach the wall to punch his way out, if that was even the plan to start with.

But Sari's foot isn't melting. Not as far as she can observe.

So they have a shot.

Sari smacks the roof again. "Let me out!" she yells over the alarms.

[IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII] is all she gets in response. She can barely tell what's sound and what's Brother screaming.

A burst of cold fluid hits Sari in the back. Another leak. She pushes her back against it, but it's still seeping down the wall as Brother loses more consistency. The viewscreen starts to flicker and spark.

So Sari glares at the wall and braces. "I'm getting us out!" she yells. Just for the record. "3! 2! 1-!"

Sari hauls both legs in, and kicks out.

At the last second, the compartment snaps open, giving her an open window.

Her feet slam into the far wall of the pod. Fluid bursts into the compartment space, flooding everything, and Brother starts to melt from the inside. The impact jars her teeth - but she makes contact. If there were needles under her feet, they snapped on her soles.

Sari holds her breath - dumb instinct - and shoves one hand up until it hits the pod itself. There's nothing left solid of Brother for her to push off of. Then she swings one foot back and kicks, toe first.

The inner wall caves and bursts open, right as something hot and crackly hits her.

Sari clutches it on instinct as the pod fountains out. She tumbles and hits the ground; purple water floods the floor around her, carrying her along and forming a wide puddle until she hits a wall. Liquidy slugs of metal wash out as well, and immediately start twitching.

Her brother's spark burns in her arms, sharp and staticky. "Gotcha," Sari says, dazed.

Brother's response is a fizzy pulse. [[This one], in Sari's tiny hands^[irony] ] he sends.

So she's not the only one all dizzy. Good to know. Sari coughs into her fist. Then she stands up and starts nudging one of the slugs of Brother's body mass to the edge of the puddle with her foot, and looks around.

She kicked out through the back of the pod, just because that was the way Brother was facing. When she glances back, the transparent crystal side is still intact. So, whoops. Anyone who looks through it will see the pod is totally empty.

But this side of the pod - the far side of the wall - feels...weird. Maybe it's just the energy radiating off Brother's exposed spark, but it almost seems like a different building entirely. Sari kicks another piece of her brother to a dry patch of floor, frowning. Outside, the hallway had been humongous, golden, and empty in a gargantuan kind of way. Like it was for show. On this side, the ambient light is cool and easy on the optics. More like a maintenance hall or something. The walls are bent to form a hexagonal channel that extends alongside the main hall in either direction. But it's much more Cybertronian sized. Or Quintesson sized, Sari supposes, if they all didn't have a weird complex. Sari raps her knuckles against a slanted wall panel, and iridescent circuitry lights up under her fingers.

Another piece of Brother is trying to climb her foot. Sari hastily steps out of the main puddle and sets the spark down where the metal can reach him. A sluggish chunk ferries his dry brain module over the fluid, and she helps Brother pull himself back together again. It's grosser seeing his exposed brain than his spark, somehow.

A faint snap-snap. One-two, real quick. Sari flinches, sure they're caught, but the wall - the one she kicked through, the back side of the pod - just snapped back into place, seamlessly. And that's where the geometry gets weird. Sari peers at it as Brother reforms his body. The pod was a pod, with curved walls, but on this side the wall doesn't match. It's the other edge of the hexagon. When she presses the side of her face against the wall, trying to figure it out, the tiny hexagon panels that make up the bigger sections of wall light up.

The second snap was a set of drains opening up along the bottom edges of the hall. The purple puddle drains away with a faint suction noise, until Sari's feet are completely clear. The circuits in the floor gleam for a second, too, and then the grates in the floor transform away again with a shnk.

Brother is still a little smeary like clay around the edges, and more than a little lopsided. But mostly, when Sari straightens up again, he's back together. The ceiling really is perfectly Infinite-sized.

Huh.

Sari steps away from the wall, carefully. But she doesn't think that means much.

She revises her internal memory of what just happened. She didn't kick through that wall. She knocked, and the wall answered.

Which seems like a weird, counterproductive thing for the wall of a prison/display case to do, to be honest.

"You knew this was waiting back here," Sari says. Papa would approve, she thinks, and cringes away from the thought. Brother knew they'd put the prototype Infinite on display, and he made sure to have an escape ready, right under all the Quintessons' noses.

Brother has the decency to look sheepish. "Maybe?" he says aloud, his jaw twitching as he reforms his usual facial structure. ['Wait']['Hold']['Trust'][[A vow].]

This time it clicks.

"She promised," Brother finishes.

"Yeah, but who's she?!" Sari asks, throwing up her hands. "We're in cahoots with someone? We're so in cahoots. Augh, why didn't you just say so?!" He's been acting weird and evasive about it, too, which Sari should've realized was maximum suspicious. It's one of the reasons Brother never got away without someone noticing - he's terrible at keeping secrets, really. It's super obvious.

[@ Her.] Brother taps a finger against Sari's raised palm.

She wasn't really looking for a high five. "Okay, that's not a name at all -"

Across from them, the hexagons of the wall fold back over each other to open a door.

Brother settles on, [Eldest sister.]

[Little brother,] a calm, amused voice says, from everywhere.

Oh. "...Hi," Sari ventures.

Brother hops through the opening without hesitation. Sari peeks through the gap; then, with a gulp, she hops after him.

On the far side she lands on a hand. It's big enough to hold Brother already, so Sari figures that's the least of their problems. There's actually not a lot of palm to stand on - Sari stumbles on a bad leg, and Brother scoops her up before she can slide off. The digits are sharp claws, jointed so that two sets of two would close together like a pincer. The hand rises through the dim blue-lit space, and Sari realizes that the space is huge. A dome, bigger than a city. Like the Underside, but with a severe lack of ground to walk on.

The hand and the jointed appendage it's attached to finish retracting, and a set of angled gold optics lift out of the gloom to focus on them. Three smaller, green ocelli glitter in between the main eyes, each of them bigger than Brother. Bigger than Papa.

[Aletheia]^[Titan]

Which is a lot of eye. Sari has a death grip on Brother's shoulder now. The Titan thing is really, uh, literal. From up here, Sari can see how the faint, distant shadow of the Titan's body fills most of the dome - a set of massive rungs spiral out from the center, and everywhere Sari looks she can see how Aletheia twines and drapes around them with limbs like skyscrapers.

But Sari can't see what the Titan turns into. In fact - Sari squints - she can't see any part that looks like it would transform at all. A set of four thin, jagged spines flare out from the Titan's segmented back armor, but they don't act like antennae. There's nothing attached to the Titan's massive frame except plain armor and shiny carapace. Barely more than dusty green protoform, almost lost in the gloom. A great, round window rests in the center of her torso, full of pinkish-orange light.

[Another visitor. And after I just saw the last ones off. Such interesting times.] Aletheia's Neo-Cybex is super crisp and clear. Sari gets the EM vibe that runs through it, but unlike the Infinite's fieldspeech Aletheia's spoken words are easier to focus on. Maybe she's just had more practice.

But when in doubt-slash-when faced by someone big enough to squash you like a bug, manners first. Sari waves, adjusting her feet on Brother's arm so she's supporting herself more. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sari. You know my brother?" she says, even though she's got a million other questions and she's probably staring more than is polite.

Aletheia continues to stare right back, so it's probably fine. Her head is angular, with two ridges and those big eyes taking up most of it, and when she cocks it to the side it's like having a city block rise up to inspect you personally. [Avya has spoken to me of you, yes. Scorponok is a prodigious one,] the Titan concedes. The whole city starts to shift, and as Aletheia moves from one rung of the ladder to the next her segmented limbs step carefully, with moments of total, fractional stillness. Sari can't see what the Titan is pausing for. [Greetings, Sari. Vector Sigma calls me Aletheia.]

Right. Sari does know that name. The Infinite were all super hyped to see her - back up on the surface of Quintessa. Space is weird here, but Sari is pretty sure they're somewhere in the center of the artificial planet. "Uh-huh. Wasn't that you, up there?" Sari points up. "You're that big city ship, right? We saw you when we landed. So, what are you doing down here? Do the super mean tentacle guys know you're doing - whatever? This place is huge!"

Aletheia doesn't sound offended, at least. Just amused. [A discarded shell, long outgrown,] the Titan says, rising another huge step. Three rungs up the spiraling bars, Sari's ears pop as the atmospheric pressure abruptly spikes. Something is definitely weird in here. [Our masters know where their sensors think I am. I have not been there in some time. Only enough remains to deceive them. Avya was the first of my once-hive to be reforged with Scorponok's methods. It has made him a target in more ways than one, and therefore difficult to extract to safety.]

