Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Moving from the City that never sleeps to a tiny town in the middle of the desert was quite a shock in a number of ways. For instance, there was the quiet; all his life, Peter had been used to a constant stream of noise; cars honking, neighbors moving around in their respective apartments, and all the other sounds one would expect to find in a major city at all hours of the day and night. New York’s nickname was after all well earned. But here in Jasper? In the small hours of the morning, lying in his bed, even with his newly enhanced senses all he could hear besides his own heartbeat was Aunt May in her room at the other end of the hallway, and on occasion, the moan of the wind. It had led to quite a few sleepless nights for both of them the first couple of weeks.

But, if Peter had to choose the worst of the shocks, it would have to be loneliness, and its close companion, boredom. You see, Peter had always had a great deal of trouble making friends, as his one and only friend Edward Leeds (or Ned for short) could attest. Being the new kid and one from a big city didn't exactly help. Nor did the fact Vince Turner, the local bully and jerk, had looked at him and practically licked his lips with excitement at the new target. Add in Peter’s status as something of a nerd among nerds (a supernerd if you will) and any hope of an active social life with his new classmates had packed its bags and hit the road. Even Aunt May couldn’t help; her new job, while it came with a substantial increase in salary and considerable benefits, also had an awkward time slot; she went to work shortly before Peter came home from school and didn’t get back until late at night. As for Ned, long range relationships are very difficult to maintain at best, romantic or not and theirs was no different; video calls that had been long and frequent at first had become quick and rare.

And so, day after day Peter went to school, and managed to be alone in a crowd of his classmates, and then came home to an empty house. It might not have been so bad, Peter thought, if he had something to distract himself from just how empty his life had become. Oh sure, he had tried but the various activities had one by one lost their appeal. Homework? Done and checked three times over, sometimes in under an hour after he got back from school. His lego models? Taken apart and rebuilt three or four times each. Various video games and movies? Not so fun with one person and no fresh material. And then, in sheer desperation, Peter found himself turning to something he never would have considered otherwise: physical exercise.

Or in this case, biking. The bike itself wasn't anything special; a battered, grayish ten-speed that had been in the garage when they moved in. When Aunt May called the former house owner the woman had said to keep it; apparently she was getting her own son the motorbike he had been asking for since early childhood. At the time, neither Peter nor May had any interest in going for a ride, so the bike sat in the corner collecting dust. Until a bored Peter had wandered into the garage, saw the bike, and decided to indulge his inner mechanic. It wasn’t much of an indulgence to be honest; all he had to do was inflate the tires and replace a few rusty parts. But, one thing led to another, and Peter found himself strapping on a helmet, attaching a thermos filled with ice water behind the saddle, and wheeling out onto the road. Much to his surprise he found himself enjoying the experience. Part of it was the thrill of the horizon opening him like some explorer of old, but most of the excitement came from the sheer speed. Being enhanced came with certain benefits such as the ability to run at speeds and for distances that would have Olympic gold-medalists gaping in awe. Or in this case, the ability to accelerate to impressive speeds, limited only by the bike’s capacity.

It wasn’t web-swinging (another thing that had been left behind in New York; no need for a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man in tiny little Jasper), but it wasn’t half bad either. It became a habit to come home from school, rush through his homework, and then bike out of the house and into the wild. And if Jasper didn’t want for something, it was miles upon miles of empty roads that he could really let go on, and impressive vistas. So impressive in fact, that he decided to unpack Uncle Ben’s camera and snap a few pics. If nothing else, a few pictures might help their walls look not quite so bare. And of course, since the famous (or infamous, depending how you looked at it) Parker luck hadn't messed with his life since they moved, it would turn out that one of those pics would be quite literally out of this world.

Not that he knew that when he veered off the road for a water break, and just as he was raising the water bottle to his lips, he felt the buzz of his spidey sense that indicated danger. It wasn't harsh, like when that mugger came at him with a knife, but more a buzz that indicated that there was something dangerous out there, but it wasn’t directed at him personally. He probably should have gotten back on his bike and left, but this was the first time his spidey-sense had activated (aside from one or two incidents with Vince) since they moved to Jasper. So, after leaning his bike against a nearby handy boulder, he moved away from the road. After about a minute, he came over a slight bump and found himself standing at the top of a much steeper slope, and at the bottom of said slope were crystals. Lots of crystals, and big ones too; ranging from just over Peter’s waist to nearly twice his height, with a width to match. They were an electric blue; perhaps literally electric given that he could, in addition to the increasing buzz from his spider-sense, now hear a faint hum and feel tension in the air like he had gotten too close to a power grid. It was probably a wise idea to not go any closer, and for once, he decided not to ignore his self-prevention. Instead, after taking a few pictures, he sat down with his back against a rock outcropping and took a long gulp of water. Gazing out over the crystal field, he allowed his imagination to run free a little; maybe he had discovered a new type of crystal? Unlikely he knew, but a kid could dream. Lost in his own little world, he at first didn’t notice a new sound; a car engine coming closer.

Nor did he pay much attention once he had noticed; he was near a road, and cars were to be expected. He did, however, notice when the car in question pulled up to the lip of the crystal valley a short distance away. And it gained his complete and total attention when it, in a blur of shifting metal transformed from a perfectly ordinary red car into a towering red robot and said to itself “Now, that's a lot of Energon!” Automatically, Peter brought his camera up; nobody would believe him if he just said that he had seen a giant robot out in the desert, but pictures would be another matter entirely. Just as he took the picture through, the robot twisted to look at him, either by chance or somehow having sensed his presence, and its surprised face was forever immortalized by the click of Peter’s camera.

For a moment, the boy and the bot studied each other, and then, in a surprisingly human movement, the bot facepalmed itself and muttered feelingly “Oh scrap.”

“So, kid” said the robot after a moment, “any chance you would hand me that camera and forget you ever saw me?” Peter shook his head.

“Thought not,” the robot sighed.

But before it could continue Peter blurted out, “Did Mr.Stark make you?” and then clamped a hand over his mouth and felt his face go red. Thankfully, the robot didn’t seem offended.

“No, I wasn’t made by Mr.Stark” and then the robot muttered “whoever that is.”

Before Peter could react to that (imagine not knowing who Iron Man was!) “Okay kid, how about this: I’ll answer a few of your questions, and in return, you destroy that picture and keep your mouth shut about me, deal?”

Peter couldn’t nod yes fast enough; a picture and a wild story about giant robots, vs the chance to talk to an actual robot? A real no-brainer.

“Ok then,” the robot said, making a beckoning gesture, “ask away.”

“If Mr.Stark didn’t make you who did? Where are you from? What’s your name? Do you eat those crystals? Is that why you were looking for them? Can you change into other kinds of vehicles, like a helicopter? Can you-``

''Whoa kid” the robot said, throwing up its hands and causing Peter to stop mid question. “One question at a time, OK? But in order, nobody made me, at least in the sense you're talking about, and I’m from a planet called Cybertron, waaay out there in the black. My name’s Cliffjumper, Cliff to my friends. And yes those crystals, Energon crystals by the way, are our fuel. Unfortunately, I can only do cars, so no helicopters, sorry. Any other questions?”

Peter nodded and pointed behind Mr. Cliffjumper “Is that your ship?” Mr. Cliffjumper spun in place.

“Scrap. No, that’s the Decepticons. Bad guys,'' he elaborated after a moment in response to Peter’s questioning gaze.

Peter supposed that should have been a bit obvious; the newcomer’s ship was all spikes and dark colors, in a way that practically said, “Hello, we’re the bad guys,” that was painted across the ship's side in ten foot letters, with neon lighting. It was also already almost on top of them; running wasn’t an option anymore, even there had somewhere to run to.

“Alright kid, I’m going to ask you to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking, ok?”

“Ok, Mr. Cliffjumper.”

“Heh, polite kid, aren’t you. Speaking of which, I never did get your name.”

“Oh, it's Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Pete. Let's hope we both get out of this mess with our hides intact.”

And then the ship’s shadow falls over them and there is no more time for talking, as what seems like dozens of turrets fixate on their position. (Well on Mr. Cliffjumper’s position anyways; Peter didn’t register highly enough to them to merit even one turret, if he registered at all.) Peter flinched and screwed his eyes shut, instinctively preparing to be turned into a smoking crater; there was no way he could dodge so many turrets, even if they hadn’t been alien turrets. After a moment of nothing, he cracked open first one eye and then the other, just in time to see a hatch on the bottom of the ship slide open. Then one by one, more giant robots fell out. By the time they stopped coming, there were six of them gathered in a cluster a short distance away. It’s a intimidating sight, particularly since they, unlike Mr. Cliffjumper, couldn’t have looked more evil robot if they tried; helms instead of heads with only a slashing red visor to mark their otherwise seamless helms, hands more claw than anything else, and as they spread out slightly those same hands shifted into massive weapons whose tips glowed with a menacing red light. And all six of those weapons were pointed directly at Mr. Cliffjumper, whose own hands had shifted into smaller, but triple-barreled gun muzzles.

One of the center robots (Peter mentally dubbed him Goon Leader) was the first to speak, “Surrender, Autobot.”

In reply Mr. Cliffjumper lowered his weapons slightly and said “If I do, will you let the human go?”

The other robots looked at each other for a moment and then Goon Leader said, “We’ll let it live. Now, surrender Autobot!”

Mr. Cliffjumper hesitated for a moment to whisper an aside to Peter “Get going kid, before they change their minds or try to pull a fast one,” before moving forward, weapons becoming hands again as he held them in front of his body.

But Peter couldn’t leave; he couldn’t just let Mr. Cliffjumper die. But he couldn’t just attack six giant robots with their warship hanging above them either, not with any chance of success. But even as he hesitated, the choice was taken out of his hands; Mr. Cliffjumper reached the other robots, who slapped on what Peter assumed were giant robot handcuffs, and then Goon Leader turned away from the captured Autobot and said, “Grab the human and call down the elevator; we’re done here.”

