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Chapter Text

Transformers Animated: Journeys

Like a Son

Ratchet breathed deeply, inhaling as much cold air as he could to cool his intakes and calm his rapidly beating spark.

The old bot had to clear his processor of unwanted, distracting thoughts. Long-forgotten trauma that threatened to overwhelm his mind, and bring him to his knees.

He couldn't succumb to the nightmares. Not now.

The bot that haunted his dreams could have recovered already, could be lurking behind him right now to jump him when he was at his lowest, weakest point.

For his own sake – and for Optimus' – he couldn't afford to break down now.

Lockdown was cruel and merciless. Ratchet knew so from first-hand experience. The unpatched wound on his left arm throbbed again and he clutched at it, hissing.

He had been mercifully unconscious when Lockdown had ripped his EMP generator off of his arm, but when he had finally come to and laid sight upon his injury, the pain, so very real, had stabbed at his limb.

Back then, what prevented him from succumbing to hysteria from the torturous sensation was the need to protect Arcee. To get her and himself away from and out of Lockdown's clutches. He had done so, but at the cost of damaging Arcee's processor. Now, she was lying comatose and abandoned in the intensive care unit at Cybertron Central Infirmary – and had been for the last 4 million stellar cycles.

All because he had failed.

And now, Lockdown had returned to haunt him again, capturing his commanding officer to sell to the ruthless Decepticon Elite. If he succeeded, Ratchet knew that he and the others would never see Prime again.

"That won't happen, young bot," he silently promised, "I won't fail you like I failed Arcee."

Bracing himself for what he might find, Ratchet pressed a button on the panel that opened the door to the cargo hold of the Death's Head.

"Prime!" he gasped softly, his vocalizer barely forming words upon seeing the state of his leader.

Optimus was barely conscious, strapped painfully tight to an operating table by carbon fibre cords. The plating on his arms was cracked and jaggedly dented, no doubt the handiwork of Lockdown ripping his mods off his limbs. Mech fluid oozed from his wounds.

"That bounty hunting scum!" Ratchet inwardly cursed.

"R-Ratchet?" the voice of his commanding officer answered him. It was timid and shaky in its response – and very, very afraid.

"By the Allspark, he really is just a kid," Ratchet thought as his fists clenched with the instinctive desire to protect.

His spark ached at the sight of his leader, at his currently feeble and pathetic state. Prime was usually so stalwart – so mature and wise beyond his stellar cycles.

But right now Ratchet was reminded of how young Optimus really was.

The young captain had never endured endless millennia of war. He had never witnessed the countless deaths of comrades so close and so dear. He had never lived with the terrifying sensation that every day, every hour, might be your last.

And he had never felt what it was like to be a prisoner of war, tortured for no reason other than for your captors to see you suffer.

Until now.

Ratchet pressed the button on a nearby panel to release the restraining wires. Optimus shakily sat up, groaning in agony.

"Hold still. Don't try to talk," the doc-bot instructed the youngling, "I need to make some adjustments."

Before he could engage his diagnostics program, however, the ship's engines rumbled to life beneath them.

"Launch sequence is starting – we gotta move!" urged Ratchet.

Summoning extra reserves of strength through his servos, Ratchet helped Optimus to his feet. Still disoriented and weak from pain, the young captain could barely stand, stumbling uncontrollably when he tried to walk.

Ratchet let him lean on him, assisting him every step of the way.

Don't worry, kid. I'll get you out of here.

Then the cargo hold door whooshed open in front of them, Lockdown lunging out of the shadows to strike.

Ratchet was barely aware of the bounty hunter using his leader's grappling hook to launch him back. His processor was too stunned from his body being slammed unforgivingly against the wall of the hull.

Only when his optics caught sight of Lockdown kicking Prime aside, the young bot letting out a weak scream as he did so, did Ratchet find the energy to focus and stand up again. A rage unlike anything he had ever felt before flowed through his circuitry.

Now, despite what most people and bots might think of his surly personality, deep down Ratchet cared.

Even though Earth was no Cybertron, Ratchet had found interest in human relationships. Particularly the bonds between that of a family. He remembered Sari informing him about the topic, one time. Sari was the daughter of Professor Sumdac, because she was a young female. Young human males called their biological sires "father".

Fathers called their male offspring by the title of "son".

