Archive of Our Own

Blades came to with a rough gasp as his optics onlined, his systems already whirling with a gentle hum. He stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was wrong with the image he was seeing. Then he remembered. The distress call, the energon eater, going into stasis. He shot upright, the wheels of his altmode spinning rapidly with his distress as he flailed….and ended up tumbling right off a berth. That wasn’t right. If he was coming out of stasis, he should he upright, stepping out of the pod on his own power. If he wasn’t….that meant someone had found them, kept them in a medical stasis, and removed them from the pods.

Sure enough, a hand was held out in front of his face a moment later, and Blades looked up to see an older bot with the medics’s symbol on his shoulders. “Are you alright there, youngling?”

Blades blinked, taking his hand and letting himself be pulled up. “I’m fine.” he said. “Where am I? The last thing I remember is being attacked and going into stasis…” he trailed off, remembering how his brothers had felt his fear across their bond, but he’d been too far from them for them to communicate with words so they’d only sent worry and reassurance his way. His spark ached, as if the bond he shared with his brothers was strained for some reason.

Which…that worried him. The only reason a spark bond would become so strained was distance or time, and as far as Blades knew he hadn’t been so far for it to become this muted, which left…time. That wouldn’t make sense, though. The Rescue Force HQ would have sent out a Priority Prime message to bring the Sigma home once they missed their check in, which should have only been a couple orns after they entered stasis. That wouldn’t be enough time for the bond to become so strained. Not unless…not unless they’d been in stasis for longer than a few orns.

Cold fear seized his spark, and he flinched back from the hand that lifted to brush against his face. Oh, right. The medic.

“Youngling?” the medic asked, voice going softer. “Are you hurt?”

Blades blinked, staring up at the bot for a moment, and then he squeaked and nodded hurriedly. “Yes! I mean no! I’m not hurt. I’m just, I’m confused.” he said a little helplessly. His spark ached. He wanted his brothers. Where was he? Where were they?

The medic nodded, offering his hand out again. “I’m Ratchet. We found your ship floating in deep space. Your team is already up and your leader told us about what he did with the Priority Prime. It was a good idea, though I’m sorry it wasn’t activated before.” he said grimly.

Blades frowned, taking Ratchet’s hand and clapping it in the typical greeting. “I’m Blades. How long were we in stasis?”

Ratchet didn’t answer, just giving him a look Blades didn’t really want to interpret, and then shook his helm and gestured. “Follow me. We’ll explain it when your team is all there.”

Blades followed the older mech to a connected room, smiling nervously at his team and moving to sit next to Boulder. He noticed the large blue and red mech as as Rachet went to stand beside him, leaning up to whisper somehing to him that Blades couldn’t hear. The mech nodded, then turned to gaze at the Rescue Team. Blades rubbed at his chestplate, his spark aching to strengthen and reaffirm his bond with his brothers. He thought he could feel them, faintly. Could they feel him, now that he was out of stasis?

“Rescue Team Sigma-17.” The red and blue bot spoke. “I am Optimus Prime. I apologize that you were not found sooner, but I fear I have grave news.” he rumbled. “I am sure you were aware of the social revolution that was brewing before your mission took you off Cybertron. I regret to say that in the time since you went is to stasis, the revolution broke into War, and as a consequence of that War Cybertron is no more.”

Blade’s spark went cold, and he felt like the ground dropped out from under him.

No.

Blades followed Ratchet through the halls of what he had learned was a ship. One called the Ark, apparently. His processor was still reeling with everything they’d been told. The Rescue Force was gone. A couple orns after they’d gone into stasis, the revolution leader, Megatron, had launched an attack. He’d razed the headquarters to the ground, and then his army–because he’d grown himself an army of the angry and the beaten–had hunted and slaughtered every team who who escaped or who hadn’t been at the HQ during the attack. Sigma-17 was the last Rescue Team.

What’s more, the destruction of the Rescue Force had only been Megatron’s debut. The attack had earned him and his followers the name “Decepticons”, and he’d followed that act by launching all-out war. It had gone on for many mega-cycles, until eventually Cybertron had been depleted of all resources and utterly destroyed. That was when the two factions, the Autobots who were led by Optimus Prime, and Megatron’s Decepticons, had built massive starships and taken the War off planet. It had been a few vorns since they’d left Cybertron, as they’d been told, and the Autobots were on the hunt for planets where they could mine energon. That was when they’d found the Sigma.

