Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The idea: Humans learn of Cybertron’s culture including the significance of “Prime”, Megatron and Optimus’ relationship and why it’s so important beyond a bunch of robots fighting on Earth (being opposed military leaders, the government, languages, and cultures.)

The madness behind it all: I got tired of not being able to find the transformers human casts experiencing cybertronian culture shock. I feel that many fics do not focus on how much…humans would be mind blown at having just found out that they aren’t alone??? Imagine the miscommunication? The curiosity?

I’ve seen ROTF, AOE and the downfall of the rest of transformers movies and yeah, humans did react in a really negative way which honestly might be realistic but that’s not what we’re gonna focus on right now 🧘🏾♀️.

The problem is the lack of detail depicting humans experiencing revelations Cybertronian culture, including their social standards, cues, traditions, roles, etc. and me being the desperate character building whore that I am, needs that shit like air  

Like think about it. The accidental hurting of robotic feelings by Sam or Mikaela, hell maybe even Milo or Ralph later on. I wish there was more character building with the bots and I want to be the person to at least try 😭.

I can’t tell you when I’ll have the first chapter done as I’m dealing with school, personal life, and another fic that I currently have to revamp once a-damn-gain. 

but just to give a sneak peek…here’s a snippet of the first chapter.

~*~

When he saw no sign of the prime, the human cursed and started his search again, a government document clutched in his hand. 

Speaking of Optimus, the big guy had been a little hard to find lately. They’d recently gotten a new batch of autobots from a ship crash landing in Ohio. Ratchet had identified it as an emergency vessel capable of holding 5 mecha from a mother ship coming from some galaxy sector (Will was still floored; there were sectors to the universe like neighborhood blocks). 

After a good day’s drive, the salvage team (Bulkhead, Arcee, Bee, with the help of OP) had come back with three mecha ranging in size. 

There had been no other survivors. 

The survived mecha weren’t in the greatest shape themselves. Apparently they’d suffered from something like “ fish hatchery glitched-popped rust plague” or whatever the hell Ratchet had shouted in his frazzled gibberish of Cybertronix and English. 

It took round the clock supervision to make sure those three hadn’t croaked overnight. Their efforts had finally paid off with the bots being signed out with the Ratchet stamp of approval for good health. 

~*~


this is just a place holder for what’s to come. When the 1st chapter is out, I’ll be deleting this one. 

Change of plans: I’ll keep this here just so ppl know what they’re getting into. From here on out there will be no more A/N chapters so if you’re someone who just came here for robot feels and human stupidity, you’re good.

P.S: the max chapter count you see is just a placeholder. For some reason I couldn’t leave it unknown when I posted this so I had to put a number. The amount of one shots can change at any point while it’s in progress.

Chapter Text

This was the third time this week.

Will had just entered the mecha side of the base, calves burning after military drills and jogging a damn football stadium’s length of a base.

The chain of command had relayed some pressing info that required Optimus’s presence in the Nevada sector. He would have taken one of the buggies but the twins had got into a tumble.

Needless to say, the humans have been subjected to hitching rides with the ‘bots or going back to their god given mode of transportation: legs.

Will jogged around the corner and stepped into the common area for the bots, catching his breath and surveying the room. When he saw no sign of Prime, the human cursed and started his search again, a government document clutched in his hand. Speaking of Optimus, the big guy had been a little hard to find lately.

They’d recently gotten a new batch of autobots from a ship that crash landed in Ohio. Ratchet had identified it as an emergency vessel capable of holding 5 mecha from a busted ship coming from some galaxy sector (Will was still floored; there were sectors to the universe like neighborhood blocks).

After a good day’s drive, the salvage team (Bulkhead, Arcee, Bee, with the help of OP) had come back with three mecha ranging in size. There had been no other survivors. The survived mecha weren’t in the greatest shape themselves.

Apparently they’d suffered from something like “f7$h hatchery} rust plague” or whatever the hell Ratchet had shouted in his frazzled gibberish of Cybertronix and English. It took round the clock supervision to make sure those three hadn’t croaked overnight.

Their efforts had finally paid off with the bots being signed out with the Ratchet stamp of approval. However, that’s when it seemed to go downhill.

The new bots seemed to hold Optimus in an almost… fanatical view. Sure, Will can see why. The guy is a majestic big hulk of metal who seems to seep out Buddha vibes on the daily.

Hell that’s why his name was Big Buddha ‘round base. Plus, it didn’t help how Optimus, like the caring robot he is, had met the salvage team at the crash site to help transport the bots back to base. Some hero worship was expected to arise after finding out Prime helped carry you to safety.

But, Will is sure that this is more than that. Way more. The first incident was…tame. Compared to the rest. One of the bots, Swisher—tall lanky blue bot with gold highlights and pointy like head—had been holding an intense conversation with Prowl on the security measures implemented in the base in the kitchen area.

The bots were standing in front of the Energon Keurig (as the soldiers dubbed it) so Will can understand the context in why this may have happened.

But that’s it. Just context. Because what the fuck. The big boss had walked in and Will remembers noting the somber gait encompassing the mech as he made his way over to the Keurig.

Prowl had spotted him first, with Swisher’s back facing the prime. Maybe Optimus hadn’t wanted to interrupt the conversation or maybe the bots weren’t really in the way. Prowl without a single word pulled a cube from the side of the machine and placed it under the dispenser.

Optimus had reached for a button on the Energon dispenser (seriously it’s just a gigantic—futuristic but complicated as fuck Keurig) and…Again, Will doesn’t know what the hell led to this.

Whatever the hell it was, didn’t warrant Swisher spinning on his wheeled peds to face Optimus, screech like a demonic printer and go crashing on the floor into the world’s fastest and most accurate Rubik’s cube impression.

The sound of thundering and screeching metal as pieces caught and slid was like hell on the Colonel’s ears, the human crying out a manly yelp—thank you very much— as he slammed his hands on his ears. The sound of an angry modem and hacked computer blared from the kitchen. Prowl was rigid with his weapons system beaming with energy but Optimus….Will had never seen Optimus’ optics cycle that wide.

A second ago his faceplates had been open for everyone to see, but now his battle mask was sealed shut. His shoulders were straighter than ever, tense stance ramrod straight as he stared at “Rubik’s Swisher” on the floor.

The dispenser remained unused. It was silent in the kitchen. Shit the silence was the loudest thing there in the wake of the weird ass transformation. Will didn’t even know they could transform to other shapes besides cars until that very moment.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask what the hell just happened, ears still ringing from the abuse, Optimus did something even weirder. The battle mask slid away and those weird antenna things moved forward (ho—lee shit) like a horse, facing Swisher as his optics cycled twice.

They sparked bright for a moment and the colonel felt his hair rise as a static entered the room just as a low hum, almost crooning noise arose. Goosebumps sprouted all over his body. Prowl’s plating flared and he, after a moment, reluctantly nodded to the Prime. It was then Will realized the sound was coming from Optimus. What the fuck was going on.

The cube shuttered, flaring plating the only sign the metal Rubik’s Cube was a living thing. Optimus gave the low croon again, antennas rotating back as his optics sparked once more. He bent down, hydraulics decompressing as a metal hand outstretched to tap the cube at seemingly random areas. His final tap led to shy cobalt blue shining from within.

A sound Will would almost describe as nurturing came from OP. Swisher shuttered on the floor. Prowl nodded. Optics sparked. Will grimaced. Transforming painstakingly slow, Swisher went through stages morphing from cube to bot.

When he finished, his head remained bowed to the Prime as he backed away from the Keurig to stand behind Prowl. As if he was afraid. Of Optimus. Saint-like Big Buddha Optimus Prime who would apologize for knocking into a divider that some idiot had set up in the wrong spot before reaching down to help pick it up with his huge metal fingers and ask if he could help rectify his mistake in some other way.

Optimus. He was scared of—

Prime stared for a moment and silent communication must have occurred between the three mecha. Will’s arms tingled from the electrified air.

The biggest mech in the room hummed, a quick electrified sound with distinct notes—almost musical—coming from his mouth before he turned his attention back to the Ke—energon dispenser.

Easing up on his hydraulics, Optimus pressed the button on the Keurig and observed his neon blue enegon be dispensed.

What. What the fu—

Prowl barked something in Cybertronix at Swisher—the bot flinching but hesitantly agreeing with a nod—before turning to face Will with true robotic precision. “I will explain at a later time. I must deliver Swisher to Ironhide for weapons adjustment.”

The two bots left , leaving just Will and Optimus. Just as the human went to speak, the Keurug dinged! signaling the end of its brewing with neon blue drips slowing to a stop. Prime hummed once more, gears whirring as he reached for his species’ life essence.

After that, it was down to one as the Prime bid the human goodbye with a nod as he sipped his energon, leaving the room with a regal air. Will, who now stood alone with ears still ringing from the encounter and feeling the buzz of alien communication, could only help to mumble out a bamboozled, “What the hell was that?”

The government docs could wait. Matter of fact, fuck them. Galloway could kiss his ass.

After that, Will couldn’t help but take note of the bots behavior. It was amazing what the the human eye could see once it really focused on the matter at hand. No, seriously, it was insane.

The bots, especially the newcomers, operated around Optimus in what Will could only describe for some bots as similar to talking to your boss and for others like meeting the damn pope.

For example, Jazz, Ratchet, and Ironhide held various degrees of familiarity with Optimus. Bumblebee of course was included in the group but Bee was always friendly, rankings aside.

You had to love Bee. Who didn’t?

Jazz for instance could be described as that one best friend that was always there for a good time but wasn’t shy to tell you how it was.

There’s been countless times—now that Will has really started looking—where Jazz held no fear in rebuttling an idea OP had or blatantly disobeyed orders for a more “dope ass plan.”

Usually this only happened when it was a meeting between OP, Jazz, Ironhide, Lennox, and some other folks to figure out the next scouting mission for energon or foiling some Decepticon plan. The one time Jazz did such in front of bots like Jolt and Bulkhead, Will swore the usual hum that accompanied the mechs had all but stopped.

Like everyone was waiting for the Prime’s next move.

Yet Optimus, instead of hitting him with the Primal disappointment, sighed in a way you would have with that best friend you’ve known for years.

Ratchet was like every old grandfather that couldn’t wait to knock some sense into you. No one was exempted from Ratchet's wrenches. Not even Prime.

He’d seen and heard enough shit go down in the bots med bay to know Prime was notorious for “forgetting” checkups.

Ironhide…Ironhide was probably the most strict and lax with the Prime. Like a bodyguard that was sick of their charges’ shit yet already too deep to stop, treating his every step with a careful amount of respect.

The rest of them just went up in the intensity.

Arcee and her sisters (or were they just one person) treated OP with the respect of an esteemed military commander. The twins and Sideswipe treated him like a father, always ready to annoy but quick to beg for forgiveness when the time came.

Bulkhead, Wheeljack and surprisingly Prowl were at the Prime’s beck and call, there before the bot could even shift on his peds.

The newcomers…Lennox didn’t want to get into that.

He didn’t want to…But he had to.

It was…it was like a cult.

Optimus couldn’t walk two steps without someone offering him energon, speaking in speedy electric clicks that if any other bots around would have them screeching to an abrupt halt before every mech on base burst into screams of outrage.

There was a time where the alarms had blared at ass-o-clock at night (or morning with how late it was). Whole base was up at arms, soldiers running around in their pajamas and half asleep with rifles at the ready.

Lennox was ready to radio Ironhide to swing by when Optimus came crashing out of the bots’ hanger with the three rescued mechs right on his heels. Ironhide and Jazz were quick to come out the hanger too to give chase, yelling and shouting something in glitched English that would make any marine blush  

Lennox had never seen Prime that frazzled.  

Antics aside, the bots all held some form of respect for Big Buddha. However, Will didn’t realize how far this respect went—or meant really-until the new kids came to play.

Chapter Text

“RECRUITS GET YOUR ASSES INTO GEAR!! GIVE ME FOUR LAPS AROUND THE BASE—NO IFS OR BUTS ABOUT IT. IF YOU'RE NOT HERE BY THE TIME I SOUND THIS ALARM YOU CAN KISS YOUR ASS GOODNIGHT AND GO HOME! MOVE!!”

“SIR YES SIR!!”

Ah, there was nothing like hazing fresh meat. Lennox stood with Epps in the blazing sun, heat waves cresting down like an invisible tsunami. Together they watched the young men begin their task, taking off steady to get their laps going. 

“Bet your pulled pork half of ‘em will be huffin’ and puffin’ like hell on lap two.” Epps commented, watching some boys take off sprinting in an effort to finish as fast as they could. 

Lennox watched the crowd of men travel down the tarmac, staying out the way of hummers and other squads going about their business. A moment passed before the captain turned to Epps, hand reaching up to his comm as he responded, “Bet your whole plate they’ll all be too tired to stand by lap one.” 

Robert, despite starting the bet couldn’t have agreed more, eyeing the amount of supply bags left where the men were positioned. At the pace they were going they’d pass out in the heat before making it. 

Rule number one on the battlefield, be prepared for anything. Including a damn heat stroke. 

Lennox pressed on his comm, glancing back at the troop as they continued to jog down the tarmac. “Hey Ratchet, we got a fresh round of dumbasses who don’t believe in water running in San Diego’s prime. Got a minute to come out here?” The man said, squinting in defense against the sweat that threatened to drip in his eyes as he kept track of his men. 

“Already prepared, William.”

“Already pre—where the hell are you Ratchet?” The human sputtered, looking for the neon green ambulance in the sweltering heat. The comms gave an electronic whizz and crackle, a short cybertronix curse bleeding out before Ratchet switched back to English. 

“Seven clicks Northwest.” He ground out. Low and behold the ambulance was there, parked in the sun out of everyone’s way. William’s comm pinged an alien click, something it did when the bots had something important to share. 

“One of your men are 3.257 minutes away from suffering the first signs of a…heat stroke. No, I don't need your doctors, Mandy is adequate, and I will not be responsible for your soldiers' consequences from their own negligence.”

Before he could even breathe to respond, Ratchet cut the frequency like the sweetheart—or sweat spark—he was. Will saw a woman—Mandy—standing besides Ratchet jump before clambering to get in via open passenger door. The mech’s sirens blared and tires greedily dug into heated tarmac to go speeding towards the recruits. 

In the distance, the boys were fine. Will couldn’t see too much anymore. Just figures bobbing up and down as they tried to complete their orders. 

That is until one of them went crashing down like a ton of bricks. 

“Well shit...” Epps muttered as he watched the scene unfold. 