Aletheia reaches up and hooks a claw around a vertical strand, and raises them level with a platform that spreads out under the uppermost curve of the dome. [My kin have been reforged. So have I.]

At first the structure on the platform looks flat, like a prism of pretty blue crystal flecked with different colors, a crystalline comb balanced on one point. Under the faded blue light it looks cool and iridescent and liquidy.

Then some of the flecks bubble, and a whole bunch of Infinite spill out. [BROTHER][WHO WAS FIRST][FIRST WALKER] reaches them first, and the Infinite shortly after. Instinctively Sari hops up onto Brother's shoulders to avoid the crush, clinging to the side of his head for balance, but the curious green and gold optics are just as much on Sari as they swarm up the Titan's hand. Brother hops off to meet them halfway, landing in the middle of a pile on the edge of the platform. [Sister]^[?] [CHRYSALIS]^{[in progress]} |[SISTER]. One of the first to reach them lifts a claw, curiosity beating off them in a wave, and Sari pokes the end of it with a finger.

Apparently, this is amazing. Everyone bursts out in excited, humming waves and the one Sari poked clutches its face, eyes wide. [CHRYSALSISTER] it babbles, and this is even more exciting for everyone. Brother reaches out to greet them, brushing hands and fields with unabashed warmth, and Sari doesn't think she's ever seen him so happy.

Which. Ow. The last thing Sari thinks they need right now is her being a downer in the middle of a bunch of people who communicate mostly in emotion vibes. So she shakes her head and focuses on other stuff instead. Like the fact that the Infinite look...different. Sari had a lot going on the past few hours, but the Infinite stuck working for Prima on Cybertron looked almost identical to Brother - gold and white, with some accent variation and a lot of UV markings out of sight, and otherwise with an identical body template. But these guys weren't inside the prism; they were the prism. Their bodies are a similar template, but with height variation, some with that same crystalline, liquid depth of color. The jutting pieces that frame Brother's jaw are recognizably mandibles on some faces. Everyone's back panels flare and flicker in constant motion, transparent but tinted and veined like stained glass.

Or insect wings.

Aletheia adjusts her position. Sari can make out the other arms extending from the Titan. Some reach up to vanish into the ceiling of the dome; some drape over rungs that seem to break in two from this angle. Space is very weird here, and it makes the Titan look even more spread out and spindly, the missing alt mode chunks all the more obvious. Sari follows the sharp bend of one ladder rung, and catches a glint in the air. Like there's a crack in midair, or a spring-steel wire crisscrossing the space in between.

"How do you have so many people down here?" Sari asks Aletheia, distracted, before she realizes she's going to ask it. But it's a legitimate question! If every Infinite is a spark the Quintessons used Papa's technique to convert into an army, how the heck have they been gathering down here in the space behind the walls? Quintessons seem kind of evil and mean, but they can do math, right? An Infinite can disguise themselves as another, but the numbers just wouldn't add up.

[The Quintessons stopped a long time ago.] Aletheia draws a claw through the air in the distant gloom, and Sari narrows her eyes as the faint wires shimmer and become even harder to see. Maybe it's just a trick of the eye, anyway - Sari can't say for sure. [They have compressed this space with folds of their own design, with proud disregard for any damage they might do to the normal space outside it, and failed to realize that the more folds they made, the easier it was for me to...slip under their radar.]

Aletheia lets another claw fall, slowly tracing a downward arc through the dome, and Sari leans out a little to watch the cracks fade in and out of sight. When she looks up, the Titan has dipped her head to watch Sari with that unfailing, quiet amusement.

Ah well. Caught. "What was it? The one thing," Sari clarifies, to keep the conversation going. So smooth.

[In a word - life.] Aletheia clicks, and a few of the Infinite mimic the sound in a chorus. A couple others have started climbing up along the back of the Titan's arm - they click back an echo, then stop to lean their heads together and stare intently at the armor.

Aletheia doesn't seem to mind. She doesn't turn her arm to make it easier either; the Infinite don't have any trouble clinging upside down as they work their way up. [Perhaps originally they siphoned the energy from elsewhere; perhaps they seeded it themselves. But they ignited it into life in an ancient forge, and in doing so surpassed themselves,] the Titan continues. [Then - being what they are - the Quintessons censured the Scientists whose research into their own sparks made such a feat possible. Their Grand Architect decided that they had perfected themselves as a species, then culled all those who might develop a conscience or the ability to take it any further. Perhaps if he hadn't, they could have transcended their petty greed and ambition and moved on by now.]

A shrug. [Now, the Quintessons cannot reverse engineer what they've done to apply it to themselves. They want perfect transcendence for perfect selfishness - to evict themselves from their bodies without dying, to manipulate and puppet whoever they wish from a plane beyond, organic and mechanical alike. But no matter how many lifelines they create, no matter how deep they dig into an enslaved processor, their selves cannot survive the destruction of their spark. They can upgrade themselves, but the core of them remains the same. So the Grand Architect gave them a galaxy to toy with, all of it mindless entertainment. A distraction for a race of supreme parasites. He'd bleed the universe dry to hide how hollow it has become.]

Aletheia coils another distant limb around a rung, her optics bright in the dim light. The Infinite have settled down as the Titan spoke in her undertone, but Brother and the ones huddled around him start listening along with Sari. Sari catches the EM flicker of the Infinite murmuring amongst themselves, but most of the ones listening have fallen quiet. A bright blue one looks positively enthralled - Sari's pretty sure it's the one who poked her.

A slightly bigger audience doesn't seem to matter; Aletheia keeps explaining, idly, and all the while her limbs are in measured, glacial motion throughout the dome. It never stops, Sari thinks. Every colossal move Aletheia makes flows into the next, each limb vanishing in the dark where Sari loses track of them. [Quintus Prime sought new ways to re-enslave my kin, and to that end he came to my processor chamber to overshadow me first. So successful was he that he then offered to enslave [proud] Chela in kind, as proof that the rebellious Cybertronian unit could be brought to heel, and caught the fool who accepted that bitter bargain with a needle of his own.]

When the Titan smiles, it barely dimples the metal of her face. [And by the time Quintus brought me here, I was precisely where I wanted to be.]

And Sari realizes, abruptly, that she's just heard a ton of what sounds like ancient conspiracy plans.

Scorponok always says it's easiest to prompt people to monologue when they're dumb - or when they've already pulled the trigger.

She's kiiinda got the feeling Aletheia isn't dumb. Sari, on the other hand, is starting to wonder how she keeps wandering into the middle of this kind of stuff. She's away from home for the first time ever, and it's only been a day. Everything happens so much, and she's exhausted.

Brother doesn't seem worried, at least. He rocks slightly on his heels, but is otherwise the most relaxed Sari's ever seen him. When Sari looks at him, he just looks back at her, at ease.

"That's neat!" It comes out kind of strangled, and a trace of concern slips into Brother's watchful gaze. Sari coughs to clear her throat. "Why are you telling me all this?"

[Because you are curious, small one.] Aletheia smiles that stiff, minimal smile again. [Because it will be over soon. It is good for what happened here to be known. My actions made their impact long ago; soon, only the aftershocks will remain.] The window in Aletheia's chest transforms, and Sari catches a brief burn of the immense spark inside - a corona of pink and orange and gold. [They have never known all of my kin. With Scorponok's technique, all have been reforged in my own facilities. I provided the radiation of spark spasm myself.] Aletheia's voice echoes deeper, a low, crooning thunder that reverberates through an impossible space, and even the faint note of vindication multiplies, heady and sweet. The words sound older, but still somehow familiar. [Soon. The Quintessons will realize they did it to themselves.] [They.] [Let.] [Us.] [In.]

A lot of the Infinite shiver at the same time as Sari, holding hands in chains and pairs as they bounce and chatter amongst themselves. Brother keeps rocking gently on his heels, though, and Sari finally realizes he's trying to lull her into recharge. The ancient stealth technique, from before he left.

She's already so tired she could sleep for a month. "Sooo. What are you gonna do after you're free? And done with - whatever. All this?" Sari asks. She can't even say it skeptically. She's just nodding along internally, awed and dazed and just super overwhelmed.

[Retire,] is the immediate, matter-of-fact response. [See the stars.] Aletheia's gaze tracks over the Infinite. [Travel wherever they wish.]

Then the Titan's gaze focuses with abrupt, laser-sharp intent. Even then, her giant gaze still includes a pretty wide field of view, so Sari thinks it's directed at her for a split second before Aletheia says, [I keep my word. Do I not, Killmaster?]