Peter felt his breath catch in his throat even as Mr. Cliffjumper erupted in protest, “You said that he could go if I surrendered!”

“I said that we would let it live, Autobot,” Goon Leader gloated, “Commander Starscream could always use another lab rat.”

Ever since he had gotten his powers, Peter had worried that one day he would wake up in a lab at the wrong end of a microscope; now that fear was coming to life in front of his eyes and that paralyzed him. Luckily, Mr. Cliffjumper didn’t have the same problem. In two swift movements, the Autobot slammed his arms, and the heavy cuffs attached, into the chests of the two robots on either side of him, sending them stumbling away and tackled the one approaching Peter, bringing them both crashing down just a foot from Peter’s frozen form. Mr Cliffjumper took the opportunity to roar in Peter’s face. “Run kid. NOW!”

But Peter couldn’t, even if part of him very much wanted to do so. He couldn’t run because he could see Goon Leader leveling his weapon at Mr. Cliffjumper’s back. And though the two situations had only the slimmest of similarities, for a split second, he was back in that dirty alley where his uncle had died. His hands clenched into fists and his legs tensed; no one else was going to die because of him, not now, not ever again, if he could help it. And with that grim resolve burning in the back of his mind, he leapt into the air.

Or to be more accurate, he launched himself, fist first, towards the only weak point he could see on Goon Leader’s enormous body: the visor. Luck was with him and his aim was true; he hit the visor with a crash of shattering glass as his fist went through it, right up to his elbow. That however was when things started to go wrong: first, he must have hit something critical, because the visor went dark. This probably wasn’t a bad thing in of itself, but it did lead to the second item: thanks to Peter’s momentum, the giant’s body began to fall backwards. And thirdly, Peter’s arm had gotten stuck, so he found himself dragged along for the ride. Thankfully, Goon Leader’s body took most of the blow, but the impact dazed Peter. Lastly and most concerning, the Cons had been momentarily taken aback by the fall of their presumed leader, but now were well on the way to recovery. And while their forms made discerning their emotions all but impossible, Peter was pretty sure that he’d just made things personal. And his arm was still stuck; sitting duck anyone? Yes, things were looking dismal for team Spidey.

Luckily, that was when the portal opened. Which was something of an odd thing to say, considering Peter’s previous experience with portals (they were still rebuilding parts of New York after the invasion), but there it was. It helped that the new portal looked nothing like the one that had opened above Manhattan, being green-bluish and vertical rather than horizontal and filled with the void of space. It helped even more that instead of hostile aliens, more vehicle robots came out, transforming into giant robot forms as they flew overhead and smashed into the four still standing cons. Taken by surprise and outnumbered (something of a rarity in good guy-bad guy relationships) it wasn’t long before the cons were all down. However, they were still under the shadow of the Decepticon warship, which reminded them of its presence when, far above more trap doors opened and vomited forth still more warriors (just how many of them were there?)

“Autobots, fall back!” thundered the largest of the newcomers as the villains began to close in.

“Somebody grab the kid,” Mr. Cliffjumper hollered, and Peter had a split second to realize that he was the kid in question, before a massive four-digit hand wrapped around his torso and yanked. Good news: his arm was no longer stuck. Bad news: he was pretty sure that the sudden removal had sprained something and he was now sporting a long, if thankfully shallow cut from the crook of his elbow to his wrist. He had other concerns, though, as suddenly, in yet another blur of shifting metal (it was a lot more terrifying when one was actually in the middle of it) he went from being carried in a giant’s hand to sitting in the passenger-side seat of a sports car.

A sports car that was madly accelerating towards the portal still hanging in the air, even going airborne just before impact. Given the circumstances, Peter thought he could be forgiven for yelping and pressing himself against the seat back in a desperate attempt to not be teleported to who knows where. He failed of course, and in a flash of light and a sensation that the universe had briefly turned inside out, he was somewhere else entirely. Where exactly, was unclear given that the car he was in was currently trying to go from a hundred miles an hour to zero in about three seconds, in an enclosed space no less. Thankfully it succeeded, and the car screeched to a halt about an inch away from a rock wall. This latest near death experience, on top of everything else, was the very last straw; Peter found himself flailing at the car door, which helpfully popped open to let him collapse on the floor. After a moment, he raised himself up on his arms, just in time to lose his lunch, breakfast, and possibly last night’s dinner all over the floor. As first impressions go, Peter was pretty sure he had just hit an all time new low.

As expected, the bots didn’t react well to the befoulment of their base’s floor.

“Oh for Primus’s sake,” one of them moaned in the background, “I just mopped the floor last night!”

“Oh hush, Bulkhead,” another scolded, “a bit more mopping won’t offline you.”

Feeling his face burn red, Peter levered himself to his feet. From behind him came again the sound of metal shifting followed by a much closer voice than the two bots now arguing about whose turn it was to mop.

“Feeling better now?”

Peter turned, and gave the yellow bot, who had presumably been the sports car he just got out of, a weak smile “I guess so?”

“Great! Optimus will want to talk-wait; can you understand me?”

“Um, yes; why wouldn’t I be able to-'' Peter's eyes widened as he abruptly realized the bot hadn’t been speaking english or for that matter any human language at all; instead he had been speaking in a series of bleeps, bloops and whines, all of which Peter had somehow understood perfectly. Peter could draw two conclusions; one, he had watched Star Wars so much that he had finally learned to understand Droid. Unlikely; he had rewatched a few of his favorite scenes a day or so ago, and Artoo-Detoo was still only understandable by context. Second, he was even more of a freak then he had previously thought. Just great.

He was drawn out of his increasingly dark thoughts by a startled gasp (in reality a long whine) “You’re hurt!”

Belatedly, Peter realized that in his distraction he had accidentally used his injured arm to wipe at his mouth. Rapidly hiding his hurt arm behind his back, Peter waved his other arm in an attempt to keep the bot in front of him from alerting the others.

“It's fine; I heal really fast!”

He was too late; the yellow bot had already turned away.

“Ratchet, the kid’s hurt, '' he called.

The red and white bot in front of some controls, presumably Ratchet, sighed and said over his shoulder, “really, which one?”

But he turned and came towards them anyway.

Coming to a halt in front of them, Ratchet glared down at Peter. “Alright, where does it hurt?”

Meekly, Peter held up his hurt arm; there was no arguing with that expression. Ratchet shifted slightly, and a blue light shot out of his arm, and passed over Peter’s, leaving a tingling sensation behind. The medic turned away, tapping at something on his arm; leaning to one side, Peter caught a glimpse of a hologram of himself, with a red flashing light imposed over the right arm.
“Minor laceration and a sprained wrist; one moment.”

He moved away towards a series of giant drawers on one wall and came back with a bottle of disinfectant larger than Peter himself and a roll of medical glaze of similar size, as well as a considerably smaller case of bandages. Falling to one knee, the medic disinfected the cut, laid a series of bandages atop it, and finished up by wrapping the whole appendage in layer after layer of glaze, all with surprising gentleness, considering the massive size difference.

“Keep it like that for a week, and try not to use it, understand?”The medic commanded, rising to his feet. Peter sighed and nodded; there was no way he could sneak this by Aunt May, given the sheer size of the wrapping, which meant there was a major freak-out in his future. And not using his arm was a given, seeing that only the barest tips of his fingers were uncovered by all the glaze. Good thing he was ambidextrous. Being a polite kid though, there was only one acceptable thing to say.

“Thank you, Mr. Ratchet.”

The medic’s face softed just a touch.

“Well, at least one of you has some manners.”

With that, he returned to his controls, just in time for Mr. Cliffjumper, now cuffless and the largest mech to take his place.

“Greetings, Peter Parker,” said the largest mech, “I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.”

“Autobots?” Peter questioned, and tacked on “Mr. Optimus Prime sir?” after a moment.

“Just Optimus should be fine, Pete,” Mr. Cliffjumper interrupted.

“Just so,” Mr. Optimus affirmed.

“You see, Pete, we Cybertonians have pretty much split into two factions these days: the Deceptions, led by a real piece of work called Megatron, and us Autobots, led by our Prime here.”

“Prime? You mean like a king?” Peter all but yelped, starting to feel a bit panicked; as an not-so ordinary kid from Queens, he had never thought that he would meet royalty, let alone alien royalty, wanna-be superhero or not.
“My position is closer to a champion of our god, Primus.” Optimus cut in before Peter could really get going. “But, I have been leading the Autobot faction for many zorns, ever since the deaths of the Council during the early stages of the war, so your assumption is not entirely incorrect.”

Great, Peter thought to himself, he is Alien royalty. Out loud he asked, “so, why are you guys here? And what's going to happen to me now?.”

“Excellent questions, Peter,” Mr Optimus approved, “We and the Deceptions are here because our own world is incapable of supporting life.”

“You’re refugees?” Peter blurted out.

“Indeed,” Mr Optimus affirmed. “As for what happens now, your actions, admirable as they were, have no doubt marked you as a possible target for the Deceptions. It is best then, that you remain here under our care for your own safety.”

“For how long?” Peter questioned. “Cause my Aunt will freak out if I’m not home when she gets home. Even more,” he added, waving his injured limb in the air.

“Hmm,” Mr Optimus hummed, “human customs; I hadn’t considered. Very well, what time do you need to be home by?”

Peter blinked, “um, my curfew’s ten o'clock and I have to be in bed by midnight.”

“That is reasonable. Cliffjumper, you will accompany the child home when it is time, and remain there.”

The red Autobot sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “Curbside duty, got it.”

“Um, sorry?” Peter offered.

Mr. Cliffjumper smiled down at him. “Don’t sweat it, Pete. Some peace and quiet is just what the doctor ordered.”

“Yes,” said doctor snarked over his shoulder, “for the rest of us.”

Mr. Cliffjumper slapped a hand over his chest and staggered a few steps back in mock injury. “Right to the spark doc; how will I ever recover?” And with that, Peter found himself the first and only member of the Autobot Witness Protection program.