Blades felt sick to his tanks. He remembered Megatron. He’d gone with Groove to one of the rallies. How could he not? Groove was a flyer. He was a helicopter, not a Seeker, so he didn’t have it as bad as he could, but…Blades knew his brother had still faced cruelty and hatred and had been ostracized because he was a flight-frame. Sure, not everyone had done it but it had been enough that Groove had been pretty badly affected by it. His brother had been excited by Megatron, Blades remembered. He hadn’t liked the talks of violence and the way it had all been said, because Groove had always been so peaceful and pacifistic, but the words and message had resonated with him in a way that had made Blades’s spark ache. He’d hated seeing him so beaten down by the way he was treated, and he knew the others had felt the same. They felt the echoes of how the treatment affected Groove through the bond, after all. They’d never faced the hatred themselves, but because of the fact that they all shared a gestalt bond, Blades and the others had very keenly felt Groove’s pain and grief and resignation right alongside him.

So he remembered Megatron. The large gunmetal mech had made him nervous, even from where he was at the back of the rally crowd, but he hadn’t wanted Groove to go alone and the others had been busy with their own training. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was easy to see why so many had flocked to him. He spoke promises of equality, of justice, of being able to live freely without being forced into something you didn’t want and without being hated for something you couldn’t control. The thing was, it had sounded nice. But Blades hadn’t liked how Megatron seemed to insist that the only way to attain that was through violence, and Groove had agreed. They hadn’t gone to another rally, after that. But looking back on that one they had attended…well, Blades wasn’t entirely surprised the revolution had grown to War. There had just been too much resentment amongst the flight-frames and the lower castes, which greatly outnumbered the content upper castes, for the situation not to erupt to something more extreme.

Blades shook himself from his introspection, refocusing on the present. His spark still ached, and he pawed at his chestplates again, frowning in displeasure. If he focused, he could feel the tendrils of the bonds he shared with his brothers, but they were weak and muted. So much so that they probably wouldn’t feel that he’d come out of stasis. He glanced up to notice Ratchet cast him a concerned look, and he quickly dropped his hand.

“Are you alright, Blades?” he asked.

The small motorcycle nodded. “I’m fine!” he assured. “Just, uh…remembering.” he said lamely.

Ratchet looked unimpressed, but he nodded anyway and stopped in front of a door. “This is the Rec Room.” he explained.

Which, yeah. That would work nicely. After Optimus had finished explaining things and Sigma-17 had calmed down, the team had decided to split up. Heatwave, as the leader, would stay with the Prime to work out what the team would need to do to adjust and move forward and what their options for the future were. Chase had been sent off with the Prime’s second in command, a mech called Prowl, to go over the regulations and protocols for the Ark and for the Autobots at large. Boulder would work with the Autobot’s engineers and scientists to repair and upgrade the Sigma, since the ship was still intact and just needed to be better outfitted for potential combat. That left Blades, who Heatwave had tasked with getting in among the rest of the Autobots to begin establishing connections and testing the waters. The fire truck wanted his most sociable teammate to take care of figuring out what the Autobots were like and maybe figuring out how Sigma-17 could possibly begin integrating, in the social sense.

“Right.” Blades straightened, feeling nervous. “Then I guess we should do it?”

Ratchet snorted. “That’s the spirit.” he muttered, and then the door opened and he slipped inside. Blades followed close behind, his slimmer frame mostly hidden behind the medic’s bulkier one.

“Listen up, you collection of glitches!” Ratchet barked. Instantly, all conversation stopped and the room full of mechs and femmes snapped their attention to the medic. “I’m sure you all heard about the shuttle the Ark picked up by now. I know how fast gossip travels on the blasted ship!” he continued. “Well, there were mechs inside. They were in stasis, and we got them out and debriefed. Most of them are working with other officers to get their affairs sorted. One of them came to play nice with you sorry scrapheaps, so try not to scare the brat off.” he finished, the look in his optics promising pain for anyone who didn’t do as he’d asked. Then he stepped aside, and Blades was revealed to the rest of the room.