Someone who is not an Infinite stands at the far end of the platform. Sari flinches, but Brother sets her on her feet when she slips off his shoulder. It's dim, and some of the Infinite have reformed their prism-house, but the refracted shape of a Cybertronian that Sari makes out is so tall. Not Titan big, but that's a whole 'nother thing.

The figure cuts a sharp, curt bow of his head. "So the game begins, ruthless Aletheia," says the guy that people like Prima keep namedropping without an explanation, like, all the time. Seriously, Sari has a list of Autobots and Decepticons Papa specifically warned her about. If this guy ever made the list, he didn't make a strong impression.

Aletheia is already turning away from him. [I do not play games. I end wars,] she says, flatly. Like many things, it's just a statement of a fact.

While Sari debates whether she should have a weapon or tell Brother to be a gun or something, the figure checks his watch. "I have upended the board. The field is yours." He adjusts the dial on the side, and snaps the watch shut.

Then Killmaster vanishes, leaving two afterimages in green and fuchsia that flare and wink out.

All of Aletheia's eyes soften as she returns to studying Sari. [Yes. You are our little sister,] the Titan says. Her tone warms fractionally as she dips her head. Turning over a palm in the distance, she collects a handful of Infinite and slowly ferries them back toward the platform. [Kindred. Sari. Stay safe here a while longer, and after, perhaps we can be your home.]

Her brother's happiness is bright and warm and wistful. [You could be safe @ Sari] he says, just a little hushed, in a way Sari thinks is only for her. [Free @ all.]

Sari can feel her face burning. There's a knot in her stomach that just won't quit. She stares down at one of her hands. It's stained a faint purple from the Infinite display pod and trembling slightly. Even when she closes it into a fist, it keeps shaking. She's just worn down.

All this time, she never got much further than 'get back to Scorponok,' cause she got dumped right in the middle of Functionist Cybertron - scary - and then Tarn happened - also scary - and then Prima and allll of this. Figuring out anything after that was a problem for future Sari. If she could get back home to the ship she's known all her life, to Papa, she'd be safe and everything would go back to normal. Even when she knows, empirically, that too many Decepticons in the fleet probably got captured during the attack, and nothing could be the same. What else could she do? Where else could she go? Papa was all she had, and she'd left him in danger, and eventually he would find her, anyway.

Now she feels like she can't breathe. Which is dumb. Breathing is superfluous. But her brother is alive and there are options opened up in front of her for real, for the first time. All those places Brother tried to go whenever he escaped. Her chest is splitting in half, and what would Papa say?

She knows what he would say. She never wanted to see him that mad again.

Sari can't keep thinking along that line. "W-wait. Hang on! What about - Papa?" Her voice cracks. Brother flinches a little beside her, and Sari feels like the worst person in the world. She talks faster, desperate, asking Aletheia, "Is he here? In this Quintessa place? Do you know?"

The Titan lowers her head until it is level with the platform. She watches Sari with a careful ocelli. Sari's been under the microscope before, but this is something else. [I know,] she says, which is a cryptic non-answer, really.

"Not - that's not a no! I'm not saying I don't want to stay with you!" Sari adds frantically. Brother tries to put a hand on her shoulder, but Sari pulls away. Every word feels miserably wrong. But how is she supposed to - not? "I just - I still want to find him. Just...I need to need to know he's okay."

She cuts off with a gulp that hurts her throat. She's not going to cry.

Then Aletheia raises her curled claw for Sari to step on.

It takes a hop, but even with her thrusters kinda messed up Sari doesn't mind the gap. Brother steps after her right away - another pang in her chest - and she trusts him to catch her even if his biggest sister is so big it's genuinely intimidating. A few other Infinite crawl on at the last second as the arm starts to rise toward the top left curve of the dome. They all hum enthusiastically as they hunker down under smooth, milky-blue shells formed from their own bodies. Sari holds onto one of Aletheia's claws tightly, hugging it for support as the platform falls away.

[Find Scorponok, if you wish,] Aletheia says, with an indifferent shrug that goes for miles. [Return before the end, though, little chrysalis. Before this day is done, none of us can remain here. We will shed this place and the cruel husk of its hate, and we will be free at last. The end comes, for I have called.]

The Titan draws to a stop with her claw almost flush with the edge of the dome, without scraping against it. The wall fans open, hexagons on hexagons, and all that's left is to step through the neat little doorway.

And find Papa.

Sari hesitates. Brother is transforming beside her. Little tweaks on the surface, but Sari knows the texture change means he's armoring up and adjusting things internally. It feels normal to be back together after so long. But Sari wrecked it, she thinks. He shouldn't even want to come along to find Papa; he spent his whole life trying to get away. But there's an unconscious, unspoken assumption that of course Brother will come with her. On both their parts. His presence feels so natural. But this is unfair for him. The most unfair. He worked so hard to get them away, and here Sari is, pulling him back into Scorponok's orbit. She knows.

So she scuffs her heel against the narrow palm of Aletheia's hand, unable to raise her head and look at Brother. "You can stay with her. He was..." Sari trails off again, and shakes her head sharply to clear it. Precision of words is important. Papa always says. "He wasn't. I'll find him and - and say goodbye myself."

Nothing. Not even a peep out loud.

It lasts long enough that Sari sneaks a peek. Aletheia doesn't shift, her arm as steady as a stone.

Brother is watching her.

Sari has seen him smile and stuff. But mostly Brother defaults to a neutral expression, or a quiet snarl. He just didn't see the bother when he relied so much on EM fieldspeech, anyway.

But right now, the expression on his face kinda makes her want to cry.

[Together,] Avya says, very firmly. [My sister.]

Sari ducks her head again. The snuffle isn't that loud.

Then she scrubs her face and raises her chin, inhaling hard through her nose. "Right," she agrees.

And then they leap through the gap.

---

  For one that you remember

    And ten that you forget.

- <<source forgotten>>

---

Rewind never liked the needles.

-

It was just one of those things. The arguments got messy. Always. So it was easier to just - not talk about it.

-

It mattered, every time Rewind begged him to stop. For some reason, though, he just kept...circling back. He always found another reason.

Rewind called him an addict; called Rodimus an enabler. He hates feeling like that - letting Rewind down, letting himself down - and he hates how mnemosurgery makes him feel and he has never understood why he just can't stop. He'd make it for a few hundred thousand years -

He always caved. There was always another good reason, another excuse. The frustration fed into itself. It was like both he and Rewind were bashing their heads against a wall, but Chromedome was the wall.

Chromedome had plenty of time to wonder why he always went back on his word, after Rewind was gone. Too late for it to matter.

-

Another hiccup. Another blink of not quite consciousness.

This time, when Chromedome's scattered thoughts come together, he remembers everything.

-

Everything is almost too much to bear. Memory is a crushing weight, a bombardment, as his processor struggles to parse the backlog of forgotten things all at once.

Maybe it is for everyone. But Chromedome has wanted to die more times than he can say, more times than he's forgotten. Maybe Chromedome was always predisposed to it; maybe Trepan just took what was already there and made it a closed, inescapable loop.

Anything to avoid thinking about it.

And now, he remembers the first time Trepan put his hand to Chromedome's neck and made him stop worrying about the fact that the New Institute was exactly the same as the old.

 He remembers every time he realized he was trapped there, every time he broke down in the morgue where they put him to work when his hands wouldn't stop trembling anymore, when the peripheral neuropathy outstripped their ability to repair him. Where he earned the name Chromedome, lingering over the silvery-grey processors of the dead and dying. He remembers how Brainstorm tried to get him out, and maybe they'd be real amica now if Trepan hadn't stepped in and smudged the memories into illegibility, so Chromedome wouldn't worry when Brainstorm was transferred out.

He remembers every time he threw a dead module against the ground, ripped the needles out of his own fingers, drove to the relinquishment clinic, and walked right down like an automaton to where Trepan waited to smooth away Chromedome's agony, and the memory of the clinic, before sending him back to work. It never mattered how miserable Chromedome was - Trepan pruned and manicured the thoughts of all his best surgeons like a sculpter working clay, all of them an extension of his own needles.

He remembers how the same Autobots and Decepticons he sat with in the relinquishment clinic lobby would turn up on his own autopsy slab a day, a week, a year later. Some of them with their sparks snuffed out the way the clinic promised, some brainwashed and sent back out again until they died in battle, or found a more trustworthy way to suicide. Even with the most flawless shadowplay, something always persisted under the surface.

He remembers Scattergun, Pivot, and Mach.

Relinquishment clinics were always a front for the Institute. The cycle was never going to stop. The war was never going to stop. Despair was a dull inevitability.