Taking his hand off his comm, Lennox watched Ratchet come to a stop to let Mandy out of his cab. There was a long pause between the colonel and sergeant before it was broken by Robert.    

Beside him, Epps spoke up, “Aye, I want my fruit at least man—“

“Yeah, we’ll you could have ‘em.” Lennox gave the man a closed lip smile, the San Diego 12 o’clock heat beating his ass just like anyone else. “I gotta take a leak, watch ‘em for me.”

He told him, patting the man’s shoulder before heading for a bathroom. 

~*~

When he came back, Lennox was surprised to see a majority of them still standing. 

Having taken some form of mercy, the sun hid itself in the comfort of clouds, shrouding the tarmac they all stood on in sprinkled bits of shade. 

Beside Will to his left was Ironhide, stocky frame standing and gleaming strong like a beacon of 8 tons of metal kickass. On his right, Sergeant Epps observed everyone with his hands resting over his belt. 

Further back stood Ratchet and the three new bots. The three were observing human military practices as a task from Optimus. Being newcomers to Earth and new members of the NEST operation, it was imperative they learn all there was to the human military. 

Which resulted in Ironhide having to babysit. 

In front of him were six young men, all handpicked by General Morshower’s colonels and advisors to be sent over here. The documents had stressed how while these six (seven if you count their unconscious friend) wee formidable in marksmanship and other necessary skills, they lacked battle experience and were a cocky bunch. 

It was now or never to break them in. 

All was quiet save for the panting men which stood before him, each and every one of them staring straight ahead with faces filled with a determination so stupid you could only get from top tier crayon eaters. 

Life of a marine right?

With desert wind came heat and the distant sound of military activity with it. Lennox didn’t move until he saw one of the newcomers nervously glance at Ironhide, the mech’s gears and hydraulics whirling away as the bot glared down every single one of them. 

Ah, showtime. 

His arms swung behind his back as he made to square his shoulders, hands clasping his wrists. Not a second later, Will greeted the recruits. 

“Good afternoon gentlemen! I’m sure you all know why we’re all here today?”

Some of the recruits' eyes strayed to the mechs standing behind him, eyeing the assembled bots before them. 

“As new initiatives to the NEST operation, you’ll need to be familiar with members of your team. Today, you’ll be dealing with our weapons specialist Ironhide.”

Will brought a hand up to direct their attention to the mech who sneered down at them. The young men, egos bigger than their survival instincts “subtly” scoffed at the action, some rolling their eyes or adjusting their shoulders. 

“In front of you, you’ve been provided with our version of jumped up paintball guns, featuring neon pink paint you could see a mile away.” At their feet did indeed lay paintball guns, pistols almost innocently settled on the tarmac. Behind him, he heard the newcomers shuffling nervously about.

 At that moment though, the  hair on his skin began to rise and all movement stopped. He glanced out the corner of his eye to see Ironhide’s plating rippling before settling to it’s previously neutral state. Pushing past that, Will continued on, filing the behavior for later. 

“The goal is to land hits on your targets’ vital points. I trust with all the meetings you went through prior to being sent here that you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

Whether that was true or not, Will didn’t give a shit. They’d figure the shit out later.  

“It’s time y’all prove to us why your ass even decided 60 pages worth of NDAs sounded like a good idea to sign up for.” At that, he noticed shoulders drop a bit while one directly in front of him dared to let a smile slip out. 

Ah, to see the youth of today be confident in their abilities. .

Lennox gave a chuckle, raspy voice one of elation as he began to walk to the squadron, particularly to the man who still had that smile on his face. They all instantly became stiff. “I see some of you must have thought you’ll be having a simple sparring session with each other. See, here at NEST, we have no need to see why or how you can fight other people—rather human people.” 

Eyes grew big like prey cornered by predator. Some of them knew what exactly was going to happen. Some were still loose in stance, being stubborn just like this jackass in front of him. Looking at said soldier, Lennox made sure to hold eye contact as he got right up in his face, head tilted just a bit as he took him in. 

“Let me ask you something recruit…”

Will came to a stop, boot nearly touching the man’s toes. Gravel crunched as the wind blew sand and heat into their bodies. 

Jackass numero uno, was all jolly Sundays with shoulders as lax as could be in the desert. He held eye contact with his superior. 

“What’s got you so happy? Think you can tussle with 8 tons of alien metal?”

“I do Sergeant Lennox sir.”

Lennox barked out a laugh, shaking his head down to the floor. The military was a crock pot of personality, and that was saying it nicely. 

This recruit had a huge pair of balls in the wrong place. And Lennox didn’t feel like dealing with murderous alien robots. 

“We’ll today’s your lucky day soldier. I want you all to meet Arcee!”

From the shadows of the military building, the tri-former in question came rolling in her vehicle modes, coming to a stop in front of the recruits. 

She then began transforming into her root modes, her forms winding and spinning to form three tall murder machines. 

“Sir, with all due respect…”

The young man had began, a cocky grin still in place as he looked around at the bots. 

“I’m sure we can all agree when we say these bots won’t be an issue for us…what about the big one?”

Silence permeated the area. Robert let out a long whistle, his eyebrows high on his face. Will couldn’t help but chuckle at the soldier’s attitude. 

“Come again?”

Everyone knew in terms of battle expertise, the Acree trio was no match. Whether it be because of their chemistry as sisters (Will would have to ask them if they were the same femme one day) or their overall skill, these girls were no match for a majority of Decepticons they had faced in their time of war. 

It’s why they were still standing today. 

“I want a bigger challenge sir.”

But occasionally…there was someone who didn’t see it the way NEST did. 

Someone who had something to prove. 

“What was his name—Optimus? Bring him out here and have him be our targ—“

The kid never got to finish. There was no time to call it out. No time to do anything but react. Before the soldier could finish his words, Will heard gears and hydraulics whirl, air decompressing followed by the familiar charge of a cannon. 

Full instinct took over as adrenaline spiked through his veins, ice cold fear gripping his heart as he tackled Duneberry to the ground, dodging the searing shot that exploded where the soldier once stood. 

The two humans landed with a thud, arms and any other exposed skin scraped to hell as they slid on the asphalt from the blow of the blast. A series of weapons systems charged up followed by shouts from both man and bot. The blazing heat from the shot nearly singed the hair of their heads, clothes too hot and dark from the ash left behind. 

Will didn’t spare a glance to the kid below him who choked in shock. He only made sure the soldier was alive before scrambling up and turning, rifle in the air and aimed while the noise of clanging metal sent his ears ringing. 

Someone had shot. 

Someone had shot an energon blast. 

Holy shit—

In front of him, Arcee had split off into her three root modes, each one holding off the new bots at gunpoint. Swisher was still as a statue while the other one—Hex—was glaring at the femme. The one responsible for the blast—had been knocked and pinned down by Ironhide. 

The only other mech Will knows would be responsible for the attack was none other than Debuff.

Debuff was a mech with a fiery deposition, quick to argue and even quicker to blow steam with the twins when time called for it. He was average height of the bots and his weapons of choice were a destroyed blaster that had ill chance of repair and an energon blade that laid far from him on the ground. 

Will always thought he made a better Decepticon.

Sparks still flew from where the energon blade used to be attached, the stump where it belonged leaking the bright green lifeblood cybertronians knew all too well. The mech of the leaking stump roared in agony.

On top of Debuff was a furious Ironhide, his plates held tight in combat mode to protect any precious cables and wiring. The weapon responsible for injuring the mech below him was smoking from its shot, the metal a glowing amber. 

“Wanna explain that stunt, Debuff?” Ironhide’s vocalizer growled out, cannon inching closer and closer to the mech's chest. 

Where his spark laid, Will thought. Eyes wide at the altercation taking place. 

Distantly, the sound of Epps shouting orders to stand by in his walkie talkie was heard. A siren sounded on base, pitching up and down to alert everyone. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight before him, a loose smile on his face as he processed everything. 

God he needed a vacation

Chapter Text

“Okay run that by me one more time…the Prime is your what now?”

Jazz grinned with a wide smile, visor flashing with obvious mirth. “Our queen!”

Lennox was staring.

He knew he was.

It just didn’t make any sense.

Jazz in his usual fashion had strolled into the human side of base, bouncing to his latest obsession regarding “human tunes” as he called it and living his life annoying everyone.

Until the latest addition to base came alone. Adriana Spades, Michigan graduate and certified social political nerd, this girl was bright eyed and bushy tailed with alien robots in arms reach. Obvious questions like “why did you destroy your home planet?”, “how does your government work?”, and “ is there religion on the planet?”

Were fired left and right to unsuspecting bots. More often than not, an autobot would regard the girl with a tired look before sighing and vaguely speak about their culture, uncaring if the girl understood or not.

Lennox remembers when she’d caught Ratchet. The only people, in this case mechs, he’d seen drive the medic to shut down the clinic that quickly was Skids and Mudflap.

But today? Spades had caught Jazz, the self-certified Autobots cool cat.

A cool-cat who had no problem spilling all and nothing.

Like now.

“Alright us cybertronians run things almost the same as y’all do.” The bot had gotten comfortable when Spades first cornered him but was now kicking his peds up on a mesh pad Wheeljack had created.

Lennox observed as Spades eyes—already blown wide from the info overload—seemed to sparkle with possible new info. “When the planet was glowing nice and bright, we had a cut and dry system. Y’all call it a monarchy, with the king and queen, but we had a Prime and a Lord. The Prime was responsible for every bot on the planet—public relations type of stuff. The Lord was the planet's defense, responsible for war and intergalactic business and what not.”

“Wait wait…so if Optimus is the prime, who is the Lord?” Jazz’s visor brightened yet he seemed to become somber. The bot adjusted in his seat. “The lord high protector was a respected mech—risen from the ground up to live in the Iaconian palace.”

Lennox observed the mech’s face, a nostalgic grin on his face as he tapped the side of his chair in thought. He wondered if Spades caught the blatant avoidance.  “Optimus…OP’s protector wasn’t someone to mess with—anyone who couldn’t seem to mind their optics at Prime were taken care of expeditiously.”

The mech sighed before nodding his head. “You could say the Lord treated OP like how your planet does with your uh royals—the king with their queen—just a bit more brash...” He trailed off , his search for clarity obvious as his visor flashed by with human information.

However Lennox drew a blank. His ears became deaf to Spades’ excited chirping as she chittered on to Jazz about the cybertronian political structure.

Lennox couldn’t fault her focus, the woman’s entire job was to snoop as respectfully as possible about the aliens' culture. If anything, he had to fault himself.

Especially with the way his brain, his average joe American brain zeroed in on the comparison Jazz used.

Optimus and queen.

Queen.

Optimus.

Optimus was their queen.

His brain imagined Optimus Prime, in all his buff glory, sitting on a throne with a crown and puffy royal gown dressed in whites, creams, and golds topped with lace.

He shivered.

“Okay run that by me one more time…the Prime is your what now?” Lennox blurted, unaware he had cut Adriana off during a rapid fire of questions. Even if he knew, at that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind was running in circles, the new information not coinciding with the image he had of Big Buddha. Optimus? A queen? It didn’t make sense to him.

Why not use the word ”king” instead? The mech didn’t resemble a female in any way, not through physical traits and definitely not through his voice.

Now, if OP identified as a femme, he wouldn’t mind changing up the pronouns to match. On the other hand, if the mech was, well a mech, it just didn’t make sense to use queen when “king” was readily available.

It just didn’t make sense. A translation error maybe?

Something told Lennox that wasn’t the case  

Jazz grinned with a wide smile, visor flashing with obvious mirth.

He knew instantly this wasn’t the case.

“Our queen!”

….He had to be fucking with him.

”What?”

Lennox was staring.

He knew he was.

It just wasn’t making sense.

Jazz finally cracked, the cool cat cackling at the human’s confusion. Lennox couldn’t look at Spades’ face, her features morphing into a second hand embarrassment for Lennox’s admittedly slow up take to Jazz’s words.

He could hear Spades’ attempts to direct the conversation back to the matter at hand; her social expertise failing in light of Will’s, again, admittedly small brain behavior.

And the thing is, he really wasn’t trying to sound like a glorified asshole. Really. He wasn’t. Just. Why use feminine nouns if they didn’t coincide???

Will could feel a small migraine on the horizon. He sighed. It really shouldn’t be this hard to understand but here his brain was, struggling.

“I’m not gonna lie to ya Will, “queen” is the best word you guys have across all ya’ languages to describe OP. The next best thing would be “pope” but it’s only one aspect of what he is ya know? Big mech is our queen bee, whatever he says, we do til our sparks expire.”

The human blinked, faintly registering Adriana’s scribbling on her notepad as she seemingly gave up trying to get the topic back to the Cybertron’s government infrastructure. What the fuck???? Until their sparked expired—until they died?… 

Who…What the fuck was a prime? Was this an alien mentality concerning leaders? 

Lennox’s brain began to supply the image of a hive, mechs and femmes in single file to deliver energon to OP’s grasp while a faceless mech stood behind him.

No. This wasn’t his job. He’d leave the hypothesizing to Spades because no—

“What’s…the word you mechs use to describe his position then?” Jazz smirked with a tilt of his head, seemingly observing Will and debating on answering.

The two humans waited, one much more excited than the other as they damn near held their breath. Then, when Will began to think that Jazz was merely fucking with them, the mech spoke something elegant yet powerful.

Unlike most of the words the mechs used which resembled deformed windows crashing sounds mixed with jet whistles, this word seemed to be sung with reverence, bowing like a harp with a mourning dove’s call.

The syllables were clear yet incapable to be replicated through human vocal chords. It reverberated in the area, bouncing back into the depths of their hearts before fading away.

The two humans were taken aback at the melodic word, only offering a stunned “….woah…” in response. Jazz smirked, smug as he settled into the chair.

“Yeah, and that was in my hometown’s dialect. Imagine the others? We all care about Prime. You got to, especially with how big Cybertron is, it takes a mech with his head screwed on tight to remember people from Vos down to the Badlands.”

It was quiet for a moment as the two humans tried to digest what Jazz told them. However it wasn’t long before Adriana cleared her throat, her voice distracted as her brain racked with the new information  

“….So would it be appropriate to call Optimus Queen Elizabeth?” William choked and after a brief pause, Jazz roared in glee, head whipping back as his visor beamed yellow-white and chest bounced up and down as he laughed  

The next day, a meeting was called by Optimus to address the usage of his new nickname by both humans and autobots on base.

And Will? Will still shivered at the thought of big Buddha in a frilly dress but began to see Optimus in a new light. 

He really was something.