Cybertronians weren't brought online the same way that humans bore new life. There was no biological aspect, no love between that of a mature male and female. Only protoforms, and the Allspark, and for a long while, Vector Sigma.

The closest thing a sparkling would have in comparison to parental figures would be the teachers and mentors throughout their life cycle.

That was the way of life on Cybertron.

But despite his reluctance to accept Earth as his home, Ratchet was fond of at least one aspect of its culture. The love between child and parent, and the parent's duty to protect their child no matter the cost.

"Get away from him, you fragging slagheap!" Ratchet roared as he got up, before charging at Lockdown once more.

"It's not that I don't want to remember it. I have to remember… for those who can't," Ratchet explained. Despite finally finding closure from Lockdown's defeat, the memories were still too painful to deal with. If Optimus were any other bot, Ratchet would have shut down this conversation by now.

"Still, I don't suppose it hurts to talk about it sometimes," Prime offered, "With a trusted friend?"

Ratchet sighed deeply.

Prime had endured unspeakable torment at the hands of Lockdown, one of the Decepticons' worst.

He had more than earned the right to know. He deserved nothing more than the truth.

"So what do you wanna know?"

As the old doctor and the young captain lost themselves in a long night of discussion, Prime's words kept replaying at the back of Ratchet's processor.

A trusted friend.

Oh, Prime… you're so much more than that.

Ratchet wasn't ready to admit that yet – but one day he might, when the threat of the Decepticons was no more, and the chance of losing anymore bots dear to him was none.

Chapter Text

A Spider's Wrath

The forest at night made Optimus uneasy.

The dark canopy of the leaves and branches above him felt too much like a certain cave.

The cavern from his nightmares. The lowest point of his life.

If he hadn't fled like a coward, they wouldn't have gotten separated. If he had stayed to rescue her, then there wouldn't be a rift between Sentinel and himself right now. He wouldn't wake up burdened by guilt every day. She would still be wholly Cybertronian, and she'd never be full of bitter hate and self-loathing.

"We'll find a cure together. Let me earn back your trust," he had once pleaded to her, after she had finally revealed herself to him, after all these stellar cycles.

It had been a hopelessly naïve promise. A pathetic and pitiful attempt to heal old scars that would forever bring pain to both of them.

She had declared that it would be a long time before she could trust him again, if ever, and had left him to lick old wounds that had been reopened.

But he never thought she would stoop this low – hurting her other brethren, killing innocent Autobots, just to get back at him.

The clanking of his feet against the cold, stony ground stung his audio receptors. The din sounded too similar to that of a funeral bell.

Prime picked up the pace. The venom would take the lives of Bumblebee and Prowl, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing, except apologize, and promise that their deaths wouldn't be in vain.

Even though it was. It was a futile loss of life, and not even for the purpose of a sacrifice.

Just a cold-blooded double murder by a tortured soul. A soul that he never should have abandoned.

But even in his darkest thoughts, he never thought an Autobot could do this to one of their own.

Do I even know you anymore, Elita?

There was a frosty chill in the air as Optimus approached the bodies of Prowl and Bumblebee.

All the sights around him had blended into the greys and blacks of the darkness of the night.

Almost like a harbinger of doom. The scent of death hung in the air.

"I'm sorry," sighed Optimus as he knelt down next to his lieutenant and private, "I tried to save you."

The gentle hums that signified the online systems of a Cybertronian began to grow dimmer and dimmer.

Then, Prime's optics fell upon the injection gun that lay a little off to the side.

"The antidote!" he gasped, hope returning to his spark, "She kept her word after all."

With seconds to spare, he applied the techno-vaccines to his subordinates.

Looks like there's still hope for us yet.

"How long have we been here?" Bumblebee's voice pulled him away from his thoughts.

For once, Prime welcomed the distraction, allowing a small smile of relief and fondness to cross his faceplate.

Chapter Text

" Young bots. Can't live with them, can't melt them down for spare parts."

– Ratchet,  Transform and Roll Out: Part 1

The Youth and the Elderly

Of all the bots that Prowl now worked alongside with, the one he found himself most compatible with was Bulkhead.

Ratchet was too surly and crotchety, Bumblebee was too immature, and their leader Optimus was naïve and green, in the metaphorical sense.

The big bulldozer, on the other hand, was at least sensitive and empathetic. Still, however, Prowl kept his distance and maintained his silence. He still felt envious of how these four bots were content with their own fortunes, or at the very least able to hide their own conflicts, if they had any, behind a mask.