-

Nothing changed until he met Rewind. Chromedome walked back out the clinic doors instead of following the nudge Trepan had planted in his head.

Dying was a bad habit.

It wasn't the end. But it was the start.

-

Chromedome remembers everything. Every grief. Every edit Trepan made. Every edit he ever made, because erasing was the closest thing he knew to dying. The edit codes are all preserved and laid out, the metadata neatly tagged with warnings spliced in, and the memories they were supposed to repress free and piercingly clear. All the static and data ghosts enmeshed with his thoughts have been swept clear, and all that's left is his own trauma.

And remembering everything, Chromedome doesn't want to die. He hasn't wanted that, really, since he and Rewind found each other again.

He wants to live, in the weirdly clear world around him. He wants to cry, because the grief of losing Mach and Pivot and Scattergun and so many others that seemed too much to bear back then faded and grew into him when he wasn't looking, and now it doesn't seem fair - for them or for himself - that the soft ache in his spark went unnamed for so damn long.

That he almost did the same to Rewind. If he'd gone through with that - it might have been the one thing Rewind couldn't forgive.

Chromedome wants to live.

Overlord leans over and taps the side of Chromedome's face. "Let us begin, mnemosurgeon," he says, and smiles.

-

"I could provide more incentive, if you require," Overlord adds, an amused afterthought. "But bear in mind I'm on a tight schedule, and the most expedient way of hurrying this along - well. You don't need legs in your line of work, do you now?"

So, Chromedome's probably going to die, regardless. He doesn't know where they are, what's happening, or who else might be here. Or what Overlord wants from him.

Good start.

Chromedome jolts upright, searching for an exit. When he launches himself off the table he's lying on, Overlord catches him effortlessly, shoving Chromedome back down with denting force and an unchanging smile.

They're in a non-descript room, big enough to contain Overlord - a tall order - Chromedome, and not much else. Overlord leans down casually, the palm of his hand flat on Chromedome's chest, and applies pressure. The dent deepens, gradually crumpling, and Chromedome wheezes as his chest compresses.

Overlord could put his hand through him. It wouldn't take much.

Chromedome lets his head fall back against the table with a dull clank. If he's here, maybe Rewind's okay. Maybe the crew's far away and safe. This is one of those situations where you can't hope that anyone's coming to rescue you, because if they are, that's worse.

Or maybe not. Maybe they're already dead. That brief flicker of clarity is already fading, and the burning fog that seeps through his processor is three parts hopelessness to two parts rage.

(The noises he made! He kept calling your name! I had to put his head in my mouth to shut him up. Just popped it in and bit down 'til he stopped twitching, Overlord told him, and his smile only widened as he tucked his thumb between his teeth to demonstrate.)

"Alright then, I'll bite. What do you want?" Chromedome snaps, biting off the end of the sentence before he can lash out and get himself killed even faster. His temper is seething, an explosion waiting to happen. But if he can get Overlord talking, it'll buy time for something. An escape. Anything.

"The Galactic Council keeps a leash on its pets," Overlord says, lightly pompous. He leans back, shifting his weight, and the compressed metal of Chromedome's chest pops. Chromedome forces himself to look to either side and scan for a door. Nothing to his left, only Overlord to his right, but -

Chromedome lets his head loll back again, and freezes when he spies the door. His maskplate covers a lot of sins - whatever his face would've done stays under the mask.

He sees the door, and he also sees the weird, elongated blue hand that stretches down from the ceiling vent. It's currently in the process of picking the pentagonal lock mechanism; the fingers work almost independently of each other.

"My eyes are up here," Overlord says, with a purr in his voice, as he starts to twist Chromedome's left leg out of its socket.

Chromedome snaps his visor back to Overlord as the pain spikes. I promise, he thinks dizzily, to no one at all, I promise I'm coming back, Rewind.

He's not going to break this one. Not this time.

"Fine! Sure! I'll do it!" explodes out of him. He's not sure exactly what he just agreed to, but Chromedome's made worse decisions before in his life. Slag, he's made some of them more than once.

Overlord's leer deepens. It's extra garish from this angle, like a caricature of an old statue. "Remove the Council's leash," Overlord says. He helps Chromedome sit up with exaggerated, mocking care, and positions him like a doll. The warped metal where Chromedome's upper leg now twists wrenches with every effortless adjustment. It's a bitter reminder that the every time Chromedome has gotten a shot at Overlord, it barely left a mark. "And perhaps I'll leave you alive to die when I level this place, rather than making it quick. Sound fair?" Overlord muses, holding Chromedome up to the back of his own neck.

'Fair' sounds like something Overlord heard in passing once, and now considers an inside joke with himself. Chromedome doesn't believe it for a second. Garrus-9 was reforged with the bodies of people who believed Overlord's promises.

All he needs is time. No matter how it burns him. Chromedome's visor sears, blazingly hot against his own face as he glares at the back of Overlord's neck. The vision of stabbing the mnemosurgical needles in repeatedly, doing as much damage as he can before he dies, feels more real than it should. He remembers almost too forcefully, a flashback that threatens to overclock his processor.

Before he can relive it, though, Overlord's fingers shift. A set of points slip out, prickling along Chromedome's back. "Get clever, and I'll drill through your spine," Overlord promises, his red optics flashing as he turns that radiantly cruel smile back on Chromedome. "But you learned your lesson last time, didn't you? You and I both know I'll be able to tell if you try."

Chromedome's fingers tremble as he slowly extends the remaining needles from his fingers. He's not sure what it's from this time - the inconsolable anger or the frame memory. "It won't be my best work - only one set left," he says, clipped, as he positions that hand.

He's still not entirely clear on what he's doing. The Galactic Council are some real racist dipsticks, but whatever.

Just ventilate. Ignore the wheeze of half-crushed vents under his chest. Get back to Rewind alive.

Don't think about the door. At all costs.

Chromedome sinks his needles in.

-

A year or so ago, working on a living mech one more time would've killed him.

Should have. He meant it to. If Rewind could have Dominus Ambus back, why would he need dead weight like Chromedome around? There was never room for both of them in Rewind's life; of course he would leave. When Rewind broke promises and put himself at risk, Chromedome always knew in his spark it was because Rewind chose -

Rewind wouldn't let him.

They survived that. Maybe not the same, but together.

On Neo-Cybertron, when Ratchet offered to repair the systemic damage, Chromedome only got one set of the surgery needles repaired. The other arm - the arm Rewind cut off to save him - he had Ratchet rebuild without the needles or the integrated connectors. Maybe committing to it all the way would've been better, but he told himself if someone in the hospital needed help - if there was critical need -

Caving again. Always another good reason.

But when Chromedome enters Overlord's mind, for better or worse, Overlord has done half the work for him already. He hates that it eases the neurological strain. A series of connected memories chain together, rapidly ushering Chromedome from a familiar set of memories they share directly to Overlord's end goal.

They're all horrifying, because this is Overlord.

[Overlord bursts in through the door. The blast punches a hole through Chromedome's abdomen. Overlord neatly scoops up Trepan as a souvenir, and leaves, Soundwave in tow. Chromedome lays there, paralyzed and in shock, until the medic - was that Pharma? - bolts through the door and rushes over. Ratchet got the same look, sometimes - worn down with caring, long before the war was done. Concern and fatigue war in his face as Pharma works to stop Chromedome's spark from guttering - tells him hang in there, Tumbler -]

A judder.

The door. Something about the door.

[The door locks behind Rewind, and the transition from Chromedome's perspective to Overlord's is too smooth, too cruel. In the memory of the slow cell, he has simply ages to twist Rewind's limbs off before the missiles reach them, and by the time it stops Chromedome can't stop shuddering, sobbing -]

The blue of Pharma's hands, before Ratchet painted over them.

Chromedome wavers. But it's too late.

Overlord's too focused on funneling Chromedome right to the memory of being adrift amongst the pieces of Rewind and the slow cell in intergalactic space, and the monumental Galactic Council ship that picked him up. Any second now he'll realize that isn't where Chromedome's train of thought is going. Chromedome can't not think it, and Overlord's already turning to see -

A noise like a full wing of seekers taking off, their collective jet blast setting off a thousand gongs, rocks the whole damn place.

Chromedome knows the raw punch of a ship ramming a space station intimately. If you know where the escape pods are located, great - it doesn't stop the deep, instinctive clench of terror that runs through you when your frame rudely remembers that nothing under your feet is truly solid. The impact knocks him down, his needles snapping in Overlord's neck as Chromedome tumbles down his back to hit the shuddering floor.