Chapter Text

Life as a member of the Autobot Witness Protection program had its ups and downs. On the one hand, there was the realization that you would need that protection because your name was on the to-do list of a bunch of world domination hungry evil robots from space. Maybe at the bottom of that list, but still on it. On the other hand, you got to hang out at the Autobots base and have a bunch of said bots drive you to and from the base. The base itself, a seemingly abandoned and surprisingly spacious missile silo a short distance from town, was cool enough, but in Peter’s mind, the best part was the bots themselves.

There were six of them in total: the unquestioned leader Optimus Prime, his CMO (Chief Medical Officer) Ratchet. Mr. Cliffjumper was the self-proclaimed morale officer. Next, a blue female-looking bot named Acree (despite the looks, Acree stated Cybertonians didn’t have any type of gender, merely a selection of different frames, chosen based on various reasons. These included personal options, job needs, and of course, money). She served as the Autobot’s second in command. Her position seemed a little shaky at times since Ratchet’s temper and medical authority led to quite a few clashes. Then there was Bumblebee, the team’s youngest member. Due to their vastly longer life spans, he was considered to be only a little older than Peter himself. He was also delighted to meet someone his age that could understand him from the get-go. Bumblebee’s form of speech was difficult to understand even for other Cybertonians, let alone humans. Finally, there was Bulkhead, who seemed awkward around the base. Mr. Cliffjumper said he arrived a little too large for this world. However, he had a good spark and was good in a fight.

Most of the bots seemed delighted to have him around (Ratchet seemed to resent his presence, and Acree was cool towards him; perfectly civil, but cool) and made that clear by doing things with him. Mr. Cliffjumper (“seriously, kid, drop the Mr.”) told stories of the war (almost certainly edited for young human ears). Bulkhead took him off-roading, uphill and down (and off the occasional small cliff). But, the best had to be Bumblebee, who was always willing to play video games. His favorites included racing games, though slightly unfair given that he could transform into an actual car. He even was always ready to rewatch Star Wars for the billionth time. But, most importantly, he always listened, no matter how irrelevant Peter’s day and thoughts must have been to a giant alien robot soldier.

Still, despite all that, Peter couldn’t help but feel like a fifth wheel or worse, one more burden on the Autbot’s collective shoulders. That was why Peter approached Ratchet after the first couple of days. “Mr. Ratchet?”

“Yes?” the Autobot said without turning around.

“Is there something I could do to help around here?” Peter questioned.

The bot turned around and speared Peter with his gaze. “You want to help?” He sounded surprised and slightly skeptical.

Peter nodded eagerly, “I’m really good with computers and stuff, so–”

A loud beeping interrupted him, and the screen behind Ratchet erupted with error messages. Ratchet spun around again and glared at the screen. “Oh, for Primus’s sake,” he snarled exasperatedly.

“I can help with that,” Peter piped up.

Ratchet glanced disdainfully at him. “You realize that, as primitive as this equipment is, it isn’t designed for children either.

Already halfway up the stairs to the little platform where he spent most of his time at the base, Peter ignored him. Sitting down on the couch, he pulled out his laptop. His laptop was a model that had been old and slow when he first got it and ugly besides, but it worked reliably, whereas Flash’s sleek top of the line Hammer-tech laptop had gotten one bug after another. He got to work immediately. After a moment, the error messages across Ratchet’s screen vanished to be replaced by its normal load out. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw Ratchet look first at his screen and back at Peter with a mildly startled but thoughtful look and had to duck his head to hide his grin.

Afterward, Ratchet not only became markedly less hostile but started asking for Peter’s help with his equipment. Minor things at first, you understand, probably to check whether the incident with the computers had been a flash in the pan and to get an idea of Peter’s skill. Also, Peter sensed that Ratchet wasn’t about to potentially put his team’s lives in the hands of an immature human youngling, however skilled he was, without extensive testing and training. Peter must have passed his tests with flying colors because the tasks increased both in complexity and presumably in importance. When Peter told Bumblebee about it, the bot hummed excitedly and said, “I think Ratchet considers you good enough to be his apprentice!”

“Really?” Peter said, a little doubtfully. It was, after all, just a bit of computer equipment, and he had barely known the Autobots for more than a couple of weeks.

“Yes, really!” Bumblebee exclaimed. “Ratchet never lets anyone, even Optimus, near his equipment if he can help it. If he is letting you near it, let alone repairing it….” After a moment, the Autobot continued, “Also, he said that you had lots of talent and didn’t want it going to waste at some fast food joint or something.

Peter flushed slightly. Mention one time that he had briefly considered getting a part-time job (Parker finances were always a bit strained, new job or not), and the only place hiring in Jasper was the local fast-food restaurant. But, more importantly Peter asked, “He really said that?”

Bumblebee’s dashboard lit up in a fashion that, had he been in giant robot mode, probably would have indicated a shrug. “Yeah, said if we had been back on Cybertron before the war, he would have recommended you to the school of your choice.”

It may not have been his childhood dream of fighting alongside the Avengers as his alter-ego, but it was something, and it was all his, and Peter couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.

Not a week afterward, the Decepticons finally made their move. What that move was precisely, no one seemed to know. All Peter managed to get together was first, the Autobots went through the ground bridge to check out a strange energy signal and found themselves in a large Decepticon Energon mine. Second, during the resulting fight, they had been attacked by a peculiar Decepticon, who had been the source of the strange signal. Thirdly, when it became clear they couldn’t hold the mine, the Cons had dropped a bomb and vacated the area, causing the Bots to do the same posthaste. Finally, while she had been fighting that weird Con, Acree got splashed by a chemical that it was covered in, causing her to be a bit woozy afterward (“Cliff, stop hovering”).

That led to the current situation: Ratchet kicked everyone out but Optimus and Peter so he could study in peace the sample he took off Acree. Optimus promptly vanished down one of the hallways, leaving Ratchet muttering over the sample and Peter waist-deep in one of the computers, trying to fix a minor wiring issue. For a few minutes, everything was peaceful, but then Peter heard something. Metal on concrete, but odd, light, and fast. Far too light and quick to the heavy tread of any of the Autobots.

Peter pulled out of the computer, sat on his haunches, and looked around. “Mr. Ratchet?” He called.

“Busy.” The distracted answer came after a few moments.

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. No help from that corner. Getting up, he wandered towards the source of the sound. He came around a bend, and a blaring from his spider-sense and a swift dodge backward were the only things that saved him from being beheaded on the spot. The sound, as it turned out, had been the many legs of his attacker. And what a creature it was: a metal monstrosity that looked like someone had smashed a spider and crab together and then, just for kicks, given it a purple spotlight for a head.

“Mr. Ratchet!” Peter screamed, desperately backing away as the creature came at him with extended-bladed appendages.

“What is-By the All-Spark!” Ratchet exclaimed in the background.

Maybe it was that slight distraction, or perhaps just the infamous Parker luck deciding to make an appearance, but at that moment, Peter tripped over his untied shoelaces. Aunt May had always said those shoelaces would be the end of him. Landing on his rear, Peter started scrambling away, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough. So did the creature, which leaped into the air in preparation to land on him and shred him to pieces. So, it was a complete surprise to both of them when in mid-air no less, a giant wrench hit it.

Even taken by surprise and thrown off its tracks, it was a tough little critter; shaking off the damage, it came at Peter again. And then, Ratchet was there. Standing literally right above Peter, he snarled at the thing, “Not on my watch, you don’t!”

Unwisely unintimated by Peter’s new bodyguard, the critter leapt higher into the air, aiming at Ratchet’s chest. A bladed arm swept down to meet it. Thrown back by the impact, it hit the ground - in two pieces. Both halves of its spotlight head flickered, and for a terrifying moment, Peter worried that he and Ratchet would have to deal with two smaller but no less dangerous versions of the original monster. But thankfully, after a moment, the flicker died.

Peter gave a massive sigh of relief. Above him, Ratchet took a few steps away, turned, and crouched so that he wasn’t looming (as much) over the boy. “How are you feeling?”

Peter blinked up at the medic for a long moment before managing to put together an answer. “I’m fine, I think.”

He did a quick self-inspection. All limbs and their respective appendages (fingers, toes, etc.) were firmly attached. No visible bruising, though his rear end was smarting a little. And, of course, his heart was doing a solo drum performance. No need to tell Ratchet that, though; he probably would make Peter go lie down or something, and that was totally unnecessary. Instead, he gave the medic a slightly shaky smile and a thumbs up. “Yep, totally fine!”

“Hpm,” Ratchet grunted, plainly not convinced, but turning to look at the remains, let the matter drop.

Peter trotted over to get a closer look. “So, what was that? And nice throw, by the way.”

Ratchet grunted again, though this one seemed pleased. “Thank you; I’ve had a lot of practice. As for our unwanted guest here, I have my suspicions.”

“Suspicions?” Peter prodded after a long moment.

Ratchet sighed. “According to legend, Dark Energon, the crystalized essence of Unicron the World-Breaker, is capable of raising the dead, among other things. That apparently includes things that were never alive, to begin with, such as one of my broken tools.”

Peter decided to leave the whole World-Breaker issue alone, for now, to focus on the here and now. “So, if this Dark Energon stuff reanimated your tool, could it also have something to do with that weird con at the mine?”

Ratchet nodded. “Acree did say the con sustained serious damage, and it would explain the odd energy signature. However, Dark Energon is so scarce as to be non-existent. So what could it be doing here on Earth?”

“Megatron most likely transported it here.” Said Mr. Optimus, reentering the room.

“For what purpose?” Ratchet asked, turning towards the Autobot leader.

“To conquer this world by raising an undead army.” Mr. Optimus stated gravely.

“Great”, Peter thought, “giant alien robot zombies if the alive ones weren’t enough already.” Ratchet wasn’t as easily convinced. “If that’s the case, he’ll have to break quite a few toaster ovens. Where on this world could he find enough Cybertonian dead for that plan to be worthwhile?”

Before Mr. Optimus could answer, a stream of cars (and one motorcycle) entered the base with a great rumble of engines, shifting into robot form as they halted in front of their leader. Starting to feel slightly crowded down by their feet, Peter headed back to his platform.