While he, a cyber-ninja for spark's sake, stood out from the rest – bitter, aloof, and very much alone.

So, as he busied himself with another day at work in the asteroid field with Bulkhead, Prowl was grateful that the big lug gave him his own personal space to silently vent.

But he soon found out that while Bulkhead was amicable and considerate, he was still young and very much clumsy.

As he shattered a rock mound with a stomping kick, Prowl heard Bulkhead shout a warning above him.

It came too late, as the rocky hill that Prowl was standing beside poured down a pile of boulders onto his thin and small frame.

His processor was knocked into stasis as stones of all shapes and sizes buried him alive.

Dim light was the first thing that Prowl became aware of as his systems rebooted.

He tried to sit up, but a steady hand kept him forced down on the operating table.

"Don't move. I'm still welding the cracks in your leg armour," the gruff voice of Ratchet filled his audio receptors.

Prowl groaned as he blinked his optics to clear his vision. "What happened?"

"With his typical unpolished aim, Bulkhead managed to bring half the mountain down on ya," the doc-bot answered.

"Oh," Prowl said simply.

"Ya know, I must admit I'm impressed with how well you've taken to this 'common maintenance bot' act," Ratchet continued, "Especially since you've been around since the Great War."

"How did you know that?" Prowl asked as he suddenly straightened.

"I have to keep medical records of my patients, kid. I know you were around since the tail end of the war, and part of the Cyber-Ninja Corps too, though the second point was a lot more obvious."

"Could you modify those records and not tell anyone else on this crew?" Prowl requested, "I'd rather keep my past in the past."

"It would be questionable for me to carry that out," Ratchet answered, "But I can understand your feelings. Fortunately, this is your first check-up, so I can easily modify your medical record – and it will be a long time before we return home, so we needn't worry about any legal issues. And any secret you share will be sealed behind my mouthplate. I can promise you that."

"Thank you," replied Prowl, as he relaxed back on the platform.

Ratchet continued his work, and there was a companionable silence between them over the next few cycles.

Then the doctor spoke once more.

"This has something to do with that outburst of yours when we met you a few stellar cycles back, doesn't it?" queried the medi-bot.

"To answer your question, yes. And that's all I want to say about that," the ninja-bot replied curtly.

"Ya know, you could also talk with Prime. You two are more alike than you think," Ratchet advised.

"I'd really rather not," insisted Prowl, "He may know grief and pain, but he lacks wisdom and maturity."

"Isn't that the case for all of us at one point, kid? Though I may not act like it often, I do not hold the belief that knowledge automatically comes with age," said Ratchet emphatically, "It must be earned through experience, and some of us learn faster than others."

The cyber-ninja thought back on his initial meeting with these strange band of bots, and he remembered the conversation he had had with their leader.

The boulder split and separated from Prowl's wrathful strike. The frustrated bot spun around to vent.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to embark on a path, only to find it so completely twisted and turned that you have no idea where you are?!"

The group's captain approached him, and placed a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder plate. He looked straight at the ninja-bot, with optics that held its own history of sorrow. His voice also carried a certain weight to it – wisdom earned at such a young age, albeit at a high price.

"Oddly enough, I do," the young bot answered him.

Somehow, those words had lessened some of the strife within the ninja's spark, if only a little.

"I guess I can try talking to him. One of these days," Prowl said at last.

"No one's asking you to talk right away," interjected Ratchet, "But from one veteran to another, it ain't healthy to keep your trauma sealed up inside of ya. Sometimes it's the young bots who can pass a few wise teachings onto us."

"Point taken," conceded Prowl as the doc-bot finally finished welding him up.

"There you go. You're all back in one piece," Ratchet said as he lent Prowl a hand in standing up, "Now if I were you, I'd go report to Prime that I'm alright."

Prowl nodded, and made to leave without a word. However, he paused at the doorway, mulling over something hesitantly.

"You know, doc," he faltered, "Between you and me, I'm not really a veteran."

With nothing else to be said, the ninja left the doctor to his own privacy.

Prowl couldn't find Prime or anyone else on the ship, so he decided to drive back out onto the field until he found someone.

The first bot he came across was Bulkhead, busy clearing what remained of the rockslide at the hill where the incident had taken place.