Overlord, who's probably more used to being the thing hitting the station, raises his head with a cold snort.

The neuropathic feedback shoots up his arm, numb and shocky. Chromedome spasms once, hard, clutching his arm with his visor streaking.

But the distended hands finish unlocking the door with a click, right as the rocking impact dies down. Overlord's gaze snaps to it instantly, his optics narrowing as his smile ticks down a notch.

Then Overlord coolly punches up into the ceiling.

Chromedome can't feel a lot of his arm. He's operated with numb fingers before. He's lost an arm before. He's lost everything before.

He hauls himself upright in a lunge. His good arm still erupts with a sharp, strut-deep pang when he uses it to drag himself forward.

On the second, desperate try, he gets his legs under him and throws himself through the open door. Every staggering step he teeters.

Pharma, standing outside the door, finishes retracting his hands from the ceiling above him with a grimace. He seizes Chromedome's elbow to steady him with a hand that's missing half its fingers.

Said fingers are already reforming out of the fluid metal that makes up Pharma's hands.

Chromedome recoils hard. "You!"

"Yes, yes, I know, I know! Just go!" Pharma orders, impatient. His other hand, Chromedome sees, reeling, is shorn off entirely at the wrist - and growing.

He reels a little too long, possibly. Pharma rolls his eyes and yanks Chromedome down the hall. Behind them, Overlord snarls.

That snaps Chromedome out of it. He wrenches his hand out of Pharma's grip and skids to a stop as they hit an intersection. "No, not that way!" Pharma snaps without breaking stride, but Chromedome's already cutting down the hallway. Transforming hurts as several key nervecircuits glitch out, but he gets wheels under him and puts on another burst of speed. The more distance he can put between himself and both Pharma and Overlord, the better off he'll probably be. He can't think why Pharma of all people would be here, but trusting him would be a mistake.

The hall before him widens, terminating in a broad, golden airlock door. Chromedome doesn't stop, even when he hears cursing and shouts in his wake, and the airlock opens as he approaches, the two halves sliding into the floor and ceiling.

Chromedome then immediately slams on the brakes, his shoulder-wheels protesting violently, before he can ram into the crowd of mechs being ushered through.

All of them are weirdly, terribly familiar. Which is deeply unfortunate, because Chromedome thought they left the slagging Functionist Council back in the Functionist universe over a year ago.

Also? They brought another Overlord. The resemblance is more than uncanny; the blissful, serene cruelty in his smile seems to be a universal constant.

"Typical," Chromedome says.

He's got no idea what the aliens are hovering around them - and quite honestly, he's not overly interested. They're all shouting some variation on 'Stop' and 'Seize him' in a particularly nasal whine, and he's got so many other problems to deal with at the moment.

Like the fact that Overlord himself strides through the open airlock only a moment later, his pace perfectly casual, as though he has all the idle time in the world to hunt Chromedome down. At the sight of the Functionist Council and the scattered aliens, Overlord merely arches a brow.

At the sight of himself, he stops. The other Overlord stares back, taking only half a step out from behind the rest of the group, their lips parted to the exact same degree of fascination.

Their expressions clear at the same time. "Well, well. What have we here?" they say, in overlapping, purring unison.

Both freeze and cut off. Their stares intensify.

"Overlord. You will take this [redundancy] into custody," one of the Councilors insists, stiltedly. His single golden optic drags from one Overlord to the other, with a fanatical edge of desperation. Chromedome has too much else to remember, he can't be bothered to drag up which colors went with which Councilor.

Overlord steps forward, almost dreamily. Chromedome hastily switches into reverse and veers out of the way before Overlord can absently step on him. "Not now, Inquisitor," the second Overlord says, distantly. He crosses the space between them, meeting Overlord halfway, both of them apparently entranced.

Brainstorm had a whole spiel about the hypothetical repercussions of running into yourself that mainly depended on what kind of weird alternate universe situation led to it happening. Chromedome had mostly nodded along and checked out after Rodimus handed him the walkie-talkie, because listening to Brainstorm is an art form. He remembers the one about matter and anti-matter not touching, mostly, since it involved a lot of blowing up and that always got Brainstorm starry-eyed.

Unfortunately, when they finally stop, their mirrored faces mere centimeters from each other, Overlord and his double don't conveniently burst into flames. Overlord stares down a little - the Functionist Overlord is roughly half a meter shorter, his frame lacking most of Overlord's war upgrades and integrated weapons. It's kinda weird, but that might just be Chromedome's severely strained processor being unable to cope.

Each raises a hand, and the other inspects the motion as they shift their fingers, apparently fascinated.

It's definitely weird.

Then both Overlords break into identical, beatific smiles.

"Only one," Overlord says, flatly.

He then seizes his double by the throat and launches him across the shuttle bay. The Functionist Overlord sails through the air and slams into the side of a Class B Galactic Council warship several kilometers away. The Galactic Council builds big enough that the resulting hole doesn't actually do that much damage. But Overlord lunges after his double, his smile absolutely incandescent with rage. The missile that he launches from his shoulder isn't the kind of piddly projectile that can shred a Wrecker or level a prison - it's a Phase Sixer-class ordnance.

The explosion that follows is just barely far away that they don't all die instantly. The aliens around the Council peel away toward the commotion, shrieking and waving their tentacles as energy shields shoot up out of the floor. Overlord continues to unload on the warship, because apparently the best kind of kill is overkill.

The Functionist Council stare at the massive explosions in the distance, all of their optics huge circles of bright yellow. Whirl is an outlier and can never be counted, but it's Chromedome's opinion that they're experiencing what most people do around Overlord.

"...Anyway, have fun with that," Chromedome says. He flips around, tires smoking, and books it back the way he came.

Pharma flags him down at the intersection. Seeing two Overlords in one room kinda puts things in a different perspective, so Chromedome begrudgingly transforms rather than blasting past him. "I told you not to go that way!" Pharma exclaims as Chromedome follows him down another hall. His hands are back in one piece with perfectly normal proportions, and Chromedome can't pick out the transformation seams Pharma would need to extend his fingers through a ceiling vent to pick a lock.

"In my defense - well, you're you," Chromedome says. "Kind of a not good track record."

Pharma exhales a long, gusty sigh, and keeps running. He seems to know this place like the back of his hand. Chromedome can't tell where they are once they leave the shuttle bay far behind, but Pharma never hesitates when he reaches an intersection. They take every turn at top speed.

The walls convulse - and the ceiling slams down behind them. [Incursion detected,] a voice announces. [Standby for reformat.] Then the floor yanks out sideways; Pharma lunges and hits the far side running. Chromedome hurdles after him, and for an instant he gets a glimpse of the interior of the facility through the gap under his feet: everything is in motion, the golden panels and walls of thousands of floors overlapping and slicing through each other in a churning ocean. A wall chops down in front of them, cutting off their route, and Pharma skids to a stop.

"That seems not good," Chromedome calls. Could be worse, though - from the glimpse he caught, the hallway they're in seems stable.

Pharma plants his palm against the wall. He shakes his head vigorously, to clear it, then immediately takes off down another hallway that's rapidly going downhill. "It's time," is all he says. "Try to keep up."

Chromedome chances a glance over his shoulder, but can't see any signs of pursuit in the furious shuffle as rooms shunt diagonally through the hallway, leaving massive gaps between the structure of the walls. Between the ringing impact earlier and Overlord, two normal Cybertronians are hopefully low on any list of priorities. "At least Overlord should be distracted for a bit. I mean, what are the odds of running into his Functionist duplicate here, of all places?"

"Don't remind me. It's so contrived," Pharma says, through gritted teeth.

"You're! Welcome!" a voice shouts.

Chromedome jerks. He knows that voice. "Brainstorm!" he calls, putting on an extra burst of speed.

Pharma's eyes go wide as Chromedome passes him. "Wait!" he says.

Chromedome's foot comes down on nothing but air as the floor swings away. His stomach drops, hard.

Pharma seizes the back of Chromedome's hood, fingers gripping the underside with crimping force. Chromedome half-expects the hand to do something weird - but Pharma drags Chromedome up single-handedly and hauls him along the curved, separated panels of the floor. He always forgets medics can do that. The fanned-out walls start to form a broken stair with dangerously long gaps in between - barely jumpable.

At the top, Brainstorm waves a hand from a split in the wall. Pharma shoves Chromedome forward; he hears the piercing wrench as another section of floor begins to roil.

Chromedome catches Brainstorm's hand just in time for the floor to kick underfoot and launch them all tumbling back into the space behind the walls.