Chapter Text

The school bang rang with a piercing brrring! Signaling to parents that their children were done with receiving their education for the day.

Parents waiting in parent pick up stepped out their cars to greet their overzealous children as they burst out of Horrindale Elementary’s doors screaming.

Used to their childen’s antics, the parents lightly chided them for their yelling, some mothers crouching just in time to stop their children from crashing into their legs and kissing their cheeks.

Some children hugged their moms while others expressed their distaste (read: embarrassment) by gagging, continuing their antics as they were dragged off by their mothers.

Some fathers stood at attention, arms either crossed or positioned at their hips as they waited for their own kids to come up to them.

Their children came crashing into legs, tongues failing them as they stuttered through their recounts of the day. Some father kneeled to pick up their children, greeting them with nicknames like princess or champ as they walked back to their vehicles to strap their charges in.

As the crowd of children thinned out, a black GMC pickup truck rolled into the parent pickup. Fathers who were already waiting couldn’t help but watch the freshly washed and waxed vehicle roll to stop in fascination. It breaked smoothly, no sound of worn hinges to be found.

The men wondered who owned a truck as beautiful as that. They hadn’t seen it before when picking up their children. When the truck stopped and parked, the driver side door opened. Curious as to who it was, the dads subtly kept an eye out.

A dark brown construction boot touched the pavement, by another. The man who stepped out the vehicle stepped around the door and the men observed the newcomer with the women now catching on. He was a pale man who wore a forest green button up that seemed to fit perfectly on his muscular torso.

As he walked up to step into the curb, parents noticed his serious demeanor, face set into a light frown as he walked up to stand beside the other parents who waited for their children.

The parents didn’t have time to wonder who he was there for as not a second later, an excited squeal rung coupled with a shout from a little girl. “UNCLE RYDER!!” The parents turned to see Sarah’s daughter, Annabelle come bouncing out of the school.

Her blonde pigtails bounced along with her paw patrol bookbag, cheeks that still housed the fat from when she was a baby wasn't spared from her movements. Her mouth was wide open in glee as she ran, showing off her slightly gapped baby teeth.

Ryder’s face broke out into a small smile as he bent down to catch Annabelle, using the momentum to bring her up in a swing as he turned back to the truck in one fluid motion. The girl giggled as her uncle swung her around, grabbing onto his neck with her lunchbox hanging off her arm.

If the parents were paying attention to the man’s face, they would have caught a strange blue light in Ryder’s eye as he walked back to the car while looking at Annabelle. She seemed to speak in what seemed Mach 1 speed about her day.

Ryder eyed the cause for her hyper behavior on her lip, a light frown coming to his face as they walked back to the car. The man opened the passenger door and placed Annabelle into the seat, settling her down and placing her belongings onto the car floor.  

“—AND! Mrs. Jones gave me a cupcake for my birthday! I loved it because it—because it tasted like vanilla AND chocolate—“

Ryder glanced at the insulin patch on Annabelle’s arm as he continued to buckle her in.

“—Buckle up Ann—“

“—Okay!”

She struggled a bit to secure the buckle. If anyone was peaking around Ryder, they would have noticed the seat belt seem to buckle itself in. The little girl did not comment on it as she looked back at her uncle. 

”—But then I ate the cupcake and it was SO GOOD! Oh, Uncle can we get ice cream? Pleaseeeee? Pleasseeeeee—-”

During her ecastic speech, Uncle Ryder had come around to the driver seat and sat down. He reached over to close the passenger door after he shut his own, just as Annabelle finished saying: “— Uncle Ironhide??!”

Almost like he was responding to his true identity, the human Annabelle called Ironhide glitched, an array of blue colors dancing over the hologram as the man settled back into the driver seat and turned to the little girl with a fond sigh. He gently wiped the chocolate frosting off her lip. “Sure, Annabelle.” The little girl squeed! bouncing away in her seat as she cheered under her breath for ice cream.

Ironhide’s hologram pressed on the gas pedal as his hands took the wheel, the pickup truck peeling off and leaving the gawking parents behind. His gps located the nearest ice cream parlor and they began their journey. Annabelle was still recounting the day’s events as his radio played the latest pop hits.

In the middle of Annabelle telling a story of a kid who got gum in their hair, with Ironhide responding with a “oh really?” His HUD beeped with a text message from a group chat that had been made by Will and Sarah.

Lennox Family

[16:05] Will Lennox: Hey ‘Hide, keep Bell away from the house a little bit. We still got some decorating to do.

[16:07] Sarah Lennox: If she wants anything let us know how much it costs. We’ll cover it no problem. Oh but stay away from the sweets!

It was common knowledge in the Lennox family that Ironhide received a paycheck from the government every so often. It was in case he needed to pay for something using his hologram and to keep his identity as human-like as possible.

Sarah knew this and despite both Will and Ironhide’s convincing, she was a stubborn woman who paid Ironhide back for whatever Annabelle wanted.

With Annebelle being diagnosed with type one diabetes, Sarah was strict on her daughter’s diet. She was worried for her bitlet’s health and Ironhide was familiar with denying Annabelle any sweet cravings she had.

Usually he would follow her directions to a T, she was the carrier of his charge after all. However, hearing his charge express her excitement at getting ice-cream, Ironhide couldn’t feel guilty for providing the girl with sweets.

A quick scan of the little girl showed that her glucose and insulin levels were okay, if a little elevated from her earlier cupcake. She’d be fine.

Another cheer from Annabelle rang through his cabin as he pulled around the corner to see a Dairy Princess, the girl so excited she couldn’t help but bounce left and right uncontrollably. Ironhide’s hologram glitched again as a rare smile showed on his face. He opened the chat again to send a message.

Lennox Family

[16:11] I_r0n_h/d3): Affrimative

He exited out the chat.

He then began to unbuckle Annebelle from the passenger. In another show of indulgence, he picked the little girl up to rest her on the side of his torso as he stepped out the car. The two made their way to Dairy Princess, Annabelle excitedly spouting about the flavor she planned to get with Ironhide nodding all the while.

It was his charge’s emergence day, she deserved to be “spoiled” a bit.

Chapter Text

“Who’s this “Lord” the twins keep talking about?”

Ratchet paused in his observation, a hologram of vitals disappearing as he turned to watch Will instead. 

“I do not follow.” 

Hearing the clinical voice, devoid of irritation (so far) Robert thanked every god above. Ratchet wasn’t in a shit mood, a rare phenomenon that soldiers prayed to come like rain during a drought. He was thankful, grateful even. He didn’t mean to ask the question, he’d been in the med bay looking for Mikaela to pass on word of a mission up in Boston. 

She frequented the bot's med bay when she was on base. With her tiny hands, expertise in Earth vehicles, and Ratchet’s tolerance and liking to her sassy nature, the young woman had quickly become Ratchet’s assistant in creating upgrades and patches for the bots when she had the time to spare. 

But today, Robert had sighed at this revelation, she seemed to be booked ‘til next week. 

Walking all this way to the med bay since the buggies were still down (which thank you twins for that fuck up), Robert thought to at least catch his breath before trying his luck elsewhere. Ratchet hadn’t minded his organic presence since there wasn’t any sensitive medical bot equipment lying around. The old medic was inputting data into a terminal, numbers appearing a mix between Hindu and Japanese characters before autocorrecting into English. 

Epps had caught a flash of what he called “professionally pissed” notes about the twins and their latest endeavor with annoying Optimus and Prowl, mainly Prowl, into locking the two up in solitary confinement on the day they were supposed to get a routine physical. 

His brain had latched into a stray thought he had for weeks already, mind itching so badly for an answer that he just blurbed the question. 

Which is how he ended up here, awkwardly watching the neon green bot watch him in return as both of them—yes, both—waited for someone to say something. 

Although, judging by the impatient twitching in Ratchet’s face, Epps had to say something quick else he face Ratchet’s wrath. 

“The twins, they’ve been going on for the last week or so about some uhh—lord high protector?” He explained, trying to seem smooth but falling into an janky explanation instead. 

Ratchet’s demeanor went from impatient to annoyed, armor flaring as he—in a very human gesture—hissed a sigh from his chest while turning back to his terminal, gray digits flying across alien keys.

“Of course, of course those mangled bags of bolts would mention him…” the medic grumbled, good mood tarnished as he worked away. The sergeant couldn’t stop his eyebrows from raising.

“Mangled bags of bolts? That’s a new one ain’t it…” He remarked before moving on. 

“I’m guessing this guy is to-not-be-named?” Epps watched Ratchet’s optics flash as the bot conducted a quick search for the reference. Upon finding it, the bot gained an air of understanding while he shrugged a shoulder. 

“To-not-be-named implies we fear his wrath from the mere utterance of his designation alone. While that would have been true in prior times amongst our population, I for one, had nothing to fear of a cocky overgrown sparkling on a power trip.” Ratchet finished, leaving the terminal in a huff to grab a USB off a nearby table. 

The bot continued as he returned, posture stiff as he plugged in the device. “I suggest you abandon this line of curiousity, Robert.” The bot turned around to face the human, optics cycling to focus on the military man’s face. 

“Though I’d love to damn the fragger from the well itself, this topic will only resurface memories we’ve spent vorns trying to bury. Try to make an effort to ignore the twins from now on, no matter how hard that may be. I’ll be having a word with those boltheads about their lack of discretion.”

Epps took in what he’d been told. He had a feeling this topic would be out of bounds, with how the twins tried to shut each other up as they revealed more and more information. Hell, he knew prior to this that it wasn’t appropriate to speak on. It had been brought up through his own lack of filter. 

However, his brain couldn’t help but pick apart what Ratchet had said. To avoid talking about this bot completely. Was the “lord high protector” that bad? He found it ironic considering what his role seemed to entail. What had Ratchet so peeved?

“That bad huh?” Ratchet grunted as he turned back to the terminal, digits seeming to speed up in his irritation as his armor flared again. Epps could feel his hairs rising along with goosebumps across his skin. Ratchet’s field must be acting up. Who was this guy to have the mech this worked up?

There was silence between the two, Epps unsure on how to continue his interrogation with Ratchet obviously not wanting to explain. Just as he thought up a way to dismiss himself, Ratchet beat him to the punch, voice clearly filled with irritation. 

“Miss Mikaela can be found in the north sector, she’s currently with Bee and Sam. I’ve let her know to wait for you before she leaves for her doctor appointment. Good day, Sergeant Epps.” He bid the human goodbye, cutting off any questions he could have asked. 

As he was used to Ratchet’s brash tendencies, the blatant dismissal just made Robert heave a sigh, eyebrows raising as air escaped from his lips. The man politely bid his goodbye but cussed under his breath as he left the bots medbay. 

While he was itchin’ for answers, notifying Mikaela was the reason he was there in the first place. Checking his phone to see a notification from Will about a meeting, the sergeant realized that he’d spent too much time there. If he wanted to catch Mikaela and make it to the meeting on time, he’d have to leave immediately. So he did just that. 

If he had lagged just a bit at the door, he would have heard heavy footsteps accompanied with the sound of hydraulics. Optimus walked around the corner, posture appearing to get more rigid the closer he got to the medbay. 

Upon hearing a small ding, Ratchet glanced to the side of his terminal screen to see a notification from the hallway cameras.  The Autobot medic tapped on his terminal to get a live view of Optimus making his way down the corridor. Ratchet’s eyes lost their irritated edge and grew somber, the old bot shaking his head as he switched off from the screen and finished typing up his daily report. 

.: Establishing connection to Pr-øwl5.6:.

.:Connection confirmed:.

.:Extend the twins' confinement. Punishment: leak of internal affairs. Code: Kaon. Their physical has been rescheduled 3 days ahead:.

There was a small delay. To humans, it would have been a second. To Ratchet, it felt like watching paint dry. Finally, his HUD received a notification that read:

.: Affirmative :.

Just then, the medbays doors slid open to reveal Optimus Prime in his red and blue glory. The medic turned to face the mech who greeted him with a nod. 

“Hello, old friend. I have a meeting with Galloway in approximately 4 breems. Would it be bold of me to ask for—“

“A quick physical? Like how you asked two months prior? Why, perhaps. Let me consult those ragged smoke pipes first. You’ll be lucky to leave in a cycle with how you’ve neglected your visits.” Ratchet scolded the bot. In that moment, the regal prime seemed to mimic a sheepish child as his posture (to the trained eye) lost its edge and bowed forward by 2 degrees. 

“I understand. Allow me to notify Will.”

The bot knew he was in the wrong, judging by how quickly he abandoned his pursuit. Watching the Prime take a seat on the nearby medial berth, Ratchet’s mind went back to his talk with Epps. It took everything within to hide the sigh of exhaustion  that threatened to escape his being as he grabbed a device off the table to begin Optimus’ physical. 

‘Primus knows you don’t need any reminders of that slagmaker..’

Chapter Text

She’d always been told she talked too much.

Adriana Beneathea Spades, born and raised in Michigan, Detroit, was told by anyone and everyone that she talked too much as a child. 

It could have been her mother’s fault but Adriana would never fault her. Not with a voice like hers. To Adriana, her mother’s voice reminded her of warm hugs and cocoa butter kisses, of times sitting between her legs as she tugged her hair into too many braids and hummed old classics. 

Warm and sweet as she read her stories of princesses who met otherworldly beings from far away, who came to Earth to protect her from monsters. Every night she’d read it to her “Little Bee”, who giggles and squirmed when she’d be attacked with tickles while the smell of lavender and ginger tickled her nose. 

As she grew older and the economy tilted, her parents became engrossed in work. Her mother taught as an elementary school teacher while her father sloughed through part times and odd jobs as a mechanic. 

When they’d come home, it brought the sounds of weighed feet and crashing bags, the adults too tired to do much besides greet their daughter before passing out into deep sleep. 

She’d watch her mother rest on the couch, strewn across the room while her hair laid in disarray. She vividly recalled how her mother fought the allure to sleep, the pressure of making family meals and lesson plans for the semester looming. 

Her father was worse off more often than not, oil stains decorating his hands, arms, and sometimes even his face as he laid in the timeworn recliner, snores rumbling out his chest in repetition.   Underneath the dark sludge, a morbid curiosity kept her eyes glued to deformed skin laid beneath, skin a grotesque angry red up to his forearms. She never tried to ask about the burns. Not after her father lost his appetite during dinner and excused himself. Her mother had been disappointed for her lack of tact.

Whenever she’d try to tell them about her day, she was often brushed aside, exhausted voices growling for her to go play during “quiet time.”