“Hey Doc,” said Cliffjumper as Peter hurried past him, “You finished with that sample?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Ratchet growled, waving a hand at the critter’s remains.

“Whoa!” Bulkhead exclaimed, blinking at the scene. “What happened?”

Ratchet scowled at the Wrecker. “Remember that tool you broke?”

Bulkhead winced. “Yes?”

“Tada!” Ratchet proclaimed sarcastically.

Bulkhead looked baffled. “So this is my fault? How?”

Mr. Optimus intervened. “It isn’t, Bulkhead. But, it has brought to light what Megatron’s current plan may be.”

“So, we rolling out?” Acree questioned.

Mr. Optimus shook his head. “No, if what I fear is true, you may be needed here. Cliffjumer and Ratchet will accompany me.

Acree looked grumpy about being left behind, but she didn’t protest as Mr. Optimus opened a ground bridge portal and went through, followed by the two named Autobots. After it closed, Bulkhead, still looking baffled, asked, “So, what’s on the activity list?”

Acree, still miffed, ignored him and motioned to Bumblebee. “Come on, Bee, we’re going on patrol. Bulkhead, you’re in charge.”

Bulkhead looked even more taken aback. “But Optimus said-”

Acree rounded on him. “Do you or do you not know how to work the ground bridge?”

Bulkhead actually took a step back. “Yes, but-”

“Then we’re just a comm away. Deal with it!” She snapped and, with that, transformed and stormed (if a motorcycle can storm) out of the base, followed shortly by Bumblebee.

Bulkhead turned to where Peter was leaning on the railing of his platform. “So, what’s on the activity list?” He asked again.

Peter shrugged. “I guess we should clean that up.” He said, pointing at his attacker’s remains, forgotten in the fuss.

Bulkhead studied the remains for a moment. “Right, right. You know what we’re supposed to do with it?”

Peter pointed again. “There should be some containers over there. I’ll go find a mop.”

Five minutes later and a bucket of soapy water, the boy and Autobot were again without something to do, and it was starting to get awkward. Thankfully, the world decided to intervene. In this case, the alarms went off, causing Peter to clap his hands over his ears. Sometimes, having enhanced senses could be a literal pain. “What’s going on?” he yelped.

Bulkhead moved over to the computer bank and poked doubtfully at it. Thankfully, that shut off the alarms. “Proximity alert,” He rumbled worriedly, “You better hide; it’s Agent Fowler.”

Peter knew vaguely that the Autobots had some sort of deal with the government; they were, after all, working and living in a human-built base, used human equipment, and presumably got needed materials from the government. He also knew that, for various reasons, the Autobots were supposed to be keeping their presence a secret from the civilian population at large. If Agent Fowler and his superiors found that the Autobots were sheltering a civilian teenager, there would be all sorts of trouble. And that was without going into Peter's worries about what might happen if Agent Fowler found out he was enhanced. So, he hid.

Or tried too; the problem was that there simply weren’t many good hiding places he could reach in time, given that Fowler was already on his way down. So, he merely ducked behind Bulkhead’s leg, hoping the Agent wouldn’t notice the tiny human when he had a giant Autobot front and center. The elevator slid open, and Agent Fowler strode into the room. “Prime!” he roared.

“Ah! Agent Fowler! He’s not here; nobody's here, except me, of course.” Bulkhead blabbed.

“Well, where did he go?” Agent Fowler snapped. Peter risked a glance around Bulkhead; Agent Fowler turned out to be a portly African-American man who looked one second from blowing his top. Peter cringed back behind Bulkhead; now was definitely not the time for introductions. Meanwhile, the agent continued. “Wait, don’t tell he’s out pancaking a mini-mall!

He started pacing down the adjoining catwalk, forcing Peter to play ring around the rosie with Bulkhead’s leg. “Now, I don’t know what language you bots speak on your planet, but Prime promised he would handle the cons quietly. Heaven knows the brass is already in an uproar over that Ultron disaster, not to mention the invasion or the fact that Hryda has been all but calling the shots for the last sixty years or so. And yet, you lot go and blow a crater in the middle of Nebraska! That doesn’t match any form of quiet here on Earth! So, you tell Prime that he either needs to handle this, or we must let the Avengers take over instead!”

For a moment, Peter thought that they had managed to pull hiding his presence off; Agent Fowler seemed to have said his piece, and from what little Cliffjumper had told him about previous visits, rarely stuck around for long afterward. But then, the agent started again, dangerously calm. “Since when do you bots need an extra set of wheels?”

At first, Peter didn’t know what the agent was talking about; then he realized: his bike. A day after their first meeting, Cliffjumper returned to the base with Peter’s bike stashed in his trunk. He reported the theft of all of the Energon crystals. Peter hadn’t returned to his pre-Autobot habits, but he had ridden it to and from the base when one of the Autobots wasn’t available, like today. And so, there it was, leaning against the wall next to the main entrance, directly in Agent Fowler’s line of sight. “Who are you hiding?” Agent Fowler said, still in that dangerously calm tone.

Peter gulped; from the lack of a coherent answer from Bulkhead, there were no miraculous saves; busted—only one thing to do then. Alright, Pete, you can do this, he thought to himself. Taking a last deep breath, he plastered on his best innocent face (Sorry, Aunt May, I don’t know what happened to the last cookie, honest) and stepped into the open. “Hey, how you doing?” he asked brightly.

Unfortunately, his innocent face hadn’t worked back when he was ten, and judging by the fury building on the agent’s face; it wasn’t working now. “Contact with a civilian! Team Prime has gone off-book this time. Wait, don’t tell me, you’re running a daycare center!” the agent spat. Yep, it definitely wasn’t working.

“I’m an intern, a student intern. I’m earning extra credit in, um, robotics!” Peter tried.

The agent gave him a skeptical look and started down the stairs. “Alright, let’s move. I’m taking you into federal custody for your protection.”

Before Peter could start to raise a protest, Bulkhead finally rallied. The giant Autobot lifted one leg and slammed it down between the two humans, causing the agent to stop in his tracks. “We’re protecting him!” he growled at the agent.

“Is that so?” Fowler snapped back. “Well, maybe you can explain that to my superiors at the pentagon!” He turned and marched towards a phone stand at the bottom of the stairs.

Bulkhead, however, wasn’t so easily beaten. “Don’t use that phone; it’s….” he reached over and, with one finger, crushed the phone, “out of order.”

Dropping the phone handle, Fowler scowled up at the Autobot. “This isn’t over, Bigfoot. Not by a long shot.” He stomped back up the stairs and into the elevator.

“So, what’s going to happen now?” Peter asked.

Bulkhead sighed. “Hope that Optimus gets back before that guy comes back with reinforcements, I guess. Maybe he can fix this mess.”

Several awkward tension-filled minutes passed. Peter spent them sitting on the couch, worrying. He trusted Mr. Optimus and had no doubt that he could be extremely convincing when he wanted to be. But, when it came down to it, he was still an alien, and Peter was a citizen of the same government Agent Fowler served. If Agent Fowler and his superiors decided it was best to take Peter away and put him somewhere remote, he wasn’t sure if Mr. Optimus could do anything to stop them. And that opened a whole new set of worries; what exactly would federal custody entail? Would they want fingerprints? A blood test? That might bring the entire enhanced problem into it; Peter had done a couple of tests himself; without specialized equipment, he couldn’t tell how much, but he knew it was different from regular blood. And where would they send him? Somewhere remote presumably, though it was hard to imagine somewhere more remote than Jasper. Then there was Aunt May; what would they tell her? Assuming they just didn’t decide to disappear Peter without a word to his aunt; that would break her heart, perhaps literally. The worst part of it, whatever they did to him, wherever they sent him, it wouldn’t work. After all, the cons were a race of synthetic beings with tech that probably made even Mr. Stark’s stuff look about as advanced as a caveman’s tools. If they wanted to find him, they would. And they would come for him. Maybe not anytime soon, but they will.

Locked in those dark thoughts, Peter was almost glad when the alarms went off once more. “What now?” he shouted over the alarms, clapping his hands on top of his ears again.

Bulkhead stomped over to the console. “It’s an SOS from Fowler!” he answered, hovering over the screen uncertainty.

Before the Autobot could do anything, the alarms shut off independently. “Did you trace it?” Peter asked, shifting to try and take a look at the screen for himself.

“Location scan was incomplete. Oh well.” Bulkhead said, throwing his arms up in a who cares gesture.

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh well? Seriously?” he said. Well, shouted.

Bulkhead turned to face him. “Fowler’s a jerk.”

“Whoa! Whether you like the guy or not, the cons may have him. And he has your location. Our location!” Peter pointed out.

“Yeah, well…” Bulkhead tried looking deeply uncomfortable.

“And didn’t we just see how fast Fowler backs down from a bot? The cons will have him squealing in no time!” Peter continued.

“But we lost the transmission. Fowler could be anywhere!” Bulkhead complained.

That was a problem, Peter acknowledged. But luckily, it had a solution. “Maybe I can narrow it down,” Peter said, returning to his backpack and grabbing his computer. “About five years ago, the government started microchipping their agents, you know, like owners do with pets.” Thank you, Wikipedia. “If I can hack into the Fed’s mainframe, maybe I can pinpoint Fowler’s location!” And if he couldn’t or got caught, he would be either dead or in jail for the rest of his natural life, depending on whether the cons or the feds got to him first. No pressure, Pete.

His fear’s turned out to be unfounded. Within five minutes, he was not only in the mainframe but also had the Agent’s location. That said disturbing things about what the government was doing with the taxpayer’s money if a fourteen-year-old with an outdated laptop could hack one of their mainframes.

“Latitude 39.5, longitude 116.9,” Peter read out loud.

Behind him, Bulkhead did something at the console, and the ground bridge spun to life. “Wait, what are you doing?” Peter asked, twisting.