"Bulkhead, do you know where I can find Prime?" Prowl asked as he transformed.

"He's out with Bumblebee on the far side of the field," replied Bulkhead, looking down, "And… sorry for the rockslide."

"Don't mention it – it's alright."

"No it's not!" Bulkhead continued, "You were almost crushed offline. I deserved nothing less than the mouthful that Prime gave me while you were in Ratchet's medical room. I'm nothing more than a clumsy moron who destroys stuff. That's the only thing I can do – smash things and leave them shattered."

Bulkhead angrily punched a boulder. It shattered into smaller pieces, which went flying through the airless void of space.

"I can never fix anything – I just mess it all up!"

"Well," began Prowl, "I guess we can teach each other a thing or two."

"Me? Teach anything? You think too highly of me," Bulkhead sighed miserably.

"I'm serious – trust me," Prowl persisted, "I may be logical and efficient, but there are things that even I don't know much about."

"Like?"

"Well, first things first, I can teach you how to be more graceful and light on your stabilizing servos," Prowl offered, "And in return, you can tell me what it was like for you growing up on Cybertron."

"You come from the colonies?" Bulkhead asked, surprised, "Even for an off-worlder, you're a long way out from civilization."

"Not necessarily. I hail from Cybertron. I just haven't been home in quite a while," Prowl admitted to the young bot, "I want to know what it's like these days."

"Well," Bulkhead rumbled, his left claw-hand opening to carefully shake Prowl's own lithe hand, "I guess we really can teach each other some things. You've got yourself a deal."

Prowl smiled – something that he hadn't done in thousands of stellar cycles – as he and Bulkhead got to work, clearing debris from the space bridge network and simply discussing. Passing on wisdom from one common bot to the next.

This tranquil and placid routine carried over for the next few deca-cycles, and all was well.

It was, after all, just as Ratchet had said.

Wisdom can come from anyone, no matter the age.

And that was enough to keep the peace among this eccentric band of bots.

At least until the Allspark eventually showed up.

Chapter Text

"All I'm good at is breaking stuff."

– Bulkhead,  Headmaster

Abstract

Destroy. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy.

That's all I can do.

Work on administration duties? Something breaks. Usually files or cargo supplies, or some other dumb thing. If something doesn't get smashed by me, it usually gets misplaced, darn it.

Project development? I'm crud at everything unless it revolves around space bridges – and there's nothing to be done with those. They function smoother and more efficiently than I do, for spark's sake!

I'm not fast enough to be a racer, not graceful enough to be a ninja, and there's no war to fight and destroy things… or other bots… not that I'd want to do that. I would if I needed to, but there's no need for me to do so.

There's no need for me anywhere.

Heck, even the couriers say that I'm the clumsiest, slowest processor in the galaxy.

To the Pit with this.

Yeah, I've got Earth culture to entertain me, and my friends to reassure me, but what good is life if I can't do anything useful with it? I can't seem to find something worthwhile to commit to that I don't immediately screw up. Can I do anything with significant purpose without tearing it all down by some stupid accident?

Or is it just the hand that fate dealt me?

Bumblebee may be jealous of my size and strength at times, but really, I secretly envy him. He knows what he wants to be. He chases after his dreams and nothing can stop him. He doesn't stop himself. He's no burden to himself or anyone else.

I wish I could be like that.

Prowl tried teaching me how to be an elegant cyber-ninja, and while I did pick up a few pointers, I really can't escape the reality that I'm built to be someone else. I'm not a warrior or a master, or anything worth respecting in that regard.

I'm just me. Bulkhead. A big, dumb lug with only the capacity to break and destroy.

Heck, even Ratchet spends a few cycles every now and then looking at me with pity, offering up proverbs and cryptic lessons which don't make any sense to me. At least not now. I tried to get him to give my processor a diagnostics program, but for some reason he wanted me to persist in finding an outlet that didn't include the destruction of anything in the nearby vicinity. That's probably the kindest I've ever seen him as of now.

Though I can't really grasp where he's coming from. To me, the doc-bot's always been stern and strict and… well… just plain uncaring. Sure he can fix you up whenever you got a hole in your armour, but often he'd threaten to dent you up himself if you showed any sign of disrespect.

Ah, this is just too complex for my processor to handle.

I wish I was like Prime. Never letting anything distract me or get me down. Always efficient and purposeful in everything I do. And never screwing up.