The book she would bring to her mother would often be forgotten on the living room floor as she left to her room to speak to her dolls. 

Adriana Beneathea Spades was a talkative child. 

Going to school was the best part of her day after being stuck in the quiet space that was her home. 

She’d talk for hours with anyone who stopped to listen: the other kids, the teacher, the principal, and even the janitor. They all laughed and engaged with her, entertained by her extroverted nature. In middle school this continued, her social skills bubbling as she grew more confident in age. 

However it was different when everyone began going through puberty. 

When she looks back, she couldn’t help but feel bad for the little girl that didn’t understand why her best friends would tell her to shut up. For the little girl who suddenly became friendless in a matter of days.

For the little girl who would swallow her hurt when her friends called her “childish” for talking about the newest cartoon. For the little girl who would run home just to cry in a silent house, persistent thoughts circling on why she seemed to repel anyone she tried to befriend. 

The rest of her middle school life suddenly became monotone, the dreary Detroit weather for once not to be blamed as school became just like home. 

In high school, she wanted to start over. Spades would play her cards right in the game they called social life. As a teen, her social life was her most prized possession. So, she got down to work.

Maybe this is where her love for people blossomed into existence. She didn’t know. All she knew what that she wanted things to be different. So the people watching began. Adriana would spend her lunches alone, absently chewing on the sludge they called food as she observed how the student body interacted with one another.

She watched how teenage boys postered amongst their friends, their voices obnoxious with their attempts to bury their insecurities. She watched as girls vigorously groomed themselves, giggles a shield for the discomfort caused by societal expectations.

In class, her observations would switch to teachers under the guise of academic interest. The young girl noticed age old confidence in some while others clumsily navigated the echoing silence of classroom, droning on in their lectures as a means to regulate their anxiety.

Once she felt comfortable in her observations, Adriana put her plan into action. She used opportunities of dropped pencils and erasers to start conversations with her peers. She baked cookies at home and used the treats to start conversation during lunch, teens who wanted reprieve from their bland palates easily swayed to get to know her.

When she went home, she spent hours reading up on how to get people to like her, to be comfortable around her. Her notebook that she designated to her findings nearly filled to the brim with her research. She spent hours cross referencing what she saw in school and online as if she’d be tested the next day. It was deep into night when she gasped. How could she have been so blind to it before?.

Attractive people had an easier time making friends. For young women like her, the pressure was even more prevalent as they grew into adults and would follow them well into their older years. She was doing fine now with her charismatic ways. But she needed to have all her ducks in a row. She didn’t want to be left alone again. So, when winter break came around, she slaved away in the bathroom, fingers pruny and face heavy from product as she diligently followed YouTube tutorials.

When school started again, her peers were shocked to see her previously frizzy, knotted curly hair laid across her back in gorgeous loose spirals. Her skin was no longer dull with minefields of angry red and white pimples dotting her cheeks.

Instead, she now had two or three irritated bumps that were being soothed through pimple patches. Spades had also learned to shave to the chagrin of her mother, nearly giving the woman a heart attack when she revealed her previous monobrow missing and replaced with almost well manicured eyebrows. Her amateur attempts were obvious when one was slightly different from the other.

She was now the image of a young teenage girl who took “pride” in her appearance instead of a young girl who had been left behind by her peers. She blended in, and with word getting around of her transformation, Adriana quickly found herself surrounded by curious peers who eventually she came to call her friends.

When her new reality had set in, she couldn’t help the bittersweet pang in her heart for the girl she had to leave behind.

When things started hitting the fan at home, she fell even deeper into people watching and blending in, desperate to not let all her hard work be for nothing. She joined clubs to distract from her parents divorce, to ignore the silent dinners and heated whispers in the dead of night. One day after school, her eye caught a linguistics club.

‘Linguistics?…’ She had wondered, having never heard the word in her life. A student wearing a blue t-shirt had bounced up to her at that moment while she was lost in thought, lips stretched into a smile as they handed her a flyer. The student has been excited to tell her about the club but in her musings she’d blocked out the explanation, thanking them at the end before bidding goodbye. 

When she got home, she did her research as her parents got wrapped up in another heated argument. She searched for hours well into the night. She sloughed through articles using articles, excitement that seemed so strange yet familiar coursing through her as she learned more about the topic. She had been researching for so long that her alarm for school went off, signaling a new day as bags weighed her eyes. 

When she saw the student again, she joined immediately. Little did she know how joining the club would lead to her graduating MIT years later with a masters in linguistics and political science, her graying mother crying tears of joy in the crowd while holding a frame of her father as she watched her daughter walk the stage. Adriana would deny the tears that clouded her visions as she turned her tassel and threw her cap into the air along with her peers. 

After years of struggling, losing herself and finding her again, Spades had grown into beautiful young woman. Born to immigrant parents who made it their mission to support her the best they could, she was ready for what came her way, ready to kick start her career and make her parents proud. She even had thoughts to pursue a degree in psychology with her love for people. However, her plans were quickly put on hold when weeks after cold called and emailed apologies, she realized jobs in her area that hired graduates with her degrees was scarce.

Having to get by with minimum wage jobs for the time being, the young woman made do with what she had as she researched reverently to where she could go. Washington was a no-brainer, the capital of the country and perfect place to go if she wanted to utilize her skills for the government. However, Adriana was a young woman in her 20s who couldn’t deny the urge she had to explore the world, to experience more than depressing skies and cold weather. So after quick contemplation, Washington was scratched off the list. 

Wanting something new, she began looking elsewhere. 

After days of researching between jobs shifts, ramen cups and the occasional mental breakdown concerning her career and future, Adriana stumbled upon a job posting in the dead of night. At first, she thought her sleep deprivation had gotten to her, the stress of having 3 part time jobs back to back for 5 days of the week eating at her mind. 

Her eyes were crusty as they tried to focus in the haze of blue light, the rest of her tiny studio apartment dark as she tried to squint against the onslaught of electronic light.  The woman reached up to rub at her eyes, cringing at feeling the buildup fall onto her cheeks and her old stained oversized shirt. She reached to the side for her glasses to help see, putting them on and blinking wide to wake herself up. 

Once she felt somewhat alive, the ebony haired woman resumed her impersonation of a shrimp, leaning over to give herself a closer look at the job posting. 

Media And Communications Specialist

City of Tranquility
Tranquility, CA
via GovernmentJobs.orG

2 days ago

$50,000-75,000 a year

Feeling like she might as well, she clicked on the link to read its description expecting nothing out of it. The job, though vague, stressed needing somebody with her degrees, looking for someone preferably from a wide background and experience in linguistics and PR. 

They also emphasized a need for discretion. Multiple times. 

She couldn’t get her hopes up. This was seedy, obviously either a scam or some form of introduction to the crime world. However, with nothing else going for her besides what little she had, Adriana tried not to  judge too quickly. 

What if it was a simple media and communication job? She wanted to do this to help bridge connections. This is what she’d been looking for for months.  Just in case she was wrong she tried to not to let hope bleed into her chest as she read the description. 

She tried to ignore any hope and desperation she had when she applied, submitting her resume and finally shutting her laptop for the night as she tossed and turned.

Days later, when Adriana was at work and had promptly forgotten about the job post, she couldn’t feel bad for startling her manager with the screech that erupted from her throat after checking her email. 

She’d been accepted for an in-person interview. Scheduled to happen in six days at 10:00 AM at a location that would be disclosed in a future email. 

She didn’t even care that she got fired shortly after her manager laid into her. 

Annabelle had a car to pack. 

She spent one of her days preparing her studio apartment for her leave and saying goodbye to her friends. The next day she spent stuffing bags into her little car and when the sun began its descent in the sky, she drove over to her mother’s house to tell her everything. 

When she made it to her childhood home, her mother greeted her at the door with an aged smile, the dark curls she got from her greying in her years. 

When she told her about the job, her mother was happy to hear that she had an interview, albeit wary of how quickly she was notified to be interviewed and a completely different state no less. 

She was worried something could go wrong, something that would happen to the last of her family and her only baby. She reminded her of what happened with her father, the man accepting any job that could help the family make money. 

His longest job had been as a mechanic. The most Spades remembered about it was that he’d come home covered in oil stains, exhausted to the bone as he passed out on the very recliner she sat on. 

“Bee…” Her mother began, hands clutched tight as she looked down at her lap. “Your father had come home one day, excited about a job just like how you are now. It was to work as a mechanic. The pay was high and hours were good as well. Your father had always loved cars so…it was perfect for him.” She frowned, shaking her head as she readjusted herself in her seat.

“But…at some point, working at the shop took its toll on him. He was still the same man, but just…tired. Irritated. Paranoid…He was hiding things from me, from us. He couldn’t talk about what he saw or did, not even what he had for lunch.” She rambled, seemingly transported back to those days of stilted conversations and quiet dinners. 

“We tried to keep our fights a secret but, I’m sure it became obvious at some point. Strange men in suits would swing by the house when you were away at a friend's house or in the middle of the night…It was hell when your father told me to ignore them and just—call him if they showed up.At one point, I thought we were in trouble with the mafia, men in suits showing up at 2 in the morning? I mean—what else was I supposed to think?…” 

She trailed off and looked at her daughter, reaching across to hold her hands. 

“Adriana…promise me you’ll be safe and do the right thing. For me. For your father.” Her mother’s voice was laced with desperation, tone nearly manic as she begged her daughter to not go down the same path her father.

Adriana knew her mother’s worry was warranted when all things were considered. It was sudden, the way she found a posting that seemed just for her and in a matter of days was accepted for an interview. 

Never mind the fact that she was a recent college graduate who definitely didn’t have the experience needed for jobs like this. But…she wouldn’t—couldn’t—look a gift horse in the mouth. 

This was an opportunity for her. After spending months crying about her rent, eating only ramen cups and occasionally having nothing but sugar water for dinner, this was her moment.

She spent months putting up a front to keep her mother from worrying about her, brushing off comments about her already lean weight getting lower as tricks of the light and her mother worrying too much.

This was her moment to change everything and actually start pursuing the career that she wanted ever since she found passion in a little high school club. 

Her mother would understand eventually.

“I will, mama..”

Spades spent the evening with her mother, reminiscing over old times as they insulated innostalgic dishes that filled her belly for the first time in a while. She soaked in her mothers voice along with the scent of lavender and ginger and did her best to swallow back to the panic of leaving home. 

When it was time to go back to her apartment, if someone asked she wouldn’t admit to holding onto her mother far longer and tighter than necessary. 

What made it okay was the way her mother held on just as tight, the two of them shedding tears for a bird finally taking flight after spending months with a broken wing.

Adriana used what little savings she had left to move to California, jamming the last of her belongings into her little sedan that had definitely seen better days and beginning her journey to the west coast. 

After the long drive and crashing at a motel, she feverishly checked her bags to make sure she brought her best suit, nearly breaking into panic when she didn’t see it but then sighing in relief when she found it under a knit sweater. Unpacking her clothes and placing them up in the closet provided, Adriana took a step back. 

Her green eyes observed her clothes, cringing when she took in the wrinkles and creases laid in her suit jacket and pants. This wouldn’t do, especially being interviewed by government officials.

Making a mental note to find a steam cleaner when she was out exploring tomorrow, Adriana finally let the day’s stress go. She briefly went to the bathroom to do her night routine, brushing her teeth and placing her hair into a bun. Later, she crashed onto the rickety mattress, springs digging into her back as she got comfortable. She soon fell into a deep sleep, her mind finally quieting after her long day. 

When she woke the next morning, disoriented from her dream of sheep that had cheese coats instead of wool and puked rainbows, she was confused about where she was, at least until memories of yesterday came rushing back to her. 

Not minding the drool encrusted on her face, Adriana bounced into the connected bathroom, smile carved into her face as she squealed in joy for her day ahead. 

She was in Tranquility, California for her job interview. Days away from being vetted for the job of her dreams, the young woman was ready to get her day started in what would hopefully be her new home. 

Maybe she was nervous, she felt antsy as she brushed her teeth and nearly dented her gums in from the force she was using. Her thoughts went to quick DIY teeth whitening she could do as she checked out her tinted teeth. 

Yes, she was nervous. But she was just as excited! She only had two days left to prepare for the interview. In about two days time she’d find if she made a huge mistake or the best decision of her life. 

Getting ready for the day ahead, the young woman set about exploring Tranquility. 

It was a quiet city, close knit it seemed as people stopped to say hello to each other on the street. She’d almost forgotten she was in California until she saw a black and yellow Camaro cruise by.

The sports car would have been severely out of place if she didn’t know about the suburbs nearby. Continuing on her walk, she realized something important in her observations as she traveled past mom & pop shops, people staring as she went. 

She’d have to change her wardrobe if she was to live here, her earth toned Michigan layers, though adjusted for the hotter weather, were out of place amongst the colorful T-shirt and jeans casual wear residents wore.

Never mind her dark curly hair and olive skin that was peppered with moles, a new wardrobe would have to be a priority at some point. 

She reminded herself that it would probably be best to wait until after she actually saw if she’d have a means to stay here.  Adriana tried her best to push past the curious stares as she looked for a cheap food place.  

Finally spotting a quaint cafe that was serving brunch, Spades made her way inside where she tried to gather her bearings. 

The rest of her days were spent in wait as the interview ticked closer and closer. 

~*~

The day of the interview, Adriana should have known things were going too well. 

Dressed to impress, Adriana was the image of a corporate, or in this case, government woman. Though she felt like a little kid playing dress up, she tried her best to stay confident as she got into her car in her slightly ill fitted blazer. 

She had pinned her hair into a bun with the power of bobby pins, gel, and prayers. She tried not to fiddle with it or brush her sweaty palms onto her slacks while she waited at red lights. 

The light turned green and off she went, tapping her fingers to a song on the radio while she tried to relax. Everything would be fine. She’d make it to her interview 15 minutes early, she’d practice her lines and ace hit. It would be fine. Sadly,, in her drive from the main streets to the highway, she was met with heavy traffic, cars at a complete standstill. 

Spades cursed, hands rubbing her brow as she took in the situation. Her eyes flicked over to the time to see it was 8:57 on the dot. She was about 20 minutes away from the location they’d sent in an email but gods only knew how long this traffic would take to clear up. 

She hoped it would be soon. 

Minutes went by. Her mind was counting the seconds as they moved inches along the Highway. In her rear view mirror, besides a black and yellow Camaro, she noticed that traffic seemed to have built in the time she’d been in thought. 

Maybe there was an accident ahead? As traffic moved forward she looked around to see if there was. She did not but she did see debris on the roads once traffic began to lighten up.  Nonetheless, the accident that seemed to be there was gone so she was free to continue to her interview.