Bulkhead barely glanced at him. “What does it look like? I’m going to rescue Agent Fowler. You’re in charge till I get back.” With that, he charged towards the open portal.

Peter felt his mouth drop open. Alone? Without the slightest indication of a workable plan? Before he could voice either of those objections, Bulkhead had already vanished through the portal. Peter looked around the base, hoping to hear the sound of incoming engines, but no such miracle happened, and he didn’t know how to contact any of the other bots. It appeared that he was the only help available. Which meant…? Peter gulped, scooped up his web-shooters, and before his nerve could fail him, jumped off the platform and began running towards the portal. He made it just in time; it was starting to shrink even as he leaped through. No going back now.

Chapter Text

Even before he leaped through the ground bridge, Peter thought that going after Bulkhead was never going to be anything but reckless. Afterward, he knew it wasn’t just irresponsible; it was downright suicidal. Consider it: an enhanced teenager and one Autobot vs. who knew how many Decepticons, plus their warship.

They had ground bridged a short distance from the Decepticon warship in a canyon. “The good news? As he bolted to the nearest boulder, Peter thought, “the cons hadn’t noticed either him or Bulkhead. “The bad news?” Peter continued, “cons patrolling everywhere, with a couple posted up on the warship’s roof.”

Speaking of Bulkhead, the Autobot was studying the warship from his own cover, right next to Peter’s chosen hiding spot. “So, do we have a plan?” Peter asked.

Bulkhead nodded. “Yeah, I figure that if we climb up by the thrusters, we should be able to get up top before they see us. Then, we find a way inside and… He trailed off, and Peter could sense his surprise. Bulkhead’s head turned towards Peter, and he stated dumbly, “You shouldn’t be here.” He gathered himself. “Why are you here?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t about to let you take on the whole Decepticon army by yourself!”

Bulkhead looked awkward. “I’ll manage, but you really shouldn’t be here. We’re supposed to be keeping you safe, not taking you onto the battlefield!”

“If the cons get Agent Fowler talking, the base won’t be safe; nowhere will be! And besides, I can’t go back now.” Peter argued.

“Alright, you wait here while I go get Fowler?” Bulkhead suggested, hopefully.

Peter shook his head. “Cons would notice sooner or later, and then where would I be?” Probably either dead or Fowler’s cellmate.

Bulkhead sighed. “Optimus is going to kill me, and then Ratchet’s going to resurrect me so that he can disassemble me himself.” He fixed Peter with his gaze, and the loveable, gruff, and occasionally clumsy Autobot was gone, replaced by a hardened soldier who’d seen more years of combat than Peter could imagine. “You stay close and out of sight as much as possible. Let me handle all the fighting. Understood?”

Peter gave his best military salute and chanted, “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Well, isn’t this cute?” a new voice interjected. Turning, Peter saw their grace period had run out; a con was standing a short distance away, weapon out and pointed directly at Bulkhead. The weapon began to glow and hum in the way Peter had become quite familiar with from watching the bots train.
“I hate cute.” The con spat. Luckily, he had made a mistake (granted, if he had been a twenty-foot robot, Peter probably would have made the same mistake): he completely dismissed Peter as a threat.

Which meant - Peter brought his fingers into position over the triggers of his web shooters, took a moment to hope that the web fluid inside was still suitable (it had been months since he had made a fresh batch), and then, in one quick motion, yanked his arms up and fired. Despite how long it had been, his aim was still good; the con got a gob of webbing right to the visor. Instinctually the con tried to do two things at once and failed at both; with one clawed hand, it tried to swipe off the webbing while its weapon hand sent a bolt of crimson at Bulkhead. Bulkhead, however, had used the slight distraction to duck out of the way, and the shot detonated somewhere behind them. With the con still blinded, Bulkhead charged. Things ended predictably after that.

However, the con must have notified the others, or they had noticed the commotion, for, at that moment, Peter heard that hum again, repeated a dozen times over. “Take cover!” Bulkhead shouted while doing just that.

“I guess the stealthy approach is out then?” Peter shouted over the roar of near-consistent impacts.

Bulkhead chuckled. “You can say that again. Luckily, the direct approach is more my speed. By the way, what was that white stuff?”

Peter grinned. “It’s my webbing.”

Bulkhead blinked. “Your webbing, like you made it? Inside of you?”

Peter shook his head. “No, I made it in chemistry class. I shoot it using my web shooters, see?” he said, holding up one arm to display the gadget.

Bulkhead squinted at the gadget for a moment and then shook his head. “Very cool, kid. But, I think we should be getting ready to make a break for it.” Putting words to action, he transformed (Peter was never going to get tired of watching that) and popped open a door. “On my mark… Go!”

Peter bolted across the small space between their respective covers and practically threw himself into Bulkhead’s waiting cab. The door slammed shut practically on his foot, and a seatbelt snaked across his chest as he scrambled into position on the seats. And then, with a roar from Bulkhead’s engine, it slammed into high gear, and they were off.

Despite the flatness of the canyon floor, it was an incredibly rough ride due to Bulkhead's frenzied zigzag course, the speed they were traveling at, and of course, the seemingly endless barrage of enemy fire. Somehow, they managed to reach the base of the warship without getting hit; either Lady Luck had chosen to smile on them for once, or the cons were suffering from a nasty case of the Stormtrooper Effect.

Then the world twisted around Peter; one second, he was sitting on a seat, and the next, he was in a small, dark space. Belatedly, he realized what had happened; Bulkhead had transformed around Peter, sealing him somewhere in Bulkhead’s innards. Peter wasn’t particularly bothered by small spaces; back when he first lived with Aunt May, his bedroom was a closet until they got a two-bedroom apartment. But this isn’t just small, it’s pitch black as well, and worse, it’s moving around him; if not for his stickiness, he probably would have ended up battered and bruised by the end of it and possibly about to throw up to boot.

Thankfully, it didn't last too long; a section slid down, revealing a blue sky. Peter could see the edge of the warship and the lip of the canyon in the distance. Clambering towards it, Peter found himself poking his head out of Bulkhead’s chest. Distractedly, Peter wondered if this was what a baby kangaroo felt like. “You ok in there, kid?” Bulkhead asked.

Peter twisted around and looked up so that he could see Bulkhead’s face. “I’m fine, but could you give me more warning next time?” Truthfully, he felt dizzy and a bit queasy, but he wasn’t about to tell Bulkhead that.

Bulkhead chuckled and offered his hand, palm up for Peter to climb up onto. Bulkhead lowered Peter to the ground. Maybe it was the fact that he was back on semi-solid ground, but his legs suddenly gave out under him, and he fell to his knees. Also, the queasiness multiplied to the point that he could taste bile at the back of his mouth. Behind him, Peter could practically hear Bulkhead tense in alarm. “Could we not do that again anytime soon?” Peter managed to force out.

But, before Bulkhead could respond, a con tackled him. It probably wasn’t the wisest of moves; Bulkhead managed to roll with the blow and came out on top. He brought his mace hand down once, twice, thrice, and the con laid still. But, that was only the beginning of their troubles; directly behind Peter, something clicked open. Standing and turning, Peter faced two more cons rising from a trapdoor. Automatically, his arms came up, and he pressed the triggers of his web shooters. Two clicks sounded in unison. “Scrap!” Peter thought,” the shooter’s empty.” Not that it mattered, he thought to himself, stepping back as the cons started to reach for him. Either way, he was toast. Fortunately, Bulkhead intervened; several bolts of azure shot overhead, taking down one con and forcing the other to duck.

Good news: the con was utterly distracted from Peter. Bad: three more cons ran up to join him, weapons blazing. Rather than engage in a potentially fatal firefight, Bulkhead chose a more inventive route: he ran for a sizeable satellite dish protruding nearby. Reaching it, he ripped it from its housing and hurled it at the group of cons like the world’s largest and most deadly frisbee. While it must have been an unwieldy weapon, it was still devastatingly effective; all four cons went down, while Bulkhead’s improvised weapon carried on until it hit the deck's rim and flipped over. “He shoots; he scores!” Peter cheered. Bulkhead sketched a rough bow and then offered his hand.

Stepping on, Peter was surprised enough to fall into a crouch when Bulkhead yanked his hand against his chest and covered Peter with the other hand. Peering through Bulkhead’s fingers, Peter saw the reason: more cons. Too numerous and spread out to beat, even if Bulkhead had another giant satellite dish frisbee to throw. Bulkhead must have agreed because he turned and ran for the still open trapdoor.

Once at the hatch, Bulkhead grabbed the latch and jumped down, pulling it shut behind him. Inside, Peter was surprised and a little disappointed that the inside of the warship was boring. Dark purple, with curved supports and lights on the ceiling. The only thing of genuine interest was the sheer size; Peter was a tiny human; for gigantic Cybertonians, it was probably quite normal. Of course, the fact it was also enemy territory provided all the excitement one could ask for.

Case in point, Peter realized, his enhanced ears picking something or someone moving along the corridor adjoining their own, headed towards the intersection ahead. “Mr. Bulkhead,” He hissed, “Someone’s coming.”

Equally quiet, Bulkhead whispered back, “Which way?” Peter pointed. Bulkhead nodded and lowered Peter to the floor. “Wait here.” Bulkhead ordered, moving with surprising stealth for something so large to the intersection. One hand transformed into a blaster, and he spun around the corner with it raised.

“Whoa! Friendly!” Acree’s voice said. Trotting forward, Peter was relieved to see her and Bumblebee standing there. She scowled and said, “Brought the kid along, huh?”

“You try getting him to stay behind!” Bulkhead complained, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Acree sighed and massaged the top of her head with her fingertips (Giant robots get headaches? Peter wondered). “We need to find Fowler and get him and the kid out of here.”

“Um, does this ship have a brig or something?” Peter asked. “Because that's probably where he is.”

Acree stared at him for a moment. “It does.” She said slowly.

“How do you know?” Bumblebee queried, speaking up for the first time.

“Because I’ve been in it!” She snapped, marching away. “This way. And hurry,” she continued, “The cons are sure to know what we’re here for by now, and they’ll be waiting for us.”