The motorcycle found his optics sliding around the room, his hands tucked and curled in close to his chest. Primus, the attention was making him nervous. But then, there was the sound of a chair scraping harshly across metal, and Blades’s optics snapped to the source. When he found it, his vents froze and his spark started pulsing rapidly.

His brothers sat together around one table, and First Aid was standing with his palms pressed flat to its surface. They were all staring at him, and all but the small medic had a hand pressed over their chestplates, where Blades was sure their sparks were pulsing as erratically as his was.

“B-Blades?” First Aid’s voice was weak and disbelieving, but also thick and with unbearable grief. “Is that r-really you?”

It took Blades a moment to realize why his brothers were reacting like that to him. Then it clicked. The last time they had sensed him over the bond, they had felt his fear and panic and nothing more, and then he’d gone into stasis. And he knew stasis dampened spark bonds to the point they felt dead. His brothers’ last memory of his presence was his own terror, and then the bond would have gone silent, and only a short handful of orns later the Rescue Force was destroyed and all remaining Rescue Teams hunted and massacred. Which meant…which meant that, for the past several mega-cycles since Blades had entered stasis, his brothers could only have believed that he’d been offlined with the with the rest of the Rescue Bots. For the entirety of the time he’d been in stasis, Blades’s brothers had thought he was dead.

Blades felt his spark roar in agony as the realization struck. Oh Primus, his brothers had spent countless stellar cycles thinking their bond was broken, their gestalt incomplete. The knowledge hurt, even more than learning about Cybertron and the Rescue Force’s demise had hurt. It hurt so much it was almost physically painful, and Blades let out a weak whimper with it.

But First Aid’s sharp, agonized keening drowned him out, snapping him back to reality, and in the face of his younger brother’s pain, Blades did the only thing he could. He uncurled his hands from his chest and took a small step forward, his arms extending just a little.

“Yeah, ‘Aid.” he whispered, but in the dead silence of the Rec Room it carried to every audial present. “It’s me. I’m here.”

That was all it took, because First Aid let out a sharp, piercing wail and then lunged across the room. He almost bowled over a small white and pale blue minibot in his mad dash towards the motorcycle, but Blades didn’t have time to find humor in it. In the next sparkbeat, First Aid crashed into him and Blades stumbled back, but managed to stay upright. Arms wrapped tightly around his frame and First Aid buried his face in his neck, clutching him tightly as if Blades was going to disappear the moment he let go. The Rescue Bot didn’t protest the hold, and instead wrapped one arm equally as tightly around his youngest brother. The other, he held out towards his three older ones.

“Hot Spot, Streetwise, Groove?” he asked, his voice holding a desperate plea he knew only they would understand. “I’m home.” And he was. The Ark wasn’t Cybertron, but as long as he had his brothers he’d always be home.

That seemed to be the key to breaking them from their stupor, however, because in the next moment the last three of his gestalt barreling across the room towards him. He didn’t even have time to brace for impact before three heavy metals forms slammed into him hard enough to send all five brothers crashing to the floor. The five forms were silent for only a beat before they erupted into sound: hoarse, desperate, near manic laughter and heavy, relieved, gasping sobs, broken only by unintelligible mumbles and whispers.

The other bots in the room had startled and started staring when First Aid had stood so suddenly, but now everyone was staring at the scene. There was confusion and concern filling the air from every side, but no mech or femme dared to interrupt the scene they were inadvertently intruding on. No one knew exactly what was going on or who they all were to each other, but they could tell that, whatever this was, it was important.

Blades and his brothers, for their parts, didn’t even notice that they had an audience. They’d forgotten that there even were any other bots around them, too wrapped up in the sheer joy and relief of their reunion. Their bond was already strengthening; the weakened, frayed bonds that had been so silent starting to weave themselves back together as the younglings held each other close. As their spark bond began to reestablish itself, their sparks all glowed just a little more brightly, enough that a very, very faint glow could be seen from under their chestplates.

Ratchet, for his part, was both infuriated and confused. He’d gotten concerned when First Aid had stood so suddenly, about to call out to his apprentice when Blades had cut him off before he’s even spoken. Then the younger medic had launched himself at the Rescue Bot, and Blades had called to the three younglings that usually hung out around his apprentice, and then they were all clutching each other and sobbing. Ratchet could see a very faint glow from their spark chambers under their chestplates, and concern curled in his tanks. He pulled a portable scanner from his subspace, turning it on the messy pile of younglings on the floor, and did a quick scan on them. The scanner beeped back results, and Ratchet found his vents hitching.