Boss-bot really is one to admire.

And me?

I'm just a heavy and useless burden.

This tanks.

Chapter Text

The Concept of Purpose

Now I see the beauty of life.

I see the triumphant persistence of sentience.

Despite all the hardships of mortality, each one of us has a greater purpose to strive for.

Yes, there is darkness, and gloom, and sadness and loss, but life goes on – and it is beautiful.

You can see it around you, if you look hard enough.

I can tell you the beauty that I've found.

I see it – in the sprightful activities of my best friend. In the tales of wisdom from Ratchet. In the sights of the city when we speed off to save lives from an emergency. In the simple contours and nuances of nature when you are silent and still, and allow yourself to simply observe. And simply be.

I see energy in the comradery between me and my teammates.

I see the love between Sari and her father.

I see how deep a friendship can truly be when I catch sight of migrating birds, making their own journeys in the world, together in flocks, flying in unity like a family.

I see the magnificence of existence all around me, and I'm able to transpose it into still imagery to be preserved in the context of its time and place in history, able to forever be observed by other life forms to enjoy and marvel at.

Art gives me purpose.

Art gives me something to strive for.

The joy of creativity is the cure to the bitterness of self-loathing.

I've found who I want to be.

And as long as I can live each day, fulfilling my purpose, with friends and family by my side, then there is truly nothing to lose.

Yes, there is darkness, but also light.

There is sadness, but also joy.

There is loss, but there is also love.

Life is art. And that's more than enough for me.

Chapter Text

The Inventor

Ever since he was a mechling, Wheeljack has always loved tinkering with discarded devices.

Everything, from door alarms to shuttle engines.

If it could be found in a scrapheap, young Wheeljack would travel there and mechanically study it.

Floron III had no shortage of discarded tech, with the planet often being used as a supply yard, salvage yard, and junkyard – all rolled into one. Not to mention that a lot of bright minds were often found to have been protoformed on the planet.

As such, Floron III had a decent amount of security from the Autobot Commonwealth, as its strategic value was too great for the Autobot forces to risk losing the planet to the Decepticons. This resulted in safe childhoods for the protoforms who grew up there and happy lives for the bots who inhabited the sector.

"Come on, Percy!" the stocky mechling called to Perceptor, his younger, thinner friend, who scampered behind, having trouble with negotiating the unstable terrain.

"I would increase my velocity, if I could," Perceptor replied as his chassis was jostled about on the rough surface.

"Hurry! We're almost there!" Wheeljack shouted from the front.

The two mechlings skidded into Floron III's main scrapyard in their vehicle modes – a white racer with red and green stripes for Wheeljack, and a compact off-road pickup truck for Perceptor.

Transforming, Wheeljack made his way over to a small pile on the far right side of the processing plant.

"I saw a gyro-stabilizer here a week ago. I managed to complete enough odd jobs to gain enough credits to buy that sweet baby," the tinkerer explained.

"And what exactly do you plan to do with the gyro-stabilizer?" Perceptor asked.

"Why, make an even better version of it, of course! And then patent it for use on the Autobot market!"

Perceptor wasn't one for dry wit, but he couldn't help flinging an affectionate barb at his best friend.

"You wish!"

Several vorns later, Perceptor found himself swallowing his words when Drouhard University gave Wheeljack a free entry and scholarship into their institution as a token of gratitude from the Autobot High Council for his invention of the Gyro-Stabilizer Mk 9, which made Autobot ships across the commonwealth run even more smoothly and efficiently in the war against the Decepticons.

Fortunately, however, Perceptor was able to get a free scholarship entry himself via his submission of a data file essay on a theory regarding superior energon refinement.

The two childhood friends studied for the next several vorns, and graduated with doctorate degrees in engineering and science.

They enlisted in the Iacon Science Guild on Cybertron just in time to contribute to an Autobot counterattack in response to another wave of Decepticon skirmishes that were currently sweeping across the galaxy.

With their bold advances in science and technology, the two friends helped turn the tide of a lot of battles.

But for each trial that ends in success, there is also one that ends in error – and loss of life.

"I miscalculated," snarled Perceptor as he slammed his fist down onto his desk.

His fingers were already dented and cracked, and the paint on his palm was scuffed and scratched.

"It happens to all of us, old friend," Wheeljack said as he approached from behind, trying to console the self-loathing scientist, "No bot can get it right all the time."