They most certainly did and were; whereas before the corridors seemed unnervingly empty, now packs of cons patrolled them. And they were definitely coordinating; no sooner than the Autobots had engaged with one group than a second group showed up behind them. The cons didn't shoot at Peter or even seem to notice him, but it was still perilous, especially for a tiny, squishable human, with all the stray shots and the occasional stray part.

Acree must have been thinking along similar lines because, after the third such encounter, she changed course into a room off the corridor, followed shortly by Bulkhead and Bumblebee. There was a short exchange of fire, and then Acree called, “Clear!”

Entering, Peter saw what appeared to be some sort of command center, complete with multiple hologram stations and a commanding view of a blank expanse of the canyon. The three Autobots were moving back towards the door. “You stay here,” Acree ordered.

Peter blinked in surprise, but before he could respond, Bumblebee cut in. “What? Why?” the yellow Autobot questioned.

“He’s slowing us down and an easy target. He’ll be alright here, so long as he stays put.” Acree explained. “Besides,” she continued in a whisper he probably wasn’t supposed to overhear (hooray for enhanced senses), “we don’t know what the cons have been doing to Fowler. Do you really want him to see something like that?”

While Peter couldn’t help but be grateful for Acree’s concern about his mental health (he had enough nightmares already, usually about his uncle’s last moments), Peter wasn’t sure that this spot would be safe. After all, this wasn’t a supply closet or something; this looked like the ship’s bridge, which meant, even with the vessel grounded, cons would be in and out of it at all times. Some might be on their way there right this second. However, before Peter could raise this objection, the Autobots had barreled past him and out the door, which slammed shut behind them.

In an effort to forget that he was effectively alone aboard a hostile warship, Peter decided to investigate one of the nearer consoles. Unlike the others (sadly, the quirk that allowed him to understand spoken Cybertontian didn’t extend to the written variant), this one had some sort of mathematical equation pulled up. And an ultra-important one at that, Peter realized after a moment’s study. That realization made Peter wish he had a flash drive or something to download it. Of course, if he did have one, the cons were unlikely to have been helpful enough to install human-sized USB ports on their equipment. But he could take a picture; Peter thought as he pulled out his phone.

A few seconds later, as he lowered his phone, heavy footsteps rang throughout the room. A lone set of footsteps, meaning that it was almost certainly a con, Peter thought as he plastered himself against a wall. Sure enough, a solitary con emerged from somewhere. Thankfully, it hadn’t seen Peter yet, but it was only a matter of time before it did; the bridge was unhelpfully plain and uncluttered, giving it few hiding spots. The only thing it did have going, for that matter, was that it was pretty dim. Or maybe- Peter craned his head to look up at the ceiling. Sure enough, it was noticeably darker than the rest of the room and had quite a few crooks and nooks in which a smallish teenager could find shelter—provided, of course, that one could stick to the ceiling and was capable of reaching it in the first place.

Taking a moment to slip off his shoes (back when he was getting the hang of his powers, he had discovered that while his stickiness worked fine through thin material, thicker material, such as the soles of his sneakers, gave it trouble), lept up and stuck himself to the ceiling. After checking to see whether the con had noticed anything (it hadn’t), Peter scuttled across the roof and into the nearest shadowed recess. There, he made himself as comfortable as possible and, keeping one eye on the con, settled in to wait for the bots to come back.

He didn’t have to wait long; a few minutes later, the door slid open, and Bulkhead’s massive form appeared. The con spun, weapon coming up, but Bulkhead fired first. With the opposition dealt with, Bulkhead called out. “Hey kid, are you still here?”

“Over here.” Peter returned, moving out of his hiding spot.

Bulkhead’s eyes visibly widened. “Whoa, how are you doing that?”

Peter grinned and then released his grip on the ceiling and did a flip in midair, resulting in him landing on his feet, right next to his shoes, which he quickly slipped on. “I’m sticky.” He explained.

Looking up, he was surprised to see Bulkhead halfway across the space between them, one hand outstretched. He blinked. “Hang on, were you trying to catch me?”

Bulkhead shuffled in place, looking slightly embarrassed. “Yes? I didn’t know humans could do anything like that.”

“We can’t normally.” Peter clarified.

Bulkhead looked poleaxed. “But you just….”

Peter cut him off. “I’m enhanced.”

Bulkhead blinked. “Is that like those web thingamajigs?”

Peter shook his head as he moved towards the waiting Autobot. “Web shooters. And no, the stickiness and everything is all-natural. Or so to speak.”

“What’s going on?” Bumblebee asked, pulling up to the doorway in car form, presumably because he was carrying Agent Fowler.

“Oh, the kid’s making a decent try at usurping your position as the team member most likely to cause spark failure is all.” Bulkhead groused.

“Ha ha,” Bumblebee complained, “For the millionth time, the cliff wasn’t that big. And there weren’t that many cons either!”

“Enough, you two. Discuss it back at the base.” Acree sighed, sounding incredibly world-weary, “Let's get out of here before more reinforcements show up.”

Peter slipped into Bumblebee’s already opened passenger side, shut the door, and promptly nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand slapped down on his shoulder. Turning in his seat, he saw an extremely dazed-looking Agent Fowler. “I like pie.” The agent mumbled randomly, eyes unfocused. “Can we stop for pie?”

“Um, sure?” Peter said uncertainly. The agent smiled and then flopped down on the armrest, entirely out of it. “What’s wrong with him?” Peter whispered to Bumblebee’s dashboard.

Bumblebee’s dashboard lit up. “We think Starscream had a go at him with an Energon prod; really painful, but he should recover in a day or two with no permanent damage.” The Autobot whispered back.

“Oh.” Peter sighed and, leaning back in his seat, looked out the window. The Autobots had formed into a three-vehicle convoy, with Bumblebee and his precious cargo in the middle, Acree scouting up ahead, and Bulkhead bringing up the rear as they sped through the mostly empty hallways. Mostly empty because Peter could see an occasional con in the distance, but the cons didn’t seem to be able to catch up to the speeding Autobots, and they passed through the warship and eventually out into the sun without any more trouble.

Back at the base, it was evident that Mr. Optimus and the others hadn’t had such an easy time. Whereas Bulkhead and the other had gotten away with a few scratches, scorch marks, and the occasional dent, Mr. Optimus’s group looked like someone had been at them with a weed wacker. Ratchet was even sporting what looked to be a high-tech sling.

While Mr. Optimus debriefed Bulkhead in the background and Acree fussed over Cliffjumper (sometimes, Peter wondered if partners was Cybertronian for whatever giant robots used in place of marriage), Peter approached Ratchet about it. “What happened to you guys, Mr. Ratchet?”

Ratchet sighed. “We engaged an army of undead Cybertronians warriors.”

Peter gulped. “Zombies? That’s horrible news, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly.” Ratchet confirmed. “And not just because it occurred, but what implications it gives to Megatron’s plans.

Before Peter could ask about that, he was distracted. “Bulkhead,” Mr. Optimus disapproved, “you exercised extremely poor judgment in allowing the child to accompany you.”

The giant Autobot looked incredibly guilty but met his leader’s gaze squarely. “It won’t happen again, Optimus, I promise.

“But it wasn’t Bulkhead’s fault.” Peter yelped. “I’m the one who ran after him.”

“Peter, please.” Bulkhead almost begged.

Peter ignored him. “And look what I got out of it: Intel!” He said, pulling up the picture he’d taken back on the warship and holding it up so Mr. Optimus could take a look.

The massive Autobot bent close. “Hmm. Ratchet, have a look. It could be of importance to Megatron.”

Taking Mr. Optimus’s place, the CMO did so. “It most likely is. How, however, will take me a bit of time.” Lifting his head slightly, he addressed Peter directly. “Could you transfer the picture to my console?”

Peter grinned. “Sure thing, Mr. Ratchet.”

The next day, Peter existed his ride for the day, Cliffjumper this time, to be greeted by Ratchet calling for Mr. Optimus. “These are engineering specs for a space-time vortex generator.” Ratchet was saying as Peter came up to them, trailed by Cliffjumper.

Mr. Optimus frowned. “Megatron’s building a space bridge if he hasn’t already.”

“Hey, the sooner he leaves, the better,” Bulkhead interjected, joining their little gathering, followed by Bumblebee.

“Bulkhead, a space bridge runs in two directions.” Mr. Optimus said. “Megatron may not be using it to leave Earth, but to bring through his conquering army.”

“The main event Megatron referred to.” Ratchet mused. “But the only place Megatron could possibly recruit that many fallen warriors….” He trailed off, looking horrified.

Mr. Optimus nodded, looking even more grave than usual. “Precisely.” He turned and looked upwards as if he could look through several tons of rock and steel and the untold eons of space between him and his target. “Cybertron.”

Chapter Text

Mr. Optimus didn’t need to elaborate on what would happen if Megatron’s plan came to fruition; Peter’s imagination filled in the blanks quite well. First, the bodies of who knows how many fallen Cybertronians would rise from their shallow graves if they had them, brought back by the power of Dark Energon. Then they would take to the air, swarm through Megatron’s Space bridge, and descend on Earth in numbers uncountable. Then, and only then, would the nightmare truly begin. Cities burning, people cut down in the streets, and any form of resistance crushed under a tide of metal death. Even Mr. Stark and the Avengers wouldn’t have a chance against them.

Fortunately, the Autobots seemed to be on top of things. Case in point: Ratchet. “Optimus,” the CMF called, “I’ve pinpointed the location of Megatron’s space bridge: high in earth’s orbit.”

“Out of our reach.” The Autobot leader responded gravely. Ok, maybe they weren’t so on top of things. Think, Pete, think.

“Ok, so you can’t fly there, obviously, but couldn’t you just….” Peter trailed off and sighed. “Let me guess, the ground bridge has limited range, right?”

“Indeed.” Ratchet affirmed. “Stretched all the way into orbit, its vortex could snap and scatter us to the stars, or worse.”