The five sparks in front of him resonated with each other. They resonated far, far too closely to be a coincidence. The pieces fell into place. Blades’s rubbing his chest since he’d come out of stasis, First Aid’s reaction to seeing the orange and white motorcycle, the other three’s reaction to Blades calling their names, even First Aid’s insistence on always hanging around three mechs Ratchet had thought he had no connection or relation to before today. All the pieces clicked into place to form a startlingly clear image. Pit, Ratchet was going to strangle his idiot apprentice for not telling him he shared a spark bond with Hot Spot, Streetwise, and Groove, even if they had thought that their fifth member was offline.

“Primus bless.” he whispered reverently, his processor not focused on any of his irritation in the immediate discovery. His quiet exclamation made the nearest bots helm’s snap to him. “They’re gestalt.”

There was dead silence, other than the reunion of brothers on the floor, as that news was passed along the comm. lines of everyone in the room. Then, pandemonium.

Blades, First Aid, Hot Spot, Streetwise, and Groove didn’t even notice, blind as they were to everything but each other. Blades was back, and the five brothers were finally whole. That was all that mattered.

The Protectobots, as Hot Spot had told Prime that their gestalt was called, had been given a large room to share. It was common procedure among the Autobots for spark bonded mechs to share a room, if they so chose to. Obviously, Blades and his brothers agreed eagerly. The other four moved out of their old rooms, and they were given a very large hangar-like room close to the medbay. It had taken them the rest of the orn after getting things settled with Optimus and his command team before they had finished setting it up. Blades had been touched, but also deeply saddened, to see that his brothers had kept a box of his possessions from their shared home back on Cybertron. It wasn’t much, really. His favorite data pads, some decorative crystals, his music instrument, and some of the handheld puzzles he’d always enjoyed messing with whenever his nerves got the best of him. Still, the fact that they kept it all spoke volumes of how his apparent loss had affected them.

After the mess in the Rec Room, and when Blades and his brothers had finally calmed down, they’d been taken straight to Prime to explain themselves, and then dragged to Ratchet for a thorough medical examination. And then, finally, blessedly, they’d been offered the room and sent off to get settled into it when they’d agreed. Blades had been mortified. The entire experience had been so very nerve-wracking, especially considering that the Autobots were very much military and he very much was not.

But now, the Ark had cycled into the recharge cycle, during which all the lights dimmed and the Autobots not on the night shift bedded down to recharge. Blades and his brothers had managed to shove the five berths together into one, piling it high with all the mesh blankets and pillows in the room. Now they were all sleeping together, tangled and piled atop each other. Blades was almost certain that it was Hot Spot’s pede digging into his hip, and that his own arm was pinned between Streetwise and First Aid. He was also quite sure that it was Groove who was face down on his stomach, but with the dark it was hard to say. He knew to most bots this would look highly uncomfortable, but to Blades it was absolutely perfect. Well, except for the knee digging into his spinal strut, but he couldn’t have everything, he supposed.

As he lay awake, his processor worked sleepily. He knew that his team might want to leave, to try and avoid the War. He understood why. They were Rescue Bots. They saved lives, and staying to fight meant they’d have to learn how to take lives. But Blades…he refused to leave his brothers. Even if he had to leave Sigma-17, he’d stay here. Besides, if his brothers could do this, so could he. They were supposed to have been an Advanced Rescue Team, after all.

Blades and his brothers had come out of the Well with frames already suited for rescue work. And they’d genuinely wanted to dorescue work, so they hadn’t minded. First Aid was a medical responder, Hot Spot was disaster relief, Streetwise was enforcement, Groove was search and rescue, and Blades’s frame had been unique in its adaptability, meaning that he had been able to do a little of all those jobs. His role had been to partner with and adapt to whatever job needed doing on any given rescue.

His brothers hadn’t entered the Rescue Force at first, choosing to do advanced training for their specialization outside of the Rescue Bot Academy. That was probably what had saved them from what they’d called the Purge. Blades himself had joined the Rescue Force from the get go, taking classes in all the specializations so he’d be best able to play his role on his gestalt.