Chromedome's dizzy for a second - his head throbs, and he massages the side of it with a palm before looking around. The space is weirdly undisturbed - grey and plain, a regular old six-sided hallway that doesn't show any sign it's about to fly apart around them.

Pharma kicks his way out of the pile. His foot lands right on Brainstorm's chest. Brainstorm yelps. Pharma ignores him. The medic brushes his arms off, expression cantankerous as he glares anywhere but at them.

And it is them. Brainstorm rolls upright and helps Chromedome to his feet with exuberant energy. He's half covered in glittery-dust, for some reason, and beams as he pats Chromedome on the back. "You live!" Brainstorm says. "Always a good sign."

Whatever Brainstorm's about to say next cuts off with an audible click when Chromedome turns and hugs him.

Brainstorm always hesitates like he's caught off guard by hugs. But Chromedome can remember everything, now, and he thinks they both kinda need it. He's hugged Whirl - he's a qualified expert at these things.

"You are here!" Nautica exclaims, just as enthusiastic. She's wearing whatever glitter Brainstorm didn't find while crawling through the ductwork, apparently, and salutes Pharma with a wrench. "Thank you!"

Drift only takes his eyes off Pharma for a moment to offer Chromedome a smile. "Chromedome. All in one piece?"

"As promised," Pharma snaps back. He stalks away without waiting on them, muttering under his breath.

Sooo, all things considered, the Pharma situation is weird. But apparently they're all in this together. "Now what?" Chromedome asks.

"Now?" Brainstorm steps back, a dangerous twinkle in his eye. "We blow this popsicle stand wide open."

Chapter Text

---

            [] what do I do

after all this survival?

Trace of Brimhall, once of Castamere, <<Vive, Vive>>

---

First Aid shoots him in the head.

(Oh, the look on his face, though -)

-

-

-

-

Consciousness pops his bubble of silence.

A vast, empty abyss yawns under him. That's all his sensors can tell him.

The drop of the Delphi mining fissure.

In spite of the Autobot security forces in residence, the mine and its associated medical facilities were safe for all the wrong reasons. No Decepticon forces, no matter how bloodthirsty, would come anywhere near it. There was an ebb and flow, even before the Surge. It didn't take a genius to see that when Megatron was fixated on some backwater organic planet, he paid less attention to the atrocities being committed elsewhere. The less attention he paid, the more liberally the DJD took their mandate.

Messatine was an old favorite for the Senate. A place to discreetly bury inconvenient bodies. Tarn was a fan of the classics. So, in many ways, was Autobot special operations.

But that's not important.

He's hanging upside down; the stress on his waist as his slack wings weigh him down confirms it. Not long enough for it to put too much pressure on his fuel pump or spark chamber, where energon tends to pool and cause circulatory pressure issues. A drop of liquid runs up the inside of his arm, slowly, until it grazes the side of his hand and stills.

It's not a hand.

Pharma recoils violently, a spasm that wrenches him to the side. His other hand - it's not a hand - lashes out and smacks into the first before he finishes the thought, probes needling into the cords of his wrist. A chain reaction that feeds into itself.

He tried to rip them off once, already. It's hard to keep that in mind; he's been burning for a while now. The receptors in the first hand inform him of the exact chemical composition of the droplet - CR gel, grainy and enriched with trace elements of sentio metallico - while the second detects precisely how deep into his protoform the [not-hands are integrated - how impossible it is to remove them without ruining him for surgical work - and Pharma snarls. A hot knot of tension clenches just behind his forehead, ready to crack open again.

His body sways in a harder lurch, and Pharma freezes as the sensation of a terrible drop all around him registers again. The precarious tilt. How heavy his head feels.

Biting the inside of his mouth doesn't make the unnatural fluidness of the hands go away. But it cuts through the fog of a new processor booting up for the first time.

If First Aid had thought about how to really shut him up, had really given it some thought, he would've aimed lower. Basic anatomy. Any fool worth their medical license could stabilize someone with a missing head, give the resources and the room to work. Now Pharma's alive and well, fresh out of someone's CR chamber and turned upside down to drain. Idiot.

Pharma onlines his optics in time to watch that last drop of CR fluid trickle off his finger and fall - and fall, and fall, a faint glimmer that vanishes long before it could hit the bottom. His outstretched arm twitches again - a canceled transformation contraction - and the motion sends him turning slowly in a circle.

Pharma can see the bottom of the chamber perfectly. It's too far away.

-

There really is just something special about holding someone's life in your hands.

A head. A fuel pump cradled in an open chest cavity. A spark. The worst medics were the ones who cringed; who saw the inside of a mechanical body as nothing but gore, and panicked as they scrambled to staple it back together.

Pharma gloried in it. Frames were art. Long after the surgery table cleared for the day, he could devote hours to examining specimens to take in the detail. Immersing. Refining. He was proud of it. He and Ratchet were always the last to leave the medical bay, busy no matter where they were assigned or how the war raged. Let Ratchet handle the minutiae of paperwork as chief medical officer - Pharma always found the administrative side dull. He'd rather be on the cutting edge of developing new surgical techniques. Making the advances so critical to keeping the Autobot forces intact as weapons on both sides of the war got more and more horrifyingly creative.

Now, of course, things have rather lost that rosy tint. Ratchet, in hindsight, was always poor at saying goodbye and meaning it. Absolutely terrible, really. Completely oblivious.

Now, bodies are just so much meat.

Lengthwise, he thinks, and absolutely none of it matters.

-

(They assigned Ambulon there. They assigned Ambulon to him there, and Pharma wound himself in such agonizingly tight circles trying to figure out who in high command wanted to see everyone at Delphi dead so very badly -)

-

The grip on his ankle shifts.

The things that aren't hands react before the guns mounted in Pharma's shoulders respond, and that's the problem with them in a nutshell. The medic in him can assess and deduce that these hands are better integrated with his body than his forged hands used to be. These are his reflexes, unconscious and unfiltered. This is him, unhinged. It's only a difference of microseconds. It's too much. Impulse control is a thing of the past.

Perhaps, if he were a better, more stable person, he could tolerate it. Suck it up. Adapt.

He's really not. He hasn't felt stable in a very, very long time. Not since the first time Tarn sat him down, and demonstrated how the DJD could just as easily carve up and chisel a protoform with a finesse that would make Ratchet weep, until the Cybertronian lying on the floor stopped looking like a person, all of its spinal struts removed and all of its various circulatory systems spliced together in a continuous, acidic loop.

Not since he realized the mathematics of Messatine would never add up. Not in a way that mattered. Not where he could live with himself, after.

Ratchet took his hands, and now all Pharma can think is that he's been made whole in the worst, pettiest possible way. He broke, trying to solve an equation that could never balance, and really had no interest in putting himself back together in the aftermath. Yet someone persists in doing so.

He bares his teeth as he aims up beyond his feet, the targeting reticle struggling to fix on anything in the gloom.

Then his eyes catch up with the rest of his new head, and he realizes why the targeting reticle won't stop expanding.

The vast Cybertronian dangling Pharma by a string lifts him up and inclines its head at the same time, like the movement of two continents scraping past each other.

His not-hands fall slack.

[Pharma. It's time to wake up.]

"I would prefer not," he snaps, evenly split between anger and disbelief. He's still turning in a slow circle by his ankle, suspended only by a delicate extension of a titanic hand - a metal tentacle that coils around as it drags him up.

[That isn't true.]

The voice is all around him. How it must have echoed in all the holes Tyrest drilled in his skull. He'd had no idea where Tyrest got these hands from, and to be frank? Pharma hadn't cared. Luna-1 was filled with all sorts of miraculous, horrific instruments, and Pharma was filled with a fever. None of it felt real enough to matter in the long-term. If this is Tyrest's god - well, good for him, but -

But in the end, it's only a voice. And Pharma has a freshly rebuilt processor.

Pharma laughs, waiting for the slow turn to bring him back around to face her again. The dried CR gel grits in the back of his throat, bitter, bitter. "Whatever."

[Tell me, Pharma - would you like to help me fix something?]

"Funny - no." His [not-hands] flex, twisting, metal writhing into new shape. Chainsaws, before he even begins the thought. He shudders, revolted, while his mind skates off to the inevitable, medically-sound conclusion. Above the knee. It'll mean a longer rebuild, losing the joint, but his leg plating thickens significantly below the knee guard. Too risky. His hands can't shake - and these hands will hesitate before Pharma is even aware of it. Centuries of surgical training and technique, wasted. All it takes is a twist, a thought gone awry, and it'll happen.