"But we lost Paradron to the Decepticon forces. My efforts weren't enough," Perceptor groused.

"We lose and regain planets and systems all the time. It's no one's fault," answered Wheeljack, "Except for the Cons'."

"There were massacres of Autobots who had already surrendered, and plenty more have gone MIA – most likely taken prisoner, but to spark knows where!" hissed Perceptor, the final part of his sentence a burdened whisper.

"Well, really, in the end, how does anyone expect two bots to make all the difference?" Wheeljack reasoned.

Perceptor stiffened at the question, before a thought flowed through his processor.

"If I'm not distracted by my intuitions, I can dedicate a whole lot more to the cause," Perceptor breathed, coming to an epiphany.

"What do you mean?" asked Wheeljack apprehensively.

"Can I ask you to do something big for me?" the scientist said as he turned around to face him.

"That depends," the inventor replied, "What is it?"

"Perform open-processor surgery on me. Delete all of my personality subroutines from my hard drive. That way I will be able to store countless more information which can help us."

"Are you crazy?! I'm not gonna do that to ya!" Wheeljack shouted.

Perceptor tilted his head downwards and sighed.

"Are you an Autobot?"

"What? Yes."

"Are you my friend?"

"Very much so."

"Then do this. Do it for me, and for every Autobot out there in the cosmos, fighting for their lives."

Wheeljack's shoulder joints sagged, but after a few cycles of silent deliberation, he finally nodded.

"Alright – but only for you, old friend."

The process was completed several stellar-cycles later.

Perceptor had changed.

His optics no longer shined as brightly as they did before. He walked rigidly with purpose, with no time to spare for personal wants, needs or desires.

He drove like a mindless drone, talked like a mindless drone, and looked at the world – at life and the universe around him – like a mindless drone.

A mindless drone with thoughts only for scientific progress and strategical advancement.

Now it was the turn of the scientist's friend to curse himself.

Even though the surgery was consensual, and ultimately for the best, the inventor still felt like scum every time he laid optics upon his childhood friend.

"What the slag did you sign me up for?" the young medi-bot growled as he caught up to the scientist in the hallways of the Science Guild.

"Sorry kid, but what Ultra Magnus said back there is true," Wheeljack replied, "We do what we must – even if sometimes, it doesn't make sense."

"Don't give me that fragging proverb!" Ratchet snapped, "This is unethical! This is barbaric! This is–"

"Crazy, I know! We've always been crazy, us science bots. It's the only way we know how to survive."

"There's more to life than just surviving!"

"You can lecture me about that when there's no more war. No more death," Wheeljack said simply, "And no more sacrifices."

"Hah! What do you stuck-up malfunctions know about sacrifice?!" sneered Ratchet with contempt, "You sit up here in command centers, creating and ordering your underlings to fight and die for you – to do your own dirty work!"

"Oh you think medical work is dirty? At least you know what to do with your talents! You can make the lives of other bots around you better!" Wheeljack countered, "You think that I don't have my own ruminations that haunt me?! Look, I'm sorry that you got stuck with teaching a weapon of mass destruction how to be a sentient being, but at least you were never asked by your best friend to wipe out a part of who they are!"

"You did what?" Ratchet asked, horrified.

"You heard me! I wiped out all of Percy's subroutines that had nothing to do with science and survival so he could focus on getting as much of us through this Pit-damned war alive! He requested me to do so, and I complied! I'm scrud and I know it!" the inventor ranted to the younger bot, "Now can you please just go back to your post? I have to go back to mine, regardless of whether I still like my duties or not, and I can't afford to screw things up just because I'm emotionally unstable. As you pointed out, I've screwed up enough already."

The inventor turned at the entrance of his quarters and made to press the button on the panel to close the sliding doors.

As he did so, he saw the young doctor staring at him with optics filled with regret and a new understanding.

After that discussion with the outspoken medic, Wheeljack vows to fight at least one battle on the front lines.

He gets his wish when the Decepticon forces invade Cybertron, spearheading their final, all-or-nothing campaign with a siege on Iacon.

Ultra Magnus gives permission for any bot who wishes to directly enter the battle to go, regardless of ability, status or position. Wheeljack doesn't hesitate to pick up the sub-atomic particle chaingun that he's been working on for the past hundred vorns.