The plan had been that Blades would gain field experience while his brothers finished their training, and then they’d all join the Rescue Force as a gestalt, as the Protectobots. Pit, it had been the Rescue Force itself that had given their gestalt its name. They’d have been an advanced team, taking on missions that were further from home, or in dangerous territory, or with higher risks. Missions that a standard Rescue Team might struggle with. The mission he’d been on before all this, the one with the energon eater, was supposed to have been his last one before he transferred to become a team with his brothers. But that hadn’t happened, and now he was here. His brothers, who had spent centuries fighting in a War. So Blades was certain that he could learn to fight, too. For his brothers.

It was the next orn when Blades got a harsh taste of what the War was like. They had woken to Ratchet slamming into the room, barking at First Aid that there had been an attack on a team who weren’t on the Ark, and who had returned in need of medical care. The Wreckers, apparently, and they were severely wounded. Blades’s processor kicked into gear as First Aid bolted after his mentor, and he followed his little brother. The other three stayed, knowing they’d be no use where to two youngest of their gestalt were going.

As they headed down to the medbay, Blades spoke over the bond.

:Who are the Wreckers?:

:A highly skilled and elite team of very destructive berserker and melee class warriors. Their missions are highly dangerous. Oftentimes they’re more of a suicide squad because of how deadly their battles can be.:

Blades hummed his acknowledgment, and they both spilled into the medbay. Ratchet whirled, his optics locking and narrowing on Blades. “Unless you’re injured, out! I’ve no time for you!”

Blades cast a quick glance around, and if his processor wasn’t running on rescue protocols then the sight that greeted him would have made him have a nervous breakdown. All the medical tables were filled, and not a single mech on them had a minor injury. There were body parts and energon everywhere. He turned a hard look to Ratchet, shoulders lifting.

“You need me.” he said, voice level. “I’m a First Tier Triage Medic, fully licensed. I can’t completely repair the most severe of the wounds, but I can fix the more minor ones and patch up the severe ones well enough to keep these mechs alive until you or ‘Aid can get to them.”

First Tier Triage medics were licensed to deal with field injuries of any severity, but as Blades said his skills weren’t to repair those wounds fully, just to keep the mechs under his care alive until proper care could be administered. He’d taken his training seriously. He’d even gotten the minor upgrade that let him transform his digits into triage-grade medical tools. He wouldn’t have the same innate skill with them as a sparked medic like First Aid or Ratchet, but he was good enough to save lives.

It seemed that was enough to convince Ratchet, because the mech only stared for a sparkbeat, narrowed his eyes, then nodded stiffly. “In that case, you’ll probably see this place a lot more in the future. Get to work. First Aid, you know what to do.” he said shortly, and then he whirled back to the mech he was working on.

The two brothers split up, and Blades found himself at the berthside of a large green mech. Half his side was torn off, a leg was missing, though thankfully it was laid on a table by the berth, and his helm looked like something had smashed into it. Hard. Blades frowned, expression grim, and his fingers transformed to begin sealing up leaking energon lines and binding the ends of sparking wires. He got to work.

Over a cycle passed before Blades and First Aid stumbled out of the medbay. They were exhausted, but there was a sense of accomplishment sweeping back and forth across both their sparks. It had been difficult, but not a single mech had died that orn. Every single one of the Wreckers would live and would fully recover. At the end of the whole ordeal, Blades had been about to collapse when Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder and gruffly told him to return to the medbay to further his training. He’d said that it was up to Blades himself if he wanted to become a fully licensed medic like First Aid was training to be, but even if not Ratchet intended to expand on his skills in some regard because medics were precious few in the War and Blades having those skills could prove invaluable. The motorcycle had agreed, though he wasn’t very sold on becoming a fully licensed medic. Still, he did intend to return and learn as much as he could.

Outside the medbay, Blades came to a stop when he saw his team gathered. He blinked, and it only took a klik for him to understand what was going on. He turned to his brother, nudging him with his shoulder. “Head back to our room, ‘Aid. You need rest. I’ll be right there.”

First Aid turned his too-bright visor on him, and Blades knew his optics were wide underneath it. “But-“

“I’m coming back. I promise. I won’t leave you again.” he cut in gently. “I’ll keep the bond open. You’ll be able to feel me, don’t worry.”