Eventually, she returned to the main streets, her gps doing its best to direct on where to go. Houses and local stores began to become fewer and fewer, warehouses and empty buildings becoming more  prominent. 

Adriana felt her nerves on her as she kept going, frowning as her gps asked her to turn down a nearly desolate road. Her mothers worry came back to her mind. Her hands tighter on the wheel, leather creaking as she began second guessing  her, admittedly, rushed decision. 

Was this worth it? This job posting could be the stepping stone she needed to start her career. Just as it could be a scam for any fool desperate enough to take the bait. 

She wouldn’t worry her mom anymore, she’d be able to gain the weight and maybe more for her mom’s satisfaction. She wouldn’t have to worry about rent or scraping bg with 2 hours of sleep. She'd be stable, happy…

As the clock above her console flashed the numbers: 9:47 AM, she tried not to compare herself to a fool as she finally turned down the road. The uneven pavement made her journey a wobbly road, the woman scoffing as she swerved to avoid potholes. In the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of yellow in the mirror. Curious, she tried to get a better look only to see nothing. 

Huh…

“You’ve reached your destination!” The sudden chime from her gps had Adriana slamming on the break, unaware she’d still been driving as she thought of what she could have seen. The sudden stop has her head nearly slamming into her steering wheel, narrowly missing a DIY concussion as she came to a stop. 

Confused, she looked around for the building only to pause. To her right, surrounded by warehouses that looked dreary was a building that looked like several code violations.  

It’s outside was boarded up wooden boards clearly put up in a hurry. The structure looked worse for wear and was nearly falling apart. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. In the worn parking lot were two men who stood at attention in black suits, hair slicked back while their eyes were covered by shades. 

Behind them was the black and yellow Camaro. 

Adriana watched as one of the men began walking over to her car, fingers reaching up to his ear. She noticed the ear pierce in his ear, a coil cord leading behind his head presumably into his clothing. Her heart dropped to her stomach as her mother’s words came back once more.

“ Strange men in suits …”

Once he was close enough, the man bent down to knock on her window. Not having the luxury of automatic windows, Spades had to reach over to roll it down, her previously shaky confidence thrown out the window at the weird change of events.

 “C-can I help you?” She groaned, lungs compressed as she stretched across her car to get a good look at the man. 

She ignored how it literally put her below the man. 

His frown lifted into a smirk, the man finding amusement in the situation as he took his shades off to fold them away in his pocket. His eyes were a stunning blue, pinning her to the spot as he addressed her. 

 “Adriana Spades, 23 year old Michigan, Detroit native. A recent MIT graduate with a masters in linguistics and political science and…” He flicked a wrist up to check the time. On impulse, she checked the time to see it was 9:59 AM. A terrible gut feeling began to take hold, her vision swaying and her palms getting sweaty again. 

“…apparently, punctual. Welcome to California, Ms. Spades, you passed the first part of the interview.”

Oh god.

Chapter Text

Recharge was a fleeting thing on nights like this. Nights filled with memories of old, a time long gone with the feeling of another’s spark held close to his own. Nights that chased him from the berth to seek comfort in the stars, searching for a home that would never appear.

His azure optics reflected the sky, thousands of stars held in his gaze as he sat in the company of the cosmos.

“Orion.” Hearing the age-old designation, Optimus’ finials twitched, unable to help the way his head turned to eye on not the only surviving mechs to know of his origin. “Ratchet…”

Heavy peds came to a stop to his side. The silence was interrupted by the crashing waves on the shore. His optics gazed at the horizon and the sea, watching as its foam washed upon the shore to be abandoned by its carrier, all before being washed in again and again and again.

The moonlight glittering on the abysmal black that was the ocean had its beauty. Perhaps if he had been a painter, appreciated the arts, he’d have already been painting an image to commemorate this. If he wanted to remember this night that is.

For a long time, the two mechs remained quiet. One’s intake clogged with memories of the past and the other well aware of the others turmoil. Minutes turned into hours as the moon moved across the sky. At some point, Ratchet had sat down to watch the horizon with Optimus  

“S̵̙͕̀̃o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑ỉ͔͖̜͌ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕s̠҉͍͊ͅ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ḣ̖̻͛̓ư̡͕̭̇r̴̨̦͕̝t̲̂̓ͩ̑s̠҉͍͊ͅ w̦̺̐̐͟ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ o̯̱̊͊͢t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝ w̦̺̐̐͟o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇ṇ̤͛̒̍ḑ̴̞͛̒s̠҉͍͊ͅ.”.” Optimus muttered.

Rachet said nothing at his use of cybertronix, silently giving the Prime the moment he needed.

“Battles upon battles I’ve endured. I’ve been struck, cleaved, punched, almost killed..”

“Ỵ̛̖͋͢ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ḑ̴̞͛̒ẹ̿͋̒̕s̠҉͍͊ͅp̞̈͑̚͞ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ā̤̓̍͘l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ, ḣ̖̻͛̓ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅ 𝓐𝓫𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓬e ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ l̙͖̑̾ͣā̤̓̍͘r̴̨̦͕̝ĝ̽̓̀͑ẹ̿͋̒̕s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑ w̦̺̐̐͟o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇ṇ̤͛̒̍ḑ̴̞͛̒ o̯̱̊͊͢f̵͖̜̉ͅ ā̤̓̍͘l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ. A̷͙ͭͫ̕ ḣ̖̻͛̓o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣẹ̿͋̒̕ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ 𝓷̣̤͛̒̍𝓸̯̱̊͊͢ 𝓪̤̄̓̍͘𝓶̬́̏ͤͅ𝓸̯̱̊͊͢𝓾̡̛͕̭̇𝓷̣̤͛̒̍𝓽̲̂̓ͩ̑ 𝓸̯̱̊͊͢𝓯̵͖̜̉ͅ 𝔀̦̺̐̐͟𝓮̣̿͋̒̕𝓵̙͖̑̾ͣ𝓭̴̧̞͛̒𝓲͔͖̜̉͌𝓷̣̤͛̒̍g o̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝ s̠҉͍͊ͅḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕l̙͖̑̾ͣt̲̂̓ͩ̑ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑ w̦̺̐̐͟o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇l̙͖̑̾ͣḑ̴̞͛̒ f̵͖̜̉ͅỉ͔͖̜͌x̛̘̠̹͋..”

Ratchet did not comment about the rough yet musical tones that affected his speech. He did not allow his optics to stray from his Amica’s glitching eyes.

“N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ ḿ̬̏ͤͅā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝…ṇ̤͛̒̍o̯̱̊͊͢ ḿ̬̏ͤͅā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝ ḣ̖̻͛̓o̯̱̊͊͢w̦̺̐̐͟ ḿ̬̏ͤͅā̤̓̍͘ṇ̤͛̒̍y҉̃̀̋̑ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ỉ͔͖̜͌ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕s̠҉͍͊ͅ I̍̅̀̎̊ ḿ̬̏ͤͅā̤̓̍͘y҉̃̀̋̑ ḑ̴̞͛̒ỉ͔͖̜͌ẹ̿͋̒̕ ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ b̬͖̏́͢ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑l̙͖̑̾ͣẹ̿͋̒̕……nothing rẹ̿͋̒̕p̞̈͑̚͞l̙͖̑̾ͣā̤̓̍͘c͕͗ͤ̕̕ẹ̿͋̒̕s̠҉͍͊ͅ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ p̞̈͑̚͞ā̤̓̍͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ o̯̱̊͊͢f̵͖̜̉ͅ l̙͖̑̾ͣỉ͔͖̜͌v͒̄ͭ̏̇ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇ĝ̽̓̀͑ḣ̖̻͛̓ o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇r̴̨̦͕̝ ḑ̴̞͛̒ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓.”

Ratchet did not comment. Instead, as the moon dipped below the horizon and the sky began to morph into an array of reds, yellows, purples, and blues, the old medic stayed by his Amica’s side as the prime became someone lost long ago for however much time allowed.

The mech’s finials moved as his optics finally glitched in the reflection of the light, coolant shining on the curves of his face plate. With nothing else to do, the old bot stayed through the prime’s silent meltdown, watching as the mech’s body seemed to glow from within as the matrix tried to both console and reach out to one lost to the darkness.

As the sun rose over the horizon, the moon left and with it, did Orion.

Chapter Text

He always had it on, Sam noticed. 

Optimus Prime was a war commander, a mech that had lived for millions of years and seen things no man or living being should ever witness in their lifespan. 

From the moment they’d met, the young man could only count on one hand how many times the mask had been removed to expose the Prime’s features. 

Each and every time, his eyes would betray his desperate attempt to keep eye contact and stray to the right of Optimus’ face. 

Just like now, eyes hyper focused as goosebumps rose on his arms. 

They were outside, the mechs that is. The sun was out at the Nevada base and heating up everything in its path. For humans it felt like liquid death, the air alone causing sweats to break out and people to weigh their heads in exhaustion. 

But for the bots who could withstand temperatures almost like that to stars, this was heaven. The twins (Skids and Mudflap) had described it like the bot version of a hot tub, except without the feel of water and just the sensation. Sideswipe had chimed in with a helping “so like a warm blanket?” In a condescending tone that led to a mini brawl away from the mechs lounging about. 

Anyways. 

Sam’s eyes had been scouting, keeping an eye on Bumblebee and enjoying his best friends contentment when a glint of red and green caught his attention. 

Optimus had been sitting in partly shade with Ratchet, the mechs engaged in what seemed to be low conversation. Half of his body had been turned away, the other free to soak up Nevada summer heat as he joined his soldiers in a rare bout of down time. The mechs had cheered when the commander had turned around the corner, begging him to lounge with them that seemed a little too urgent. 

After some intense convincing from the bots, Optimus begrudgingly agreed and sat down in some shade from a nearby hanger. They all laid about and seemed to breath a collective sigh, plating flaring before relaxing, still open somewhat to allow the heat to circulate through their struts. At some point, Sam forgot when exactly Ratchet had appeared to sit next to OP. 

Leading to now. 

The two were engaged in small talk when the twins brawl with Sideswipe seemed to intensify. The yelling from the bots grew, grabbing the two oldest mech’s attention as they turned. With one being the medical officer and the other in charge of this army, the two sprung into action. 

The hairs on his neck stood up and a hiss escaped his mouth. 

“Holy…”

He’d never been able to tell before, not in this much detail as all the other times he’s seen it had been at night. But seeing Optimus without the mask, in all its glory in the gleaming sun of high noon in Nevada desert…

Warped, jagged stripes of metal made up the right side of his face. His finial and the glyphs engraved in it were distorted to high hell, Sam barely able to make out the first one and having no hope for any others that were there, if any. He could make out the cybertronian letters for “Pro-“ and the letter M before the scars obscured everything else. 

The damage stretched from the finial down his cheekbones to end at his chin, right under the lip plates. Deep groves that could only be filled with molten metal was left behind, the evidence left being from the attacker standing proudly to all who saw.  The metal seemed to have been smoothed and buffed out so many times, he could tell the wound had been gnarly—not lethal but extensive in overall damage. 

Clanging metal signified the end to the brawl, familiar dents knocked into the three mechs heads as Ratchet held his namesake in front of him. Optimus had entered his “dad stance” Miko had called it, hands on hips as he shook his head back and forth. Seeing the situation was handled the bots who had sat up laid back down. 

Looking back, Sam noticed the battle mask back in place and couldn’t help but wonder one thing. 

‘What happened..?’

Chapter Text

“I have questions about a human holiday”, Optimus said that evening as he settled into the shade of the trees. NEST had moved to Garcia, leaving humans and bots alike surrounded by blue waves that stretched for miles. 

Spades was no exception, seeing as she too was stuck with only crashing shores for entertainment. “I understand that this may be an inconvenient time. If you would rather sit in silence, I will respect your choice.” 

Adri quickly shook her head left to right, hands waving to deny the Prime’s assumption. “You’re fine, no worries! I was starting to get bored anyway.”

Besides, it would be nice to speak to Optimus one-on-one..even if his size was intimidating. 

“Please, ask away!” She offered, a smile etched in her face as she tried to be as relaxed as she could. She ignored the thought in the back of her head that informed her how he could tell she was in fact not relaxed, his sensors reading her stress through organic pheromones and minute expressions in her body. 

It was interesting talking to someone who could read her inside and out. 

“Human holidays were created to allocate time for your species to celebrate various activities.” He began slowly. Adriana nodded in agreement and he continued. “What determines the importance of an event to mark it a holiday and not something to be celebrated in one’s own time or to say it deserves time at all instead of a brief acknowledgment?”

Adriana smiled, ready to answer but stopped herself. Her mouth opened, closed, before she swallowed the saliva in her mouth to start again. “Well, it definitely varies among various groups on Earth. What may be important here in the US may not matter at all in a place like Korea or Switzerland.” 

“Yes, the twins brought up a holiday you call “Alien Abduction Day.” His voice was evidence of the exhaustion that must have caused, slow and annoyed as he recalled the terror the twins elected on humans within the base. “I do not believe this holiday extends outside of the US,” His optics moved from the shore to her face, noting the expressions he saw as they cycled to focus on her. “…Nor is it common knowledge amongst the citizens in this territory.”  

Indeed it was not. 

“Yeah no, it’s the first time I’m hearing of it.” She admitted. The mech hummed in acknowledgement before moving on. “This sentiment is not shared with most holidays.” He stated. 

“No, in fact there are quite a few that humans all over Earth celebrate.”

“I think a good example would be today actually.” Spades watched as Optimus’s optics cycled, the sapphire blue seemingly glowing brighter for only a second before returning to normal. 

She’d never get over watching them research the internet. 

The metal giant eased on his hydraulics, pistons pushing as the mech got into a more comfortable position on the hill side. The waves crashing over and over again made for a peaceful scene, the distant sound of gulls crying filling the air. 

“Mothers day, a day of honoring the mother of the family as well as maternal bonds and the influence mothers have within your society.” Optimus paused, perhaps waiting for a correction or addition. 

Adriana nodded. “Yes, today is the day where mothers are celebrated dearly. Some countries have traditions such as giving them flowers or their children stay home the day before to give the attention to their mother.”

 “In my culture, I would gift my mother things such as flowers or candy and cook a large meal for her.” Since she couldn’t do that today, she had to settle for sending her gifts that she could now afford easily with her government paycheck.

She hoped she liked the new saree she bought her.