His invention works excellently. The carnage he wreaks is magnificent, beautiful, and terrifying altogether.

And yet without the aid of the Omega Sentinels, Wheeljack is sure that they all would have been crushed by now.

Brawn had been fighting alongside him, a few solar-cycles back. A Decepticon sniper had left him in critical condition – a large chunk of his face had been blasted off by supercharged plasma, all the way from his left audio receptor to his left cheek guard.

Warpath had vanished in an explosion behind him not over a mega-cycle ago. Medics had to be pulled back from the front lines to attend to the area of the blast, where hundreds of bots had been hit.

That meant there was little help for those downed by Decepticons on the front lines.

Vroom, one of the greatest veterans this war had produced, had been cornered by several Cons and ripped apart piece by piece. At least it had been quick.

Windcharger, a young soldier who had not even seen a million stellar cycles of action, had been torn to shreds by enemy laserfire, screaming in agony the entire time.

And the Omega Sentinels themselves were beginning to succumb to this hellish nightmare.

Swarms of energy fire brought them, one by one, to their knees. They valiantly returned fire with their own cache of missiles, bullets and lasers, but Blackout, Blitzwing, Lugnut and Megatron working together in coordination proved to be an even match for a single giant.

Ballistic weapons eventually turn the beautiful cityscape into a twisted wreck of metal spires. Brawls and shootouts in the streets soon morph into brutal open-field warfare. Plenty more Autobots fall, before finally Sigma Supreme and Omega Supreme turn the tide of the battle.

What's left of the Decepticon forces surrender, and are taken prisoner and disarmed. Ultra Magnus condemns them to eternal exile.

The savage monsters leave, and soon, the long clean-up of the messy aftermath begins.

Wheeljack finds Ratchet in the medical compartment of Omega Supreme's ship mode, tending to the numerous wounded, treating as much dying bots as he can before they lose their fading sparks and join the countless casualties that are still being tallied.

Ratchet fixes him up, welding cracks closed, refilling lost mech fluids, and splicing broken circuitry back together. Then Wheeljack takes his leave. Neither bot says a word to each other.

There's been too much loss, too much death, during these past couple of orbital cycles.

What energy the survivors have left is barely wasted on words. For a long while, there's only repairs, rebuilding, and the occasional stern and solemn command, or off-duty banter.

But other than that, Cybertron is as silent as the deepest, blackest void of space.

The inventor finds his old friend polishing a sniper rifle.

He stops at the doorway to the scientist's quarters, taken aback.

"You… you actually fought out there?" he asks Perceptor.

The scientist emits a simple, sincere response.

"It was only logical that I should. All hands were needed. Otherwise, none would have survived."

Wheeljack can barely bring himself to look at his childhood friend. The inventor notices that his own hands are trembling.

He leaves Perceptor to his tasks, closing the door behind him.

He transforms and rolls out, driving out into the wreck of the city.

He hopes – even though it's not likely – that Maccadam's Old Oil House has not been destroyed in the carnage of the final battle.

He needs a drink.

Sometime in the far future…

"I'm really not sure about this, kid," Wheeljack said to the newest Autobot Supreme Commander.

"If Ratchet recommended you as chief engineer, who am I to doubt his word?" Optimus Prime replied.

"You ask so much of a bot who's lived his whole life surrounded by war, fighting in it, and contributing to it – and not often in the best ways," Wheeljack continued.

"I know a couple of elders who speak the same truths," said Optimus, his optics fixed on Wheeljack's, "That's why I'm asking you to be a part of the new war council. We need the wisdom of wise, old veterans to guide us in the renewed war against Megatron and his Decepticons."

"Has it not occurred to you that your elders have done more than enough fighting for a life-cycle?" the old inventor asks after several moments of heavy, contemplative silence.

"I wouldn't be asking if the universe wasn't desperate," Optimus said simply, "I truly am very sorry, sir."

The old bot lets out a hollow, bitter laugh. Yet the young Prime might have never picked up the resentful undercurrents, for Wheeljack's voice still carried an everlasting mirth within it.

"Is Perceptor remaining on the new council?" he finally asks the youngling.

He gets a simple nod from Optimus in reply.

Then there's several more cycles spent in deep thought.

A lifetime of war. Everlasting war. A war that refuses to die.

The old inventor feels like he has changed so much.

Then again, he was protoformed during war, grew up in war, fought in the war, and now… the war is calling him back again.