“Or worse?” Cliffjumper asked, apparently not knowing when to stop asking questions.

“It could scatter us to the stars in multiple pieces.” Ratchet answered.

If Autobots had been capable, Cliffjumper probably would have turned green; he certainly looked uncomfortable enough. “Forget I asked, Doc.”

At that point, Mr. Optimus intervened. “Since Megatron is likely already in transit, I’m afraid we must take that risk. Reaching the space bridge first is our only means of stopping him.”

It was a scene practically dripping with drama, so someone groaned behind Peter at that moment. Distracted, Peter glanced back in time to see Agent Fowler attempting to lever himself into a sitting position. Looking towards the bots, Peter called, “Mr. Ratchet, Agent Fowler’s awake.”

Ratchet made a gesture that Peter assumed meant something like “I’ll be with you in a minute,” so Peter walked towards the recovering agent. “Er, hi, Mr. Agent Fowler, sir,” Peter said, smiling nervously.

The Agent cracked open one eye and studied him for a moment. “Just Agent will do, kid. Now, what happened? The last thing I recall is that Starscream guy was taking a poke at me with his toy stick.”
Peter was saved from answering by Ratchet’s growl. “I see you’re awake, Agent Fowler. Hold still for a scan.”

Agent Fowler scowled but held still. Evidently, he had learned the folly of arguing with Ratchet in full medical mode. After the scan finished, however, he erupted. “Alright, now what happened?”

Ratchet sighed but gave a concise summary of yesterday's events leading up to their current situation in clipped, irritated tones. To his credit, Agent Fowler listened without interruption, though his scowl deepened as Ratchet came to a close. “So,” he said slowly, “Megatron is trying to raise an undead army, and the only way you can think of stopping him is to meet him head-on? Seriously?”

Ratchet met the Agent’s scowl with a glare. “If you have any better ideas, I’m sure Optimus will be thrilled to hear them. Otherwise, stay in that bed, or I’ll tie you to it.”

Leaving the still scowling Agent behind, Ratchet stalked towards his console. After a moment, Peter followed, not wanting to be alone with the grumpy man. Back in the central area, the Autobots were finishing preparing for their mission. Even as Peter reached it, Ratchet pulled the lever to activate the ground bridge, washing its immediate area in now-familiar blue-green light. Staring at the waiting portal, Peter swallowed nervously. “Mr. Cliffjumper?” He called. The red Autobot turned to look at him. “Be careful, ok?”

The Autobot smiled. “Don’t worry, Pete; careful is my middle name.”

“Funny,” Acree stated, smiling slightly, “I thought it was lucky.”

Cliffjumper adopted a hurt expression. “You see how it is, Pete? Betrayal everywhere.”

As was probably intended, Peter couldn’t stop the giggle that emerged. Cliffjumper’s smile returned. “Seriously, through Pete, we’ll be back before you know it. I’ll even see if I can grab a souvenir for you.”

With that, he moved away, standing slightly behind Mr. Optimus. “Optimus,” Ratchet said, “If you leave me stranded on a planet teeming with humans, I will never forgive you.”

Mr. Optimus responded, “Until we meet again, old friend. Autobots, roll out!”

Suiting words to actions, the Autobots transformed nearly as one and, after revving their engines for a moment, sped through the waiting portal. After a long moment, Peter crossed his fingers behind his back and turned to Ratchet. “Did they make it?”

The medic frowned and checked the screens in front of him. “Life signs look good; let me do a coms check. Autobot base to away team, do you read me?”
For a moment, there was only static, but then Mr. Optimus’s voice boomed from various speakers. “Loud and clear, Ratchet. All members are present and accounted for; we have safely landed on the space bridge.” Peter sighed, feeling his heartbeat slow down to more reasonable levels.

“Thank Primus,” Ratchet muttered before addressing the other Autobots again. “Any sign of Megatron or his forces?”

“Nothing yet,” Cliffjumper said with forced cheer. “I guess old Buckethead wants to make an entrance or something… well, speak of the devil. Here they come now.”

“So, Megatron’s packing enough Dark Energon to raise Cybertron’s dead?” Acree summarized.

“And since we don’t possess ready means of disabling the space bridge, nothing gets in or out.” Mr. Optimus part affirmed part ordered, followed by the hum of their weapons charging up.

Several tense moments passed before Acree broke the silence. “Well? What are they waiting for?”

More silence, and then Mr. Optimus spoke. “The Decepticons have sustained serious damage to their interstellar navigation system.”

“Oh! That’s my handiwork.” Bulkhead said.

“Great job, Bulkhead!” Mr. Optimus approved. “Without the dish, Megatron cannot aim the space bridge at Cybertron.”

Back on Earth, Peter looked at Ratchet. “Don’t the Decepticons know where their planet is?”

“Naturally,” Ratchet replied, “But Cybertron is many lightyears away. To reach their target, their aim must be astronomically precise.”

“If Megatron went to the trouble of rendezvousing with his space bridge,” Mr. Optimus mused, “He must have an alternate targeting system: a remote one.”

“From what I know of earth’s technology, I doubt there exists a single radio telescope dish on this planet powerful enough to pinpoint Cybertron.” Ratchet shot back.

Peter wasn’t so sure. “What about a whole bunch of linked radio telescope dishes? Like the giant size array in Texas?” He asked, pulling up a picture of the array on his screen.

Ratchet grunted, studying the image. “It might be possible,” he allowed doubtfully, “their numbers might make up for their lack of power.”

Mr. Optimus was more accepting. “Good thinking Peter. Ratchet, have Agent Fowler alert the array staff to the security hazard.”

Ratchet turned toward the agent, but the agent spoke first. “Already on it.” Agent Folwer said, tapping away on his phone. After a minute, he pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it. “No one’s answering.”

Peter gulped. “Maybe they’re all on a lunch break or something?” he asked hopefully.

The Agent eyed him skeptically. “Not likely, kid. Even for an installation as lax as that, standard regulations are to have at least one person on comms at all times.”

“What do we do then?” Peter asked quietly.

The Agent sighed, suddenly looking very tired. “Not a lot we can do, kid, unless….” he straightened and looked Peter in the eyes, “You any good with computers?”

Peter hesitated. “Umm….”

Ratchet snorted. “He was the one who got your location from your agency’s mainframe.”

“Mr. Ratchet!” Peter yelped, panicked.

Agent Fowler chucked, sounding darkly amused. “Relax, kid. You saved my goose with that, so let's call it even. But I digress; If I got you into the array installation, do you think you could do something about those cons?”

“I could try?” Peter offered uncertainly.

The Agent smiled. “That’s all I’m asking, son.”

“The risk is too great,” Mr. Optimus rumbled, “the Decepticons will be there, perhaps even on-site.”

“Mr. Optimus, with all due respect, you said it yourself: this is bigger than my safety,” Peter said, swallowing his fear.

“Kid’s right,” Agent Fowler grunted, “If the cons win, we’re all dead anyway.”

“Very well.” Mr. Optimpus granted after a moment. “Ratchet, open a ground bridge to the array.”

“Locking onto the coordinates now,” Ratchet replied as Peter made his way down. “Opening ground bridge shortly. And where do you think you’re going?”

Turning, Peter saw Agent Fowler had left his bed and was staggering down the last flight of stairs. The agent scowled back at the looming Autobot. “If you think I’m letting a kid go into hostile territory alone, think again, Doc.”

Ratchet sighed. “Be that as it may, you’re still injured.”

The Agent scoffed. “I’ve been hurt worse on training exercises, Doc. Besides, the kid’s going to be doing all the heavy lifting. I’m just going to be keeping him company.”

Ratchet grunted, but he must have decided to let it go because the ground bridge spun to life a moment later.

Before his nerve left him, Peter charged the portal and found himself in front of the array. It certainly looked a lot bigger in person. Behind him, he heard Agent Fowler come through, followed by the portal closing. Glancing back, he noticed that the agent seemed a bit winded. “Are you sure you’re ok, Mr. Fowler?”

The Agent sighed. “I’m fine, kid. Those portals take some getting used to, that's all.”

Peter nodded; that much was true. Still, he should try to keep an eye on the Agent. With that in mind, he led the way toward the array control center. Inside, it was bare and empty, unnervingly so. Agent Fowler must have thought the same if his increasing tenseness was any clue. After a minute, they found an office with a computer. “Alright, kid, get to work; I’m going to see if I can find the security room and find out what’s happening around here.” Agent Fowler said, gesturing towards the computer.

Peter nodded and sat down at the computer. Fortunately, the on-site security wasn’t very good; both username and password were on a sticky note under the keyboard. So, when Agent Fowler slipped back into the office and asked if he was in the system, Peter was able to respond positively. “I’m in, Mr. Fowler. But so are the cons, see?” he said, nodding at the alien math and symbols flowing across his screen.

“You know what those are, kid?” Agent Fowler asked, moving across the room and leaning over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter nodded. “I got a picture of them while we were on the Decepticon warship, and Mr. Ratchet said they were engineering specs for the Deception space bridge. This time though, I can download it.” He said, presenting and plugging in the flash drive he had brought along.
“The cons are linking it to the dishes here, but while they’re connected, I can link to them,” Peter explained.

“Won’t they notice that?” Agent Fowler asked, frowning at the screen.

Peter shrugged. “Even if the Decepticons see that I’m in the system, they’ll have no idea I’m in the house.”

Agent Fowler gave a grim chuckle. “I hope you’re right, kid. Cause that Soundwave guy is parked just down the hall.”

Peter’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Should we move?”

Agent Fowler shook his head. “Nah, the building’s not big enough to matter. Besides, you said they won’t know we’re here.”

“Until I start messing around with the dishes, then they’ll know something’s up. And they’ll start looking.” Peter pointed out.

The Agent muttered under his breath for a moment and then clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You worry about those dishes, son. I’ll worry about our neighbor.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the computer beeped. Simultaneously, he heard the distant sound of metal sliding against metal as the dishes moved. “The dishes just locked onto Cybertron.” Show time, Pete. “But not for long.” More metal on metal and the previously locked dishes returned to their original positions.