“I see. There is a similar holiday for fathers.” He acknowledged and Adriana nodded, reaching for her braids absentmindedly as he turned to view the ocean once more. His interest in the topic was intriguing, she thought. As far as she knew cybertronians did not have mothers. The closest figure would be the Allspark, the mechanism responsible for the majority of their population. 

“How would I partake in this holiday?” He asked, optics shifting back into her. Her hands paused in their musing, one of her braids halfway unraveled as she processed his question. How would he partake? Did he mean in regards to the Allspark?

“Well, considering the Allspark is still unfound, there’s a tradition in Peru that—“ 

“You misunderstand.” He cut her off and Adriana tried not to squeak. He didn’t mean anything by it. She had to remember that to them, it was imperative to fix any misunderstanding before the error turned to facts. He wasn’t annoyed at her blubbering attempts to explain human traditions to him. He wasn’t trying to dominant and mansplain to her in any way, shape, or form. He was trying to avoid miscommunication. 

Even if he leaned in closer to where she could make out each and every divot within his face plate.

  “Your society defines a mother as ‘a woman in relation to her child’. In verbiage, mother can refer to raising a child with care or affection, or one who has given birth to or fostered a child in their most vulnerable stage in life.” 

He prattled, optics hyper focused on her being. “While I am a child of Primus and the Allspark, I ask this question in no relation to them. I ask in relation to myself.”

Wait. 

Wait wait wait. 

Her brain, her itty bitty organic brain was firing neurons by the nanosecond in an attempt to keep up. 

Optimus was asking—

“According to your society’s definition, cultural normalities, and overall social hierarchy, I am classified not just as a mother but as a matriarch to generations of cybertronians. So I ask in regard to this, how may I go about celebrating this holiday?”

Holy shit—

It took everything and gods did she mean everything to not let her jaw drop to the sand beneath her. 

‘Please for the love of primus Adri! Stay professional, stay professional—!’

He was observing her closely, most likely feeling for her reaction and ready to apply his findings to the rest of the humans he’d meet. Depending on how she reacted will determine if this information gold mine will be lost to cosmos forever. 

She opened her mouth, closed it, and once again fell back to swallowing her spit to answer. Her mind itched to ask him how, what, and when this happened but this was a topic that needed utmost finesse to gain even an inch closer to the truth. 

“Well, considering the traditions are centered around the mother being shown her—their appreciation…” she corrected herself in light of Optimus’ status “there isn’t much expected of you. Today is supposed to be about you. Your..children would be responsible for the traditions.”

His optics flickered, going in and out of focus. His brows, or at least what Adri thought was the equivalent to furrowed as he leaned back to settle once again. 

“My…children…” 

“Yes, your children…and perhaps the generations you’ve raised?” She couldn’t stop the inquisitive tone from escaping and it was times like this that Adri wondered how and why the hell she was still employed. 

“Yes…in due time I will divulge that information.”

It seemed Optimus’ liking to her was the only thing saving her from being fired. She tried her best to nod as a normal human would, even though what came out was a jerky head movement one could vaguely count as a nod.

All was quiet. One human trying her best not to scream at the sudden information nuke that was dropped on her human brain while the other formulated new questions to ask. She noticed his optics glow every few seconds, the mech most definitely researching for other questions he had and cross referencing what she had told him. 

“There are some traditions where the mothers go out and spoil themselves with various trinkets or by travel…but seeing as we’re on an island maybe you can just spend time with the rest of the bots.”

He turned to her. “Spend time with them?…I spend time with them everyday, how would this make today different?”

This, Adriana could answer in full confidence. 

“Mother’s Day, while centered around the mom, celebrated the family dynamic as well. Some people like to make it where the family wouldn’t have been possible with the mom while others, particularly moms like to spend time with their families. It’s usually in an act of gratitude.” 

“I understand. This may be perfect for today. The mecha are free in their schedules and perhaps we can relax for once.”

Gears clicked and optics cycled to focus on her form. 

“Humans are admirable for their determination to celebrate their lives.” 

“Well, when you only have around 80 years to live compared to the millennias cybertronians have, it doesn’t seem like any time at all.”

“A reasonable point.” He remarked. 

Optimus looked at her, optics shining with gratefulness.  

“Thank you, Adriana. Your information and wisdom is greatly appreciated.” He rose up in his two feet and Adriana was reminded just how much of a higher difference there was between them. She doesn’t think she’d ever get tired seeing the bots, especially one as big as Optimus standing next to her. Her neck craned to allow her to see him, even though the mech was hunched over to keep a friendly distance. His mask was open, revealing the gnarly scar that almost made her cry at the sight of it alone. Now though, she ignored it the best she could and reciprocated his rare smile. “You will learn my story in due time.”

“Until we meet again.”

He bid her goodbye before leaving the shore, standing fully in all his glory before turning to walk away. 

All was quiet on the shore as his steps faded….at least before a squeal broke out, scaring the nearby gulls who took to the sky. 

“HOLY SHIT!!!”

~*~

If Spades was the only one who knew why the bots had dogpiled on top of each other to watch a projected movie with Optimus at the center of it, she only giggled and smiled, writing her findings in her notebook before retiring to her quarters.

Chapter Text

“WHO THE FUCK BROUGHT A CAT ON BASE?!?!”

Sam slowly backpedaled into the hall he came from, face frozen in fear as he pressed himself to the wall. 

Fuck. 

~*~ 

Step 1: Do not agree to catsit for your girlfriend when she decides to go to Las Vegas 

Listen he has just wanted to be a good boyfriend alright?

Of course to anyone with a tiny bit of common sense—and yes Sam did have it—it didn’t make sense to agree to look after your girlfriend’s cat while she went on a Las Vegas girls trip. 

A normal person would have probably said they couldn’t. A normal person would have looked into one of those pet sitting service thingys, especially considering how this fuzzy little shit—Harlee—always got into stuff it wasn’t supposed to. It would have been easier to have someone else do it. Totally twenty quadrillion times easier in fact. 

But Sam…Sam was a sucker. 

Proven time and time again, he couldn’t say no. He couldn’t say no to giant alien robots asking for his help a year ago and he couldn’t say no to this. 

How could he say no? After reconciling with her dad and finding some friends to talk to, Mikaela was doing better than ever. She had amazing albeit crazy friends who would probably go toe-to-toe with Megatron for her, her dad was out of jail and trying to change his life around, she had a pet cat who she swore was an angel, and she had Sam in her life. 

It would have been pretty shitty of him to:

1. Say no to watching Harlee
2. Pawn off Harlee to some complete stranger that was just tryna make some cash
3. Make his girlfriend worry about said cat not being in trusted hands 
4. Delay her girls trip after her friends begged her for weeks to get the hell out of that grease monkey trap and get wasted on the strip. 

Pretty shitty.  

So that’s why, despite the fact that Sam had to meet with the NEST team like six minutes ago at the air base, he was trying to figure out how to hide his girlfriend's cat in a suspiciously comfortable duffle bag. 

A wall shaking whine carried in his room, binary beeps coupled with radio blips urging Sam to hurry. 

“We gotta—! Go, numbnuts!” Bumblebee spat and Sam, anxious at the time and the way Harley refused to get in the duffle bag and how he couldn’t find his shirt and how fuck it itches everything itches everything is going loud and wrong and just overall done with everything, turned to Bee and yelled “CAN’T—can’t you see what I’m doing dammit?! Trying my best here and this little FUCK won’t get in the bag.”

Said little fuck sat next to the duffle bag in all its ebony glory. Harlee was a lean cat, well taken care of with Mikaela’s vigilance and his feline excursions.The cat sniffed the bag, whiskers twitching as he did his inspection before his tail twitched. He then ignored the bag and decided the most important thing was to groom his thigh for the fourth time. 

 Sam was scratching again. Dammit, where were his bracelets? 

“Wouldn’t have to—panic—if you just—told her no!” Bee whined, finials going back while optics observed his guard’s pacing and fumbling. The mech whistled, gaining his attention and pointing to the desk. Sam stumbled over to it, snatching the jewelry off before placing it on his wrists. 

The young man’s phone buzzed and just as he grabbed it a knock came at the door. Bumblebee’s sensors drowned under the stress pheromones the boy was emitting, a spike in adrenaline noted as he almost dropped his cell. 

“Sammy??? Is everything alright honey you need some help—?”“

“YES, YES MOM I’M—I’m alright—“ he called to his mother, hands gripping his hair before he did a 180° to level a look at Bee.  “Bee, buddy I know I fucked up  alright. But it’s too late. I’m already here and you!” 

He jabbed his finger at him and the mech jumped back, appalled. “YES YOU. You, are gonna help me hide Harlee until Mikaela gets back.” He hissed out, sweating as he tried to figure out how the hell he was gonna do this. 

“Whether you like it or not we’re in this together. Now help me out here.”

The mech didn’t bother to argue or pointing out how his big size was not in fact helpful to the situation, knowing that yes his charge was correct and nothing was gonna change at this moment. 

He also elected to not tell Sam about the continuous pings from both Prowl and Jazz, one methodically pissed about their tardiness while the other was having a ball at the human’s misfortune. 

His azure optics glowed as he scrolled through countless articles. Many of them were the same, centered around how to lure cats into certain places. They would have been perfect but they require treats to be present, which they did not have due to Mikaela dropping Harley off in a hurry. 

A white blinking notification took his attention then and Bee warbled in worry. The longer they panicked trying to get Harley, the less likely it would be for them to arrive on time. NEST was leaving at 10PM sharp, flying under the cover of darkness to arrive at Diego Garcia undetected. 

The drive to the base was an hour from the Witwicky’s if he obeyed the speed limits. 30 minutes if he really pushed it. And that was if there wasn’t any traffic. 

It was currently 9:12PM. 

He tried to be patient, he really did. All until he received a ping from the one mech he was trying to avoid. 

[\\\Incoming message from: Optimus_Prime_1:21:15

  |}}\\ [Data glyph: inquiry__location] [Inquiry__time stamp_present__ETA] [Urgent message] [overcharged__organic life form__ALLY__mecha] [Data glyph: confusion__current]\\\|

Slag. 

“Samuel-!” Sam was muttering feverishly, grabbing different shirts to make the duffle look more appealing to the animal. He stopped and looked at Bee over his shoulder. 

“Grab that—cat—Put it in the bag—! We gotta roll!” Bee tried his best to convey the understanding he had for his best friend and his situation but also the urgency to get the fuck out of the house now. 

Sam stuttered looking between the mech and the duffle before groaning, grabbing Harlee who released an ear grating meow before he was stuffed in the bag that was promptly zipped shut. The flap was breathable, having various holes to have airflow so the animal would be fine  

Sam threw his favorite hoodie over the bag and hopped through the window into Bee’s hand, the bot releasing binary beeps as he made his way to the front of the house, folded up in his alt mode, and gunned it down the road, organic passengers safely in his interior. 

~*~

When they made it to base, ten minutes to spare, both Sam and Bumblebee tried to ignore the heavy stare coming from the resident Prime. Following orders to load into carriers. 

~*~

[[ 🐝: 2:05PM: This is so stupid]] Bumblebee sent him, the next day, the two having settled in at Diego Garcia and trying to figure out what to do now. 

While Bee wasn’t with Sam at the moment, he didn’t want to leave his best friend hanging. So, they decided the best course of action would be to have a call with Bee muted to avoid any confusion on his side. The bot would respond to Sam via text and the system was pretty well thought out. 

At least while the human was alone. Like now. 

“Well Bee, I really don’t know what to say.” Samuel deflated on his cot, watching Harlee attempt to capture a piece of lint that kept evading his paws. Settling in the night before had been a disaster. Never mind the constant fidgeting in the flight over. At one point Epps asked him if he needed to “take a leak” with how much he was moving. 

He’d rather the man think he forgot to use the bathroom than let him know Harlee dug through the duffle to sink his claws into his thigh. 

When they’d finally gotten to the tiny room Sam would get to know in the next 3 days, he sighed so hard he’s sure his neighbor heard despite the excellent sound proofing. 

Harlee was having a ball, meowing and sniffing and swatting at any little thing he found interesting. 

“We’re already here bud. He’s been fed and been playing with the lint for 15 minutes.”

On the bright side, the fuzzy bastard was quiet the whole trip over. 

Not that he made noise on the regular. Despite the beef between him and Harlee, Sam recognized that the black cat was quiet when he wasn’t hungry or fighting against two legged giants who wanted him in a mysterious bag. 

He stayed out the way and only popped up for sustenance. While this was a double edged sword, as long as the brunet played his cards right no one would find out about Harlee. 

Hopefully. 

~*~

Of course, his hope was the catalyst to a series of unfortunate events. 

One, he had been out and about base to try and get lunch from the canteen.  This allowed him to notice a familiar fuzzball with yellow eyes watching him from the end of the corridor leading to said food spot. 

This led to his brain suddenly remembering how upon leaving earlier this morning, he hadn’t fully closed his door. It must have been enough to fit a credit card but with Harlee anything was possible. 

Never mind the way his heart pounded at the possibility of the cat walking around since five in the morning, Sam came to another realization after attempting to chase after Harlee in a non suspicious way. 

Two, he was not capable of being inconspicuous. He had tuned the corner and ran straight into some military grunt carrying a humongous stack of papers that Sam’s pretty sure were not important military plans. 

He caught the sight of “FREE FEET—“ before the soldier crumpled the paper and desperately tried to pick everything up. This also led to Sam peaking over the man’s soldier to see that little shit of a cat ideally licking his paw before he sashayed down the hall into the canteen. 

In an effort to catch up and ignore the soldier yelling at him for something that really wasn’t his fault, Sam yelled back an “IM SORRY—“ before taking off, eyes wide with sweat dripping down his neck to try and make it to that cat. 

However as his luck would have it, he was too late in the worst way possible. 

“WHO THE FUCK BROUGHT A CAT ON BASE?!?!”

Sam slowly backpedaled into the hall he came from, face frozen in fear as he pressed himself to the wall. 

Fuck. 

“WHERE’S THE FUCKING EPI-PEN?!?” 

“EPPS?! EPPS YOU GOOD MAN??! WE GONNA GET HELP!” 

Stomping boots was all he heard before the canteen doors burst open, two panicking soldiers Samuel never got to know sprinting to find medical help. 

The young man walked in to see utter chaos, grown men who never panicked in the face of a 60+ foot decepticon suddenly jumping on tables to avoid the four legged cretin. 

“HE’S ALLERGIC?!!”

“YEAH I AM TOO!”

”HOW DID IT GET HERE—”“

“WHY ARE WE SHOUTING?!?”“

“I mean it’s kinda cute—”“

Will Lennox’s voice boomed across the cafeteria, commanding attention as he yelled for someone to “cough up their epipen or so help him he would lodge a foot and the cat so far up their ass they’ll wish they never met him.”