-

In the end, removing everything that makes Ratchet Ratchet from the rest of his body is one of the simplest, most beautiful procedures Pharma could conceive of. He crooned as he worked, and on some level it registered that it was one of Tarn's old imperial symphonies, and it fouled his mood until Ratchet woke up.

But Pharma's hands never faltered. How could they, when this was Ratchet? This was a labor of love. Luna-1 held so many ways to cheat death, but that would be cheating. This was just him, Ratchet, and all of Ratchet in his hands.

He could never.

-

[But that's not quite true, either,] the Titan murmurs, seamlessly.

If there's emotion or anything like that in her voice, Pharma can't parse it. The sound is just that - sound. More importantly, he's distracted. The right chainsaw will have the best angle -

Pharma barks out another laugh, and can feel it trembling dangerously in his chest. If he keeps going, he won't know how to stop. Momentum is such a dreadful thing. "Why on Cybertron would I help you, again? I don't care. I don't care about any of this. I don't want to care," he snaps.

He wants a hundred things he can't have. He wants his hands to stop twisting in on themselves and expanding again, like globes of living, molten glass. He wants Ratchet to look at him, and he wants to have not thought that with this processor that is just a tad too clear. Too new, too fresh to catch on all the splinters and snags of his old, brittle mind. He's dangerously close to sane at the moment, and then he'll have to think about everything - absolutely everything - he's done, and that's another chain reaction waiting to happen. Poor, stupid Ambulon.

He mostly wants - he thinks, irritably - some peace and quiet. If First Aid can't manage to aim right, then fine - to find some place to hole up and sulk and be bitter, while he attempts to solve the classic, circular conundrum of how to disarm himself.

[Liar.] The vast, insectoid eye slowly spins back into view, a wall of baleful light that pins him in place. [All you do is care, in such ravenous ways. You're at the bottom of a pit, scrabbling at the walls.]

-

It's the gore-soaked pit where Roadbuster brutalized dozens of cadets. It's the basements scattered across the warfront where the New Institute lived on in the shadow of the Autobots. It's all the places that still needed a doctor on call, even after Ratchet - dear Ratchet, so noble, so righteous - started asking questions about things that special operations could never allow to see daylight. It's where Pharma goes whenever Prowl needs a surgeon who can be trusted to do what needs to be done to keep Tumbler from bleeding out into the cracks on the floor - to do what's necessary - and keep his mouth shut afterward, so that Ratchet couldn't get himself killed poking around where he shouldn't. It's all the places that Pharma was, so that Ratchet didn't have to be.

It's Delphi, where inconvenient things that know too much go quiet and stay quiet, and the DJD's net quite neatly intercepts any urgent, classified requests for redeployment. For the medical ward to be shut down. For anything that would make the calculations work, before Pharma could forget what he was solving for.

(It's probably the DJD.

Probably.)

-

Pharma really doesn't have anything to say to that. He clicks his vocalizer in mock disgust and looks down and away, glaring a [not-hand] into submission. An uneven claw, a wavering blade, saw teeth that line the seams of his fingers.

[Will you lend me a hand, Pharma?]

A jar. A stutter, in an otherwise sonorous monotone.

[Would you like\To try again?]

Pharma closes his hand into a fist. That fever still pulses, barely restrained, just behind his eyes. It would be easy.

Then he rolls up at the waist, folds his arms in front of his chest, and glares. "Why me?" he asks, dully.

The metal tendrils around his ankle begin to draw him up, inexorably, into the Titan's palm. He imagines that he can almost feel the smooth tentacles warping - an infinite fractal of hands forming out of the metal, grasping, hauling him up the same way they hauled him through Tyrest's space bridge -

Really now. As though he needed tactile hallucinations, on top of everything else on his meticulously maintained checklist of mental health problems.

[Dear doctor. Pharma. You recreated an echo of Death itself. Did you think such a thing would go unnoticed?]

-

After that conversation – after Pharma gets an inkling, however fleeting, of what Aletheia intends to do with that knowledge - he's just a nudge, here and there, extending the Titan's reach. For the finishing touches.

The Quintessons haven't even noticed, Pharma thinks, with a bloom of sour amusement, that she's the space behind every hallway. They haven't noticed that her space bridge can be anywhere she wants to extend it.

[If the Quintessons ask,] Aletheia says, as she opens every door for him, [tell them you serve High Judge Makrī.]

-

And here's the thing: they never do.

---

They say it's all been done but they haven't seen the best of me.

So I've got one more run and it's gonna be a sight to see.

- Panic! at the Disco, <<High Hopes>>

---

"You killed a Quintesson," Wheeljack repeats. Just trying to make sure he's got the story straight.

Megatron looks distinctly pained. "Yes."

"By ripping its spark out and using it as fuel for your own."

Megatron shifts. He can't seem to make eye contact with anyone. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time," he says, as though the mere act of speaking is causing the pre-eminent warlord of the galaxy deep strain.

"And then later you merged its energy into Trypticon, but Optimus - ?"

Megatron pinches his brow, his eyes closed. "I have always held that the Matrix was nothing more than a flashy trinket of the old world order. Optimus had no -"

"You somehow thought all of this was a good idea?" Springer interrupts, flatly.

"To be fair, on the list of all the decisions I've made in my life which were, in retrospect, unfortunate and poorly thought out -"

"And boy, what a list that is!" Whirl crows. He's still flat on his back on the floor; he kicks his legs up in a dramatic, pointed flourish.

"- this was really not the one that I expected to ever be relevant again," Megatron finishes.

Then he holds out both hands in front of him to ward off any further questions, and walks through the door.

-

Inside the Lotus Machine, there's only one person.

Which seems a little silly, considering how massive the outer structure is. Someone is definitely compensating for something. But what can you do.

There aren't any more obstacles. Most of it is empty space, lit from below by a transparent screen that spans the whole interior. The walls are a distant white, covered in clear crystal panels that barely stand out from the rest. Heavy, branching cables feed out of the floor into the back of an angled slab in the center of the room. Mnemosyne is the only color in the whole place, and she's tiny.

And she's fading.

Wheeljack really, really wants to sit down, head between his knees, and try to regain his balance. Every step feels like a miniature head rush, and it's not pleasant. His processor is gonna be backlogged for days, churning through the multiple, jumbled up layers of source metadata tagged to the memories of the past few days and figuring out where to stick 'em long term.

So it feels like the bad kind of irony that the Muse of Memory is dying.

"We need to hurry. If they flagged the use of the Quintesson's credentials, we could have company any minute now," Springer says. He pivots to keep an eye out back the way they came, while Grimlock fans out to the side, and raises his voice. "Whirl. Help cover the door."

Whirl salutes from the floor outside. Wheeljack can still hear him cackling as he rolls upright and hunkers down in a crouch. At least someone here is having fun.

"Easier said than done. She's deepwired into that mess," Wheeljack says. That's not the biggest problem, but saying the biggest problem aloud…would suck. Yup. That's the scientific term for it. It would suck. He finally gives in and crouches, not willing to sit down until they're out of this pit. "If we just start hacking and slashing, the backlash could kill her and everyone in her range of influence. And extracting her will definitely set off an alarm if we're not careful."

It probably can't be him doing any of this, either. Not with his arm fried and his head scrambled. Which leaves Megatron and Mesothulas, really.

Not a choice.

Eight tiny pinpricks tap rapidly down his shoulder and along his gingerly locked-up arm before Mesothulas launches himself off. "Here. I believe I can be of assistance," Mesothulas says, his tarantula form skittering across the lit floor before anyone can tell him otherwise. The mass shift engages only after he reaches the edge of Mnemosyne's slab, at the same time his arachnid legs and body armor transform back to reveal his broad-shouldered root mode. He stoops beside the angled back of the slab at once, clicking the mandibles of his mouth together. "Nasty work, this."

That doesn't stop Mesothulas from immediately digging into the guts of the back of the slab, the additional limbs casually prying open panels in the floor and unweaving the wires.

What does get the spider to pause is Springer.

"Hitched a ride, huh," Springer says. His voice is clipped; he doesn't look away from the door, his sight fixed on the room past Whirl. "I'm the only way you got out of that base intact."

Mesothulas flinches. It jostles one of his hands, deep in Mnemosyne's back, but another claw shots in to clamp down on the mechanism before Wheeljack has time to wince. "My apologies, Ostaros. I did not want to -" He visibly checks himself, and then ducks his head. Neither he nor Springer are looking at each other. "Under a shoulder panel, yes," he admits, modestly. "I found a way to know you. To be near you, after so long...so long…No. I never meant to leave you alone. Enough time passed, after the Noisemaze, that revealing myself would only have disrupted the home you had found. What peace you made for yourself. I have ever been…selfish."