Almost immediately, they began to switch back, and Peter began to type again, but before he could make any process, Agent Fowler cursed under his breath. Unable to help himself, Peter twisted to look at the agent and followed his gaze to the camera perched in the corner of the room. A little red light had started blinking on it, and the camera had swiveled on its mount, so the camera’s lenses was pointed directly at Peter himself.

“Keep typing, kid. I’ll handle this.” Agent Fowler promised, walking across the room to tug the emergency fire axe free from its place. Outside the room, a door banged, and something moved in the corridor. For a long moment, there was silence, and Peter hoped, eyeing the reflection of the door on his computer screen, that Soundwave would decide they weren’t worth the trouble. It was a vain hope; the door banged open, and a tentacle shot inside.

Agent Fowler charged the intruder with a shout, axe raised. The tentacle dodged away, successfully avoiding the Agent’s first strike, then slammed back, catching the agent on the belly and sending him hurtling into a wall.

It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it allowed Peter to do two things. First, he yanked out the flash drive. Hopefully, the download had finished. Second, he stood and spun just in time to catch Soundwave’s tentacle by the pinchers.

This left Peter with two problems. First, the tentacle he was currently arm-wrestling. Thanks to his stickiness, it couldn’t pick him up and hurl him against the wall like Agent Fowler, and he was strong enough to keep it in place. However, he couldn’t do anything with it, which led to the second problem; the dishes were moving still and pinned down as he was, Peter couldn’t do anything to stop them. Then a bit of movement to the side alerted Peter to the third problem; Agent Fowler had gotten up to his hands and knees and was staring in Peter’s direction, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Peter knew what it looked like; a tiny, stick-thin teenager managing to stop a thick tree-trunk robot tentacle in its tracks. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together and come up with the solution: enhanced.

Perhaps thankfully, Soundwave’s tentacle bucked in his grip before Peter could start panicking over the fact that a government agent knew his most closely guarded secret. Right now, Peter told himself, it was time to focus on the giant death robot and leave the fed for future Peter to worry about.

He turned his attention back to Soundwave. Even as Peter refocused, Soundwave's tendrils lit up with a crackling blue light. Before Peter could do anything, electricity shot across the short distance between them and stuck Peter in the chest, stealing the strength from his limbs and reducing them to rubber. Though his hands remained stuck, there was now nothing to stop Soundwave’s pinchers from pulling free and closing around Peter’s torso. While this kept Peter from collapsing to the floor, Peter felt that might have been better. After all, he was now utterly helpless in the grasp of a murderous robot.

As if to illustrate that, the tentacle began moving back towards the door, taking Peter with it. Agent Fowler tried to interfere, but Peter was out the door before he could stagger to his feet. Once outside, they shot down the hallway, through a set of double doors, and into a much larger room with an open skylight. And there, turning to face Peter, was a giant robot who could only be Soundwave himself. For a long moment, the con studied the boy dangling helplessly in his grasp before, Click. Flash. Despite himself, Peter blinked; had Soundwave just taken his picture? Before Peter could really examine that little nugget (and start to panic over it), Agent Fowler entered the scene.

“Hey!” the agent called. Soundwave tilted their visor away from Peter to study the agent. Likewise, Peter managed to force his uncooperative body to turn slightly in Soundwave’s grip so that he could at least see the agent out of his peripheral vision. The man was standing at the doors, fire axe in one hand and the other pressed against his side, scowling up at the looming con. “Put the kid down, or I’ll….”

What Agent Fowler intended to do exactly would forever remain unclear, for, at that moment, the con dropped Peter. Usually, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but at the moment, Peter was doing a rag doll impression, so he fell several feet to the floor and promptly cracked his head against it. The world went away for several seconds.

The world came back slowly. Specifically, someone was shaking Peter’s shoulder. He cracked his eyes open and was greeted with a brown and gray blur leaning over him. “Wha?” he managed to croak out.

“Easy, son,” the blur cautioned, “That was quite the knock to the head you got there.”

Since his limbs still felt like rubber and his head felt like it was about to split open, Peter decided to take the blur’s advice and just lie there for a while. After a few seconds and several blinks, the blur resolved into Agent Fowler; Peter decided to try again. “What happened?”

Agent Fowler sighed. “After that con dropped you, he jumped me and took my axe. He had the drop on both of us, but he just used it to cut some wires and then made tracks.”

Peter frowned. Just cut some wires? Why would Soundwave stop with that when he had his enemies at his mercy? Unless, of course, he believed that there was no point in finishing them off. He rolled to one side with a bit of effort and got a view of the cut wires. Oh. Oh no.

Agent Fowler must have realized something was wrong because he frowned as he helped Peter to sit up. “Those wires important, kid?”

Peter nodded. “That’s the hardline connection to the satellite dishes, Mr. Fowler. Without it, they’re going to stay locked on Cybertron for good.”

Agent Fowler sighed, suddenly looking very tired all of a sudden. “I guess this was a bit of a long shot, to begin with.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

Agent Fowler clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your fault, kid. Let’s get back to the base.”

A few minutes later, having staggered back into the base through a waiting portal, Peter found himself installed in a chair on the second level (about chest height for most of the Autobots) with instructions to rest. That was easier said than done, with the sounds of combat ringing through the coms and the sense that things weren’t going well for the Autobots.

At some point, while Peter and Agent Fowler were in transit, Megatron used his space bridge to send a mass of Dark Energon on a conclusion course with Cybertron. And despite the best efforts of the Autobots, they hadn’t been able to stop him. Now, as Peter stared at Ratchet’s screen, all he could see was the growing masses of purple markers identifying the oncoming undead robots coming through the open space bridge. A space bridge that was only open because he, Peter Parker, A.K.A. Spider-Man, had failed. Some hero he was turning out to be.

A short distance from Peter’s cloud of gloom, the base’s speakers boomed with Mr. Optimus’s voice. “Ratchet, we must destroy the space bridge. There’s enough live Energon coursing through it to achieve detonation, but we lack the firepower to ignite it.”

Ratchet scowled and replied, “If I knew how the space bridge was engineered, I might find a technical way of accomplishing that feat.”

Peter shifted in his seat and something pressed against his leg. Wait a moment; the flash drive with the space bridge engineering specs. He took it out of his pocket and looked it over; luckily, despite the excitement at the relay, it looked to be in perfect condition. Getting up, he held it towards Ratchet. “Um, would schematics help?” He asked, feeling hope reignite when Ratchet nodded.

As Peter went to plug the flash drive in, Ratchet returned to his screens and the conversation he had been having with Mr. Optimus. “Optimus, I must say, the space bridge is our sole hope of ever returning to Cybertron. Are you confident its destruction is the only option?”

“I am afraid so, old friend.” Mr. Optimus replied, sounding grimmer than before.

“Then, by all means, let us light our darkest hour!” Ratchet exclaimed.

The next few minutes were busy, to say the least. Peter found himself sitting at one of the computer banks, pulling up designs and directing them onto Ratchet’s screen, all while ignoring the ongoing sound of combat. Meanwhile, Ratchet decoded the plans and walked Acree (who was in charge of the bots with Mr. Optimus distracting Megatron and the other cons) through the surprisingly simple method of turning the Space bridge into a massive bomb. Of course, it didn’t go quite as smoothly as hoped; just after Acree was finishing up, Megatron realized what was going on and left his duel with Mr. Optimus to attack the sabotage group. Thankfully, the Autobots had managed to finish and retreat, even Mr. Optimus, but Acree took a shot in the meantime.

Judging by the panic on Cliffjumper’s face as he held her in his arms, it didn’t look good. Ratchet seemed alarmed too, which was even more concerning. Forgotten in the fuss, Peter bit his lip and tried to think positive thoughts in Acree’s direction.

Maybe it was the power of positive thinking, or more likely, she hadn’t been as badly off as appearances would have suggested. Acree shortly opened her eyes and, true to form, promptly told Cliffjumper she wasn’t fragile, and he better not take this as an excuse to start hovering.

It was over, Peter thought, leaning back in his chair. A hand slapped down on his shoulder. Or, maybe not, Peter thought as he swiveled around to face Agent Fowler. “Can we talk for a moment?” The Agent asked with a grim tone.

Peter nodded, feeling anxiety beginning to well up once more, and Fowler pulled up a chair and sat down. “You aren’t going to make me go into witness protection or something?” He blurted out before Agent Fowler could say anything. “Cause I don’t think that would work out.”

Fowler chuckled, his face softening. “Nah, I think it’s too late for that. The cons would be able to find you anywhere we sent you. Better to have you here, where the bots can keep an eye on you. My superiors probably would disagree, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Besides, it would be a massive pain for everyone involved. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

He leaned forward, studying Peter intently. “You’re enhanced, aren’t you, son?” Peter nodded anxiously, not seeing the point in denial. Fowler must have noticed Peter’s rising anxiety because he sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a phone. Unlocking it, he held it out to Peter. “Here,” he said.

Taking the phone, Peter was surprised to see that the background was a small, dark-skinned girl beaming at the camera. “That’s my niece,” Fowler said gruffly, “She can do this little light show with her fingers. The prettiest thing you ever saw.” He took a deep breath. “Now, son, you’re right to be concerned about telling people you’re enhanced; there are a lot of bigots and sickos out there. Some of them of which happen to be my superiors. As for me, I wouldn’t care if you had two heads, six arms, a tail, and breathed fire to boot. Furthermore, I love my country, but the day Uncle Sam tells me to bring in kids like you and my niece because Mother Nature decided to give them something extra, that’s the day I hand in my letter of resignation.”

Peter looked up from the phone, feeling hope stirring. “So you won’t tell anybody? Or make me leave?”

Fowler smiled. “Nah. Besides, I would’ve had quite the fight on my hands even if I wanted to.” He gestured, and Peter looked up to see all the Autobots gathered, watching them.

Cliffjumper smiled. “Face it, Pete; you’re stuck with us.” Peter beamed back.