Said victim laid with his head on the man’s lap, wheezing as his face progressively got more inflamed. 

Holy shit he’s fucked. He’s so fucked—

It took everything in him to not scratch his wrists, sweat breaking out all over his body as he gripped at his jeans for something to ground him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. That furball was supposed to stay in his room. Not be here causing severe allergic reactions and chaos. The two men from earlier came bursting in with a gurney. 

“Ratchet’s outside. They’re watching from the cameras. Says while the epi-pen should help we gotta get him to medical.” 

One of the men presented the medical tool. He waved it around as he jogged to Lennox. Taking the cap off, he gently pressed the pen onto a meaty part of Epp’s arm to let the needle come out and do it’s work. 

He was underwater, that was the only explanation why when Lennox passed him all he heard was a muffled “Hey kid” before they exited the room. 

Sitting on the table where Epps and Lennox were eating at was none other than Harlee, the black cat’s tail flicking back and forth as he observed the chaos in the room. 

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

"Your Highness! Please, wait!"

Had he not borne the title of Prime, had he still been the data clerk of ages past, Jazz would have felt the sharp end of his annoyance long ago. The thought of indulging in high-grade crossed his mind—just one cup wouldn’t hurt.

Yet, his reputation demanded restraint, not only among his fellow Cybertronians but also with the humans. Launching data tablets at his second-in-command wouldn’t exactly embody the steady leadership they needed.

"Please, my queen, I’ve uncovered information you may—hA!—find intriguing!"

A pity, truly.

This had all begun a few days ago in light of the Lieutenant and Spades being informed of the importance behind the Prime title. Of course, they didn’t understand it fully. None of the humans would. His optics reset as he readjusted his grip on the data pad. 

There were no leaders, alive or dead, that fully encompassed what a Prime was to cybertronians. The closest figures would be a queen and pope, Jazz had not been wrong about that but it would be hard to explain the exact nature to one who had never seen anything remotely close. 

That had been the entire reason he opted to be seen as a military leader instead of a planet’s ruler. It was easier for everyone that way. 

And Jazz in typical fashion had to get rid of that. Lovely. 

The data tablet in his grasp displayed maps of a newly discovered energon deposit nestled within a mountainous expanse. Prime’s optics focused on coordinates that could lead to sustenance for his people, merely a day or two from their base with minimal rest. Jazz had sent him this data pack shortly before his comedic arrival. He could only guess the new data was what he was talking about. 

“Regarding this data pack you’ve sent me, I assume it has to do with the latest energon site?” Jazz nodded, his visor flashing with barely contained mirth. 

“Yes my queen…” 

…He could do this, he would succeed and not be tempted by the beautiful rage that burned within. 

      “The location was found in a mountain range that the humans have marked as “protected land”.” He brought up his servos and used two digits to curl in the air. Optimus had learned it was meant to signify an exact statement that people found to be ridiculous or absurd. 

     Interesting, though he can see the reason why the young species had to go this route with their tendency to destroy their planet’s matter at the prospect of more currency.

“It’s called the Grand Canyon, it reminds me of the Wastelands a bit.” A quick research of the landscape and Optimus could see the similarities. High temperatures with the ground crumbling at the merest touch, high mountains and caverns. The only difference being the lack of acid rain and mech-animals. 

A peaceful version of his home really. 

The notion of deeming this mission a "Bots Only" affair flickered in his processors—an idea once created by Sideswipe when a new soldier had begged to join. It would be beneficial for everyone involved yet it would violate the condition of them being on this planet in the first place. They needed a “human guide” at all times. He brought his repulsion arrays back, straightening his posture.  

If it were just them, he could finally accept Jazz’s dueling challenge without human interference— 

"Your royal grace—"

"Jazz."

His mouth snapped shut, but a crooked grin tugged at his intake as he fought to suppress laughter. His tone carried the weight of countless burdens, yet Jazz persisted. 

"Yes, my monarch?"

He sighed. Jazz’s laughter echoed. 

It had been three hours since sunbreak. Primus, grant him strength.

~*~

    "Soooo, why is everyone calling you a queen all of a sudden?" Sam’s innocent inquiry ignited a chorus of snorts and laughter on the public channel. The contrast between the bots cackling over comms while maintaining stoic silence outside was stark against the frantic activity of the base.

     “It’s a miscommunication among my men and yours. Though, my soldiers are quite deliberate in their jesting.” He sighed, dismay settling over him as he recalled the day’s earlier events. Managing his own people was one challenge, but navigating misunderstandings with humans was another.

      “Damn, that sucks. I asked 'cause I heard the twins and Jazz joking about it since yesterday—called you Queen Elizabeth and everything.”

     His sigh deepened as Sam gave a consoling pat on the side of his vehicle mode. Fantastic.

     Samuel was the only human here, perhaps the only one on the planet, who grasped the weight of being a Prime. His knowledge had grown from the remnants of the Allspark, making him more aware of Cybertronian culture.

     When he had previously inquired about his lack of a high protector, he learned quickly that such discussions were best avoided.

“Well, look, O.P. Why don’t you take advantage of it?”

Curiosity piqued within him. “Take advantage? How so?”

      He launched into an explanation. “I think it could work in your favor. You might finally get the resources you’ve been needing when the higher-ups see how important you actually are. Humans would stop disrespecting you so much—I think it works out.”

     At the cost of his reputation descending into the depths of Unicron’s realm, perhaps. 

     Yet, he couldn’t deny the allure of his suggestion. If executed well, this could lead to greater respect from humans. There would be no need to discuss the issue of a high protector or his singular role; merely being a Prime who had ruled a planet far longer than their past generation’s lifetime would suffice.

      It could indeed work in his favor. He just had to ensure it was done correctly.

      Optimus could not forsee how this would result in the return of the librarian, sparking glee and mirth amongst every cybertronian on base. 

Chapter Text

What was a leader? Some would answer with confidence while others with hesitation. A leader was someone who bravely commanded the masses. Someone who took charge and unapologetic defended their people. 

Others may agree to this notion while others disagreed, sighting an iron fist who herded sheep into pens, keeping the masses sated with grass and gruel even if the food were to eventually run out. 

What makes a leader? The answer changes and shifts depending on who you ask. However many believed one thing to be common. You could not be a leader with no land to rule, at least one that mattered. 

Leaders are people who have commanded and established a reign unimaginable. The more land one claims as their own, the more power they hold in their hands.

Many have dreamed of conquering lands stretching farther than the eye could see. To travel to discover new lands, people and resources that would only strengthen their empire.

 But one thing always rings true in human history: too much of something was never good. And this was true for conquered territory. 

Countries that grew into empires under one leadership all eventually fell. Whether due to greed or civil war, they all eventually came to an end. The era of empires has retired, with Rome, Mongolia and the Soviet Union only remaining through texts in history books and the like.  

There was no known living leader on Earth who had established an empire successfully or at least, lived passed its end, one alive amongst the people who commuted about their day to day life. 

At least, there wasn’t a known one until that day. 

~*~ The Beginning ~*~

Waking up before the sun had even breached the horizon was normal for NEST soldiers. 

   It was necessary for their troops to be up bright and early, making sure defenses were working against Decepticon intelligence, having soldiers learn new maneuvers and teach them new methods to subdue bots and save people from harm's way. Boring duties needed attending as well; paperwork needed delivering and meetings were to be had. 

That was the duty of one soldier who traveled down the halls. 

   Assigned the “grunt work”, the man tried to not stress about how his three decades in service had come to this. How thirty years resulted in him delivering paperwork to a giant robot. The notion in itself was something he’d never thought he’d get to say, at least not while sober. 

The manilla folder in hand held some important kerfuffle about the latest human demands and what not. Something about needing bots for human recon missions in another country. 

He wasn't paid enough to know or care to be fair. If it was that important they’d all discuss it during their next meeting. 

A puff of breath blew out his nose as the soldier came closer to the bot’s center, shined boots thumping down the hall. He just needed to drop this stuff off and he’d be on his way back to his squad. 

Or, he would have been if the twins hadn’t nearly ran him over. 

“COMIN THROUGH!” 

The soldier’s body moved before he’d even realized what was happening, jumping out the way to cling to the side of the hallway like a fly on the wall. Not a second later, two Kia souls sped past him, missing by an inch and screeching to try and brake, only to slam into the wall and into each other. 

“OH—OOHHH—!!“ the man scrambled for the wall and the twins groaned as they transformed.

“—Yeah, yeah move out the way mother fucker—“

He was never doing this shit again. This explained the way the rest of his friends had fucking drew sticks to deliver this shit. 

Speaking of “the “shit” in question, the once organized and damn near pretty folded had its contents laid all throughout the hallway, with some papers gently fluttering down to slide onto the flooring.

He didn’t even care that the official government papers had been dirtied. He wasn’t paid enough to give that much of a shit when he almost lost his life, thank you very much.

“HA! Look at the little bitch, pantin and shit!” One of the twins, skids or muds or whatever their fucking name was, cackled away, grabbing his twin by the back of the neck to force the bot to watch his in fact panting form clutch the wall. 

“HAAAAAAA that’s fucking hilarious. What you thought we was gonna flatten you?!”

Feeling both embarrassed and appalled, the soldier stuttered violently but was only met with more laughter. 

“We’re not dirtying our paint jobs with guts and shit—“

“—yeah fuck that, we got a ceremony to attend we gotta be lookin fly not icky and gross with your organic stuff.”

At that, the red twin smacked the green one on the noggin, who howled at the hit. 

“What’s the -/$}|~€£ WAS THAT?!”

“You glitched sack uh shit—how many times do we gotta beat that shit out of you?!”

“WHAT SHIT!?”

“THE SLURS DUMBASS!!” 

“You know what Prime said, idiot! No more slurs or else we’re not going!”

Going? Going where?

“Besides, would you stop blabbing about the ceremony? Loose lipped jackass—that shit is for us and Autobots only!”

“Damn that shit hurt man! Chill out for once you uptight cyberhog—OW!”

    Forgetting about the soldier, the two bots clammored at the other, exchanging hits left and right as they went back to their side of the base. He waited for what seemed like forever.

    One heartbeat, and two passed before the soldier was gone, sprinting down the hall and leaving the paperwork strewn everywhere. 

    Watching his escaping form, the red twin raised his servo high five his twin, who glared at him while rubbing his head. Shrugging, the red twin turned away and walked off, poking fun at his bitch of a brother who yelled at him again. 

.1.

With word of a ceremony traveling around base, it was expected for suddenly every human’s eyes to be glued to the mechs. 

Specifically, Optimus. 

Somewhere, someone had blabbed to their friends about the “bots planning a ceremony or some shit. No, they didn’t know what it was for, who it was for, or where or when it would happen just that it was a bot celebration thing and no he didn’t fucking know what it was about for the thirtieth time!”

   So, yeah.

     Everyone was hyper focused on every bot on base. But, specifically Optimus. His every move was suddenly under watch by at least one human at a time. The weary leader often caught them through his sensors, the creatures familiar with their build but not enough to remember about the equipment they naturally possessed.

   The soldiers thought themselves quiet as they mumbled and gossiped about a ‘ceremony’ that they were having. 

    Optimus wondered when he’d be invited, considering there wasn’t any coming to mind. 

    No, there wasn’t any ceremony to be had. At least, none that he knew about deeply. Millenniums after a continuous war had killed any desire for celebration, the mood often killed as bots turned to share memories with mechs no longer with them.

     Many holidays were shared in bittersweet rust, decaying under the weight of early parting and spark-rupturing violence. 

     Watching the humans scuttle around like glitch mice, Optimus found himself stagnant. Logically, it would be best to ignore them. Humans were interesting, by far the most intriguing organics they’ve encountered in their journey.

    Though they were very curious by nature, eventually boredom would ring out and they’d give up, potentially forgetting about this so called ceremony anyway. 

But, his CPU brought up the conversation Samuel had with him after Jazz’s antics had brought havoc onto the base. 

“I think it could work in your favor. You might finally get the resources you’ve been needing when the higher-ups see how important you actually are. Humans would stop disrespecting you so much—I think it works out.”

Optimus’ blue optics gently dimmed and a sigh released the tension in his shoulders. 

Hm…

It seems spending time with the humans had affected him more than he thought. 

~*~

“Jazz, Miss Spades, I apologize for the interruption.” 

    When the Prime entered the room, his heavy footsteps announcing his arrival long before he arrived, Adriana turned to say hello. Hearing his heartfelt apology, the woman shook her head, the recorder in hand flailing as she visibly denied the action. 

   “No! No Prime, you’re not interrupting anything. Jazz was actually telling me about the music his city had on Cybertron!” The grin on her face was enough to dhow her enjoyment for the moment. Jazz’s visor was lit as well, his own smile present as he acknowledge Optimus. 

   “Of course I was! Ay OP, you already know how I love the beats on this planet, I just had to put her on to ours!” The mech, laid back as ever, was spread into a storage container, the metal creaking as the bot shifted his weight. But in typical fashion, Jazz didn’t care for the stress he inflicted on the Earth metal and grinned bright. 

     Adriana laughed nervously but pushed on as the prime came to a stop a little ways from them. His usual regal expression was missing—ah, no. It was still there, centuries of war, surprise surprise, weighed down on every bot on base.

   But to Adri, he seemed…lighter. As if the moment of hell they’d been through, they he’d been through her momentarily left. His optics sparked bright for a moment and after his battle mask parted, she saw a very, very weak smile surface. 

She nearly dropped her recorder. 

     She was used to Optimus’ scarring by now. Of course, after all their talks on the beach she’d be crazy to not be used to it by now. What caught her attention was the dare she say cheeky grin on the worn leader’s face, the smile making him seem so, so younger as he eyed his SIC in mirth. 

“Which ‘beats’ have you pulled up old friend?”

Her head swiveled over to Jazz whose grin widened like a Cheshire. 

“Oh nothing, a little Praxian and Vos here and there.”

“I see you’re still picky with Iaconic melodies.”

“Iaconic melodies—O.P!” Jazz sat up at that, a gobsmacked look on his faceplate, scoffing as he pointed at Optimus, “Just because you got conditioned in that damn palace doesn’t mean I have to like that harpy slag!” His smirk betrayed his words. 

    The woman blinked, her gaze shifting between the two aliens. OP—reserved, serious Prime who lowkey scared the shit of her—wasn’t shutting Jazz down. He wasn’t snapping at him or retreating into that usual somber intensity. No, he was just… letting it happen. More than that, he almost looked relaxed.