There was a pause, then First Aid hugged him tightly. “Alright. Just come back soon. You need rest too.”

Blades wrapped his arms around his little brother. “Love you too.” he mumbled, and then First Aid was pulling away and trudging down the hall.

Blades turned to his team, and they walked to the hangar bay where the Sigma was being kept. They arranged themselves on some crates, before Heatwave spoke up.

“Here’s the deal. I talked to Optimus Prime about our options. One: We stay here and join the Autobots. If we do this, we’d have to go through training and be prepared to fight in a battlefield in the future. I told him we have some combat training, since the Rescue Force knew some missions might be dangerous and require Teams to fight to pull off the rescue. He said we’d be evaluated to determine where we’re at and then have our abilities expanded on from there.”

Blades was silent for a moment, considering. That seemed fair. It was the option he’d already intended to choose, but hearing it all laid out still helped. Chase was speculative, he could tell. Boulder was the most reluctant.

“But we’re Rescue Bots. We save lives, not destroy them.” he pointed out softly.

Heatwave nodded. “I did say that to Optimus. He said we have another option. We can take the Sigma once it’s upgraded and he’ll point us in the direction of a more hidden Neutral settlement. We’ll be able to stay out of the War so long as we don’t catch Decepticon attention, and we could even operate as a Rescue Team on a limited scale on the settlement.” he explained. “The third option was we can take the Sigma and take our chances on our own, though Optimus said he’d give us basic supplies and information to help.”

Chase hummed. “I must admit, I find myself leaning towards the first option. Our duty is to serve and protect, that much is true, but we can still save lives if we remain here. Perhaps, depending on where and how we contribute, we might do even more good here than anywhere else.”

Heatwave nodded. “That’s what I said. I think I’d like to stay, though if you all prefer to go then I’m with you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all in this together.”

Boulder frowned. “I don’t really want to fight anyone. I don’t know if I even could offline another bot.”

“You may be able to avoid that.” Chase offered. “I was told by Prowl that there are some members of the Autobots who rarely face combat. The medics for example, often remain behind at base, but even in the event they are on the battlefield it is always very far back and out of the fight. The scientists and engineers, too, do not often see the battlefield, and spend most of their time away from it. Even more so than the medics, from what I was told.” he hummed. “Of course, all those bots are required to be able to fight at the same level as a standard combatant, simply so they would be able to defend themselves if they are attacked, but they are not encouraged to join the fight themselves. They contribute more by not being active combatants.” he reported.

Boulder blinked, looking contemplative. “I guess that would be okay, and you do have a point. We have useful skills, we can probably help more by staying than by leaving.”

Heatwave and Chase both made noises of agreement, and Blades sighed in relief. “Good, because I’m staying, even if you do go.”

Three helms snapped to him. “Blades?” Chase asked.

“I’m not leaving my brothers. Not again. They already spent mega-cycles thinking I was dead, I can’t do it to them again.” he said softly.

Heatwave was silent for a klik. “So you really are gestalt? Prime told us about you and your brothers.” he said.

Blades nodded. “Yeah.” he said softly. “I love you all, too. You’re also like brothers to me, and I don’t want to lose you. But my spark needs my gestalt. So I’m staying.” he said quietly.

“Won’t you be scared?” Boulder asked.

The motorcycle shot him a sardonic grin. “Of course. And Boulder, a joor ago I had to use a temporary medical patch to seal up a hole in a mech’s spark chamber. I already have at least a small idea of how bad this could all get. But…it’s the right thing to do. That’s what I think.”

They all looked at each other for a long moment, before gazes hardened with determination. Heatwave stood, and the others followed suit. “So we stay?” he confirmed.

“Affirmative.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“We stay.” Blades echoed firmly. He stepped forward, meeting the gazes of his team. “And we fight.”

Looks were exchanged, and then the other three nodded sharply. “We fight.” they said at the same time.

Blades felt resolve settle in his spark, and he straightened his spinal strut. This wasn’t how he would ever have wanted his life to go, but he couldn’t change anything. All he could do was adapt, learn, and rise above the challenge. As long as he had his team and his brothers, he wouldn’t back down.

It was time to fight.