"Well… as long as I can still invent and blow Cons up with Perceptor by my side," he thought to himself, before finally giving the young Autobot Leader his answer.

"Then you can count me in, kid."

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"Let's just say I have a much better appreciation for what you went through back in the day, and why you don't want to remember it."

– Optimus Prime,  The Thrill of the Hunt

Torture

The EMP blast left him lethargic and stunned.

He was still conscious though, as Lockdown approached him. He just couldn't do anything about that.

The bounty hunter's chainsaw whirred to life and came down upon his right arm.

Optimus screamed.

It was sheer, downright agony.

And Lockdown seemed to enjoy every second of it.

Back in his youth, Optimus had studied the worst of the Decepticons' war crimes in history vids and files, but never did he come across such cruel acts of torture as the one being inflicted on him right now.

The pure reality of the actual experience was far, far worse than he could have ever imagined.

Yes, he had faced death and came back, but that was vastly more preferable to the torment he was enduring right now.

At least it had been over quickly.

But here, the pain seemed to go on forever.

If he were human, Optimus was sure he would've done that "crying" action, as Sari had called it.

Lockdown didn't even try to make precise cuts. He just sawed out rough approximations to get at the weapons inside of him.

At last there came a reprieve from the torture. But it was only temporary. The bounty hunter angled the chainsaw away from his arm, before ripping out his mods, one by one.

His grapplers.

His bola launchers.

His extinguisher cannons.

They were all ruthlessly extracted by Lockdown, with Optimus letting out pitiful cries of pain all the while it happened.

The job was only half-done, however, and the bounty hunter moved on to start at his left arm.

Optimus' consciousness was overwhelmed by the sounds of his own screaming as the chainsaw came down again.

He'd give anything to make it stop.

And to think that this was just the beginning.

Lockdown was just having his fun before he would hand him over to the Decepticon generals for them to avenge the death of their leader at his hands.

He would never see his friends again.

The despair crashed down on him and added fuel to the fire of his agony.

After several more cycles of screaming and involuntary dissection, Lockdown had finally finished with him.

Optimus' body slackened and he went completely limp as stasis mercifully swallowed him up.

Ratchet came to his rescue, but by then he was so weak that he could barely speak, let alone move.

He had been barely online when Ratchet had finished off Lockdown, lying uselessly off to the side in a vegetative state as the two old bots battled to the death.

Later, Ratchet had tenderly repaired him and reinserted his weapon systems. It was the most gentle that Optimus had ever seen Ratchet be.

"How are you healing?" the old doc-bot asked him softly.

"Arm's as good as new, thanks to you," Optimus mumbled, still trying to repress his involuntary shudders as the traumatic experience played over and over again in his mind.

"That wasn't what I meant," Ratchet said, his tone full of sympathy and concern.

"I know," Optimus thought, desperately wanting to say the words out loud, but ashamed of admitting his naivety and callowness, "I know what you mean. I know why you're so closed up now. I thought I knew what true hardship and struggle was. I thought I knew what it was to feel terror. But the reality is that I'm young. So young. And I have only just scratched the surface of what you veterans must have went through. I'm so stupid… so foolish…"

Maybe one day he could come to admit this humbling and harrowing epiphany outright.

But right now, the Prime wanted nothing more than to take his mind off the torment that he had recently been subjected to.

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to ask Ratchet for advice on these things.

Anything to prevent his mind from drifting back to thoughts of Lockdown. Thoughts of that… that place, and the gruesome horrors that it held.

Optimus recalled a recent experience he had had with Sari. The young child had been harassed by a crotchety old man, who expressed the opinion that she was a sheltered and spoilt freak.

The Prime had never seen the young girl with so much hurt in her eyes following the outburst.

Professor Sumdac had been nearby, out on a PR excursion, and had not taken kindly to the elder's uncalled for remarks regarding his daughter.

After the Autobot captain had drove them home, the professor had spent the next half-hour or so comforting and consoling his daughter. Optimus had watched silently with interest, respecting their personal privacy, but also wanting to get a deeper understanding of the culture and relationships of other non-Cybertronian life forms.

Now, that particular experience would come in useful for him.

He asked Ratchet to elaborate more on his past, and pass on the wisdoms he had learned, like a human father would do with their offspring.

And like a good child, Optimus listened to the words of his elder, truly heeding them this time.

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