Mesothulas ducks further down, almost completely obscured. "I'm - so sorry. I could not bear to say goodbye," he says. He sounds tired. Less like he's mourning, and more like he never stopped. "I did nothing but observe. Anything else would have been discourteous, don't you think?"

“I don’t know what I think,” Springer says, carefully controlling his voice. “But if you were watching Verity, too, that’s a violation.”

“She never left you,” Mesothulas counters.

Fulcrum and Krok crouch beside Mesothulas while he works, the only people here too out of the loop on who Mesothulas is to not be wary. Fulcrum's face goes on a journey every time Mesothulas unhooks something that looks painful and/or boobytrapped.

But most of that - if Wheeljack knows his ominous slabs - is life support. The kind of stuff you need to maintain someone comatose in long-term stasis, where a regular recharge slab won't cut it. Only takes a glance to see that the cable feed Mesothulas hesitates at is probably the only thing keeping a shrinking spark's energy levels stable. Tech of the kind that a medic would've cut their hands off for even before the war, that the Quintessons mastered and never passed on.

No obvious injury, no rust, nothing a CR chamber might be able to fix. Someone like Ratchet or First Aid could eyeball it better, probably, but Wheeljack's guess is old age. Her armor was a brighter, deeper green in memory - the way she remembered herself. You could blame the ashen cast on the half-light in the room, but when Mesothulas shoots Wheeljack another covert, inscrutable look -

Yeah. Yeah, that.

Wheeljack's shoulders slump, and he presses his head against one hand. Every part of him feels so heavy, like a satellite in falling orbit. All he can do is nod, exhausted.

Mesothulas tilts his head another fraction. Wheeljack can't tell who the pity is directed at. But Mesothulas goes back to the delicate work of unhooking Mnemosyne, humming so faintly Wheeljack can almost pretend it's nothing.

Prowl doesn't miss the exchange passing between them. "What," he demands, staring hard at the back of Mesothulas's head. When that doesn't get a response, he grimaces and looks down. He's locked up tighter than Springer, every armor panel clamped down; everyone whose head doesn't feel like it's half-rusted is probably running combat protocols right now. "Wheeljack…"

"She's too old," Wheeljack rasps out. Slag, even booting up his voice feels heavy. He rubs his maskplate with both hands. Age-related burnout happened so rarely, with the war. "That's all life-support. Vivere was fine, even fresh out of a smelter planet, but Mnemosyne, she's just old. Ancient. I doubt being forced to exert a sustained outlier ability on this magnitude did her any favors, either."

Doesn't matter, really. Mesothulas is already done. They're about to be out of time.

"Hey, wait - what?" Fulcrum protests, his head popping up. The last of the cables undone, Mnemosyne slides off the slab, and he and Krok are the ones who manage to steady her as Mesothulas scuttles back. The scientist is shrinking again already in the corner of Wheeljack’s eye, vanishing behind the life support slab as his arachnid limbs shrug forward. "Wait, back up. Did we just kill her?! Why did we unhook her then?"

"Because she wanted you to," Mnemosyne says. Even as she gets her feet under her, there's a measurable delay. A stumble, between her taking a step and her actually landing it. A sharp, dry crunch escapes her leg as she tries to straighten. Wheeljack can see the grey at the fringes of her armor, eating its way up from her fingers as she grasps Krok's hand, but she's not walking out of here on her own. "And because leaving me here would be worse," she adds. "Thank you." Then her cameras drift up and to the side, distant. "I remember now. I require my sister."

A chorus of screaming sings out through the room. Wheeljack's processor throbs.

[Incursion detected,] a layered voice announces, through the choral screech.

Krok tugs her arm over his shoulder, while Fulcrum gets the other side. "We've got you. But we've got to hoof it," Fulcrum says, emphatically, glancing nervously at the ceiling. "Grimlock, might need a lift over here!"

Whirl yells, "Uh, Team 'B-Listers Cunningly Disguised As A-Listers'? A lot of people out here want a word! Time to mosey!"

Prowl's voice is perfectly steady. "Megatron. Springer. Get out there and marshal whoever's mobile. I don't care how. If they waste time arguing with the Decepticons about who kidnapped who, we lose any element of surprise we might have over the Quintessons."

Wheeljack pushes up on his knees to straighten. It takes a mental kick or two, and an actual, physical tap on the side of his head with the heel of his palm, but finally his HUD clears more of the lingering error messages and overlays combat protocols.

Springer is already marching for the door. "Hate it when you make sense," he says, and then he's out.

"I may be…divisive," Megatron says, in what may be the single biggest understatement in the history of Cybertron.

Prowl forces out a vent of condensed fury.

"Uh, no, trust me, you are plenty 'visive," Fulcrum assures Megatron. He and Krok and Mnemosyne draw level with Wheeljack, and Wheeljack takes that as his cue to fall in line with them. Their group is weighted too heavily towards non-combatants and casualties. If there weren't a bunch of Cybertronians waking up outside the Lotus Machine, they'd be in real trouble.

Maybe. Grimlock and Springer weigh a lot, now that Wheeljack thinks about it. Grimlock falls in with the Scavengers, sword in hand as he looms. They all start heading for the door.

Megatron eyes them speculatively. Wheeljack would be more worried about that, but it's not about him. "Mm. Krok, if you would."

Krok stops dead. Grimlock plants a hand on the monoformer's back and continues walking, pushing the Scavengers and Mnemosyne along before they can fall behind. "What? Uh, sir." Krok asks, nervously.

Megatron smiles. It's a little bit of a smirk, from Wheeljack's angle, but Fulcrum emits an embarrassing squeak. "From what I saw when I scanned those present outside, you are still - technically - the highest ranked Decepticon in the room. Killmaster is a maestro," he comments.

Fulcrum sucks in a sharp vent, and reaches around Mnemosyne's back to start smacking Krok on the arm.

"Oh, great. No pressure," Krok mumbles. Then he sighs, readjusts Mnemosyne's slumped helm, and starts walking again with a purpose. Grimlock takes the opportunity to transform, lowering his head to give Krok one last nudge.

"Mnemosyne. Can you hear me?" Wheeljack asks.

From how fast she's fading, that's not a given. External, peripheral sensors will go out first, but Mnemosyne's cameras are still up and running. She doesn't quite lift her head from its tilted angle, but the lenses fix on Wheeljack. "I remember everything," she says.

Not quite an answer. But it is a response. "You remember what exactly we're dealing with here? The location of long-range trans-mat platforms, or space-worthy vessels? Anything to help navigate us out?" Wheeljack asks. He's trying his best, here, and he can feel Prowl turn his attention back to them.

"I require my sister," Mnemosyne repeats. It sounds mechanical, a buffer response. Wheeljack's spark sinks.

Then Mnemosyne cycles the focus of her cameras, and digs a hand into Fulcrum's shoulder. "There are exactly 3,330 Quintessons in existence. Here at Quintessa, at this time, there are 50 Judges present; 150 Scientists; 250 Bailiffs; 100 Servitors; 5 Emissaries. One Grand Architect, apart. We are on the sixth body of Quintessa - the Grand Architect's personal satellite, where he has been enthroned for an age. Two Titan bodies, Aletheia and Emissary, both forcibly grafted onto the body of the satellite. There are several Cybertronians of note on record as being leashed by the Grand Architect: Scorponok, Overlord, Prima, all present and active in the facility. Additionally, the satellite is currently under attack by two separate Cybertronian forces - one through the space bridge of the Titan Aletheia, and another bridged here collectively by the Titans Tempo, Kathikon, and Trypticon. Any of those four Titans would provide a viable method of escape; Emissary is compromised."

And with that, they reach the door.

Prowl looks absolutely lost. Wheeljack is trying to remember if he knows any of these Titans personally, and is coming up with, uh. Trypticon. Kathikon? Tempo? If those two came from Cybertron, where has Windvoice been having them park? Starscream must be losing his mind.

Prowl appeals to Wheeljack with a look, and Wheeljack shrugs. A silent 'sure, why not?' "Trypticon was hanging around Cybertron. We can work with that? Probably?"

"How do you know any of this?" Megatron asks.

"I remember everything," Mnemosyne repeats, with a tiny smile. Then - "I require my sister."

-

"Alright, listen up!" Springer calls. Sounds like he has to dig deep to find his command voice, but it’s there, however reluctant, as they catch up. "My name’s Springer. We’ve all been taken prisoner by a hostile group called the Quintessons. Sounds like they just caught on to the fact that there's a jailbreak in progress, so we don't have time to argue."