   But it was what Jazz had said that really stuck. Palace? Since when did OP have anything to do with a palace? She kept her expression neutral, but her mind was already spinning. What else didn’t she know about him?

   She watched them, her curiosity sharpening with each passing second. Jazz was putting on a show, that much was clear—the exaggerated frustration, the way he threw his hands in the air like some exasperated performer. It was meant to be dramatic, playful. But he… Prime wasn’t stopping him.

   That was the first thing that struck her. She had never seen Optimus entertain this kind of banter before. He was always composed, always guarded, like he was carrying the weight of something too heavy to set down.

    And with their conversations, Adriana was familiar with the weight he carried. She knew it was too much for her to even begin grasping. But now, he was just letting it happen. Not staying quiet, not shutting Jazz down, not walking away.

And then there was what Jazz had actually said.

"Conditioned in that damned palace."

Palace.

The word lingered in her mind, sharp and deliberate. It wasn’t a throwaway insult—it was too specific for that. Jazz wasn’t just teasing Optimus about his music taste; he was pulling from something real, something shared between them. Something Prime had never mentioned.

She kept her expression neutral, but her thoughts were already turning over themselves. Optimus had always been careful with his past, never offering more than what was necessary. If Jazz hadn’t just said it outright, she wasn’t sure she’d have ever known.

What else was he keeping quiet?

Her eyes flicked to OP, studying him now with fresh curiosity. The relaxed posture, the way he didn’t bristle at Jazz’s words—he wasn’t just tolerating this conversation. He was comfortable in it.

And that might have been the most surprising part of all.

Huh. 

    Prime raised an eyebrow as Jazz finished his exaggerated rant, the corners of his mouth twitching in the smallest sign of amusement. For a moment, there was only silence between them, and then the red and blue mech gave a low, amused chuckle—a rare sound from the normally reserved leader.

Her recorder was definitely on the floor by now. 

    “Oh, Jazz,” he said, shaking his head with a touch of fondness. “You’re always so dramatic. Harpy? Ah yes, it’s a crime for this ragged leader to listen to Aria or Pitchwave’s assemble.”

    He took a step closer, his voice soft and light, as if the entire conversation was nothing more than a casual exchange between old friends. “I’ve dealt with worse than harpies, you know.”

“Who are you tellin’ Big Mech?” Jazz sat up fully now, swinging his feet as Optimus drew closure. “I’m sure any bot with half their codex knew the slag you’ve heard.” There was a pointed jab that Adriana watched Optimus gracefully dodge, that smile present on his face still. 

She wasn’t alive. There’s no way she was. 

“So the harpy acknowledges.”

Was that a joke? 

     There was no reprimand, no edge to his words—just a gentle teasing in return. His tone was warm, and his expression, though serious, carried an undercurrent of playfulness.

“Next time, Jazz,” he said with a slight smirk, “try being a little more original. It’s getting predictable.”

“Sure thing, boss.“

   Armored plates rippled like waves and her hair rose as an electric field expanded. The linguist was surprised. Optimus was reserved, rarely ever one to expand his field unlike the others who did so as they pleased. 

    His field wrapped around her as the light scent of ozone became apparent. Across her body, warmth bloomed while an electric hug blessed her. In her vision, Optimus regarded Jazz with a smaller smile. 

“I believe it fitting for a cultured mech to lead the acoustics for the celebration?”

   Observing the two, she watched as Jazz’s visor seemed to spark and his mouth formed a surprise ‘o’. There was a charged silence, as Jazz’s visor flashed in a bright blue before calming down. Then, his lips stretched into a smile and his demeanor seemed to shift.

    Gone was the theatrical second in command who’d give the skip in just a moment. In its place, was a bot who Adriana believed to be honest in front of someone he cared for and cherished. A mech who had would give his all for his position. 

“Of course,—-“The second in command opted for cybertronix in his agreement and Adriana…

Adriana was in awe. 

     A word that was incapable to mimic in human speech but felt so replicable, something that bowed like harp strings yet crooned to her like doves in early mornings. Yet, stood unmoving despite its gentle warmth, like shallows against crashing tides that seemed to never waver. Like willow trees that swayed and bent to wind but never fell, there to stand for generations to come as life blossomed under its protective shadow. 

Prime. 

     The Crystal city dialect was like its namesake, crystalix twinkling like wind chimes during spring mornings. A joyful cadence that befitted their designation for the Prime title. Hearing it once before, Adri never thought she’d get to hear it again, not with Will’s blubbering and Jazz’s ever elusive nature. 

She thought if she did get to hear it, witness it, it wouldn’t be the same. See, once you’ve experienced something, that feeling of new satisfaction was impossible to replicate.

    Science had dwelled into this phenomenon and it was concluded that it was just a manner of the brain becoming used to the new thing you experienced. A sad but true aspect of life. 

       However, she didn’t realize how wrong she was. And she was quite content at that. Optimus dipped his head low, bowing towards Jazz as he brought one servo to his forehead and one towards his chest—towards his spark.

  His index, middle, and thumb came to a pinched point and in a motion like he was extracting something he brought his hands towards Jazz to close in prayer hands. 

       Adriana’s ears picked up a low rumble that pitched into a croon, enraptured as Optimus bowed again to Jazz, “With spark and mind united, your prime acknowledges your gift, Jazz.” The SIC did not do anything for a moment but shortly after a grin came back to his face, posture relaxing as the earlier moment wore off. 

    His plating flared out and his wheels spun. Pistons decompressed and hissed. The silver bot bowed but turned his neck to the right and leaned it back, exposing the cords and wires that made up their version of veins. A servo pinched at his forehead and one at his chest, bringing them up to form a ball as he cupped both together. 

His head turned back to Optimus and with a rumble, he said, “Until all are one.” 

The heavy atmosphere disappeared after that and Adriana was left reeling. She had forgotten about the recorder by now. She didn’t know if it was still on or had turned off, the old thing probably broke when it hit the ground. 

What did she just see?

In her head, she didn’t notice when Optimus angled his head to look at her dazed form. He seemed to become almost sheepish, rare smile gone as familiar somber nature surged forward.  

Goosebumps were still present. It was quiet before Jazz waved a servo in the air, denying something that had been shared silently. 

“Ah, she’ll be alright! Ain’t like I’m lying—they need to tighten up and get with the program at some point. Can’t any bot lead a planet into the Diamond Ages.”

What. 

Optimus shook his head at Jazz’s antics, retracting his field and Adriana found herself shocked at the feeling of grief she felt. 

“Ah, enough with that. Come, we must go old friend. Prowl requests us for preparation.”

“Already noted Big mech.”

Optimus finally acknowledged the only human in the room, dipping his head in a farewell as his massive form turned to leave. 

“We must depart. Good day, Miss Spades.”

And just like that, the two of them were gone. 

Looking down at the recorder, the pigtailed woman clukd now place the grief she felt, as the recorder had stopped at some point. 

Sometimes, she wished she wasn’t human. That she was like them. As she’d never have to worry of her brain naturally erasing or distorting the things she’s seen, to watch everything on replay in perfect clarity. 

Something bubbled up her throat, obnoxious and choking while her chest burned. A bitter smile tugged at her lips as she bent down to pick up the device. 

It wouldn’t do well to become jealous of something she didn’t understand. 

And with that, Adriana stumbled her way to her quarters, where she tried her best to copy down everything she saw. 

2.))

Will would not be in his position today if he didn’t have eyes and ears on every soldier on base. It was literally part of his job to watch the jackasses when they had their heads straight or misplaced. Between keeping an eye on them and the bots and dealing with human officials and enemy movement, it was a wonder he hadn’t gotten grey hairs yet. 

He needed a vacation. 

The new craze on base was for some ceremony the Autobots were planning to do. At first, having heard no word on it, he’d brushed it off thinking it was some other rumor, a guy had started in boredom.

   There hadn’t been much activity as of late, the Decepticons unnervingly quiet. While he wasn’t one to look a horse in the mouth, he knew how a bunch of trigger happy soldiers could get without any trouble to distract ‘em.

So, yeah he’ll admit it: he hadn’t believed anything anyone had said about some ceremony. 

That was, until Spades had sat next to him during breakfast. 

Diego Garcia’s mess hall was a quaint place. Just big enough to fit one hundred or so soldiers, the room was kept alive with the sound of clanking utensils and tired grumbles, early morning sun cresting through windows in a blazing light. 

     His tray was an assembly of potato circles, some salad, fruit, and something they called egg which Will thought was the latest government experiment. He was alone at his corner of the bench as men filtered in around him. He was lazily munching at his meal when she sat down in front of him. 

    Her sudden appearance nearly startled him, lost in thought as he was, but the woman only continued to settle in, placing her abnormally large coffee mug and tray of food down as she lifted her legs into the bench.

    Watching her dig into what Will considered rabbit food, he waited for a moment to see if she’d say something. When she didn’t, he returned to his. 

He should have known that’s when she’d talk. 

“It’s real.”

    Mid chewing on a salted potato and mushy egg, Will’s eyes snapped to look at her in silent question. The fragrant smell of tea reached him as she grabbed the mug and stared into the steaming liquid. 

“The ceremony.” Spades looked into his eyes, no lie anywhere to be seen. “It’s real.”

    He reached for his own mug of coffee, mumbling along the rim. “Oh, great. So now they’re actually doing secret alien handshakes?”, he sipped at the brown liquid as he finished talking. 

“Not a handshake. A ceremony.” She leaned in slightly. “I saw it.”

Will froze for half a second—just long enough for her to know he’d actually heard her—but then he sighed, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.

“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out. “And what kind of ceremony are we talking here? A cult thing? Some kind of weird alien wedding? Because I swear to God, if Jazz starts passing out party invitations—”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t small talk, and it wasn’t casual. It was structured, deliberate. Significant.”

That seemed to pull him in, if only slightly. Will tilted his head, finally giving her his full attention. “And you’re sure about this?”

She nodded.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling sharply. “Damn it.” He muttered something else under his breath before pushing his tray to the side and shaking his head. “Alright. You’ve got my attention. Talk.”

     Sipping at her tea, the woman took a moment to gather herself. Her signature messenger bag laid on the bench beside her and she popped the flap open. Reaching in, she brought a notebook out and gently slid it across the table. All exhaustion was gone at this point as Will leaned over to look as she flipped the pages. 

When she found what she was looking for, she pointed at the cursive she had written, slanted penmanship creating a mural of words. “Can you read cursive?”

“A little doctor's handwriting—not too fluent though.” He snarked and she huffed with a small grin. “That’s good enough.” 

     She started giving him the rundown of everything she saw between Prime and Jazz. Pointing at a specific line, Will realized she had written out at least two pages worth of summaries, bullet points, and ideas of what she had seen. 

     At the end of her recount, Will sat back in his chair, arms crossed as he let out a slow breath. He didn’t speak right away, just ran a hand over his jaw, staring past her like he was running a thousand calculations in his head.

“That’s a hell of a thing,” he finally muttered, mostly to himself. He reached for his coffee again, took a sip, and then let out a humorless chuckle. “I wake up thinking my biggest problem today is drafting emails, and now I gotta figure out what to do with a secret alien ritual.”

She stayed quiet, watching him think. He wasn’t dismissing her anymore—no jokes, no skepticism. He was processing.

     After a long moment, he exhaled sharply. “Alright,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Let’s assume you’re right, and this ceremony means something. What’s the play here? You think it’s a threat? A power shift? Something we’re supposed to stop?”

Adri sat on her words, worrying her lip. She shook her head after some thought. “I don’t know.” At that, he raised an eyebrow at her and she rushed to carry on. 

“But it wasn’t just for show, Will. It was deliberate. Formal. It mattered to them.”

That seemed to stick with him. He drummed his fingers against the table, thinking. Then, without looking up, he asked, “Did Optimus see you watching?”

She nodded. “Didn't say much to me but he knew I was there.”

Will sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright. So, he knows we know.” He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “And since he didn’t pull you aside or tell you to keep quiet, I’m guessing this isn’t some deep dark secret we’re not supposed to know about.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But it still wasn’t something they advertised.”

Will gave a low hum, considering that. “Look, I’m not about to start poking a hornet’s nest if this isn’t a problem. We’ve got a good thing going with them, and Big Buddha’s never given me a reason to think he’d pull something behind our backs. But I don’t like not knowing why it matters.”

He finally looked her in the eye again, this time with a quiet, calculating weight behind his gaze. “So. You think I should ask him about it?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know if he’d tell you.”

Will huffed a short, dry laugh. “Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” 

Another beat of silence, then he sighed, reaching for his coffee again. “Alright. For now, we sit on this. No stirring up paranoia, no pointless questions until we know what we’re even asking. If OP wanted us worried, we’d know it. And if Jazz had anything to do with it, well—” He smirked slightly, shaking his head. “We’d probably have an invitation by now.”

Adriana looked taken aback but quickly smiled, her expression one of relief and something else Will couldn’t quite place. “A-alright. Yes I agree. Okay.” She sighed out and nerves he didn’t even realize were there seemed to melt off her. 

And so, Will had another thing to worry about on his plate. 

~*~

Finding the mech wasn’t too hard when everyone pointed at the beach.  

     Prime had mentioned in the past how the ocean was, in his opinion, one of the greatest marvels his planet had to offer. There was no sea on Cybertron, at least not a human concept of one.

   To see the waves crashing repeatedly on the shore, hiding a whole other world beneath the surface, he would find his thoughts quiet here to where he could finally breathe.  

    Lennox could admit the moment of honesty had caught him off guard and he’d regrettably kept quiet. 

     Optimus was kneeled in the sand, uncaring for any particles that was undoubtedly already in his plating. From what Will could see, facing the back of the mech, he swayed back and forth with the waves, arms moving from left to right as he held something before him. 

Quietly, to not interrupt he snuck around the dunes to try and get a better angle. And Will, once he could see and his eyes focused on what he was looking at, nearly fell on his face. 

     Alone on the beach, Optimus kneeled on the sand while his optics focused on the light show happening in his hands. It wasn't flashy, not at all. It was something you’d have to squint and maybe tilt your head to even begin seeing. But Will could. 

   He could see something that danced and fluttered in Optimus’ hands. A mini, what, aurora borealis? Yes, a mini aurora flickered and shimmered like heat waves, the dying sun serving to amplify the light the prime literally harnessed in hand.

       If Will had been any closer he’d sure his skin would prickled from the prime’s field which was undoubtedly spanned wide in his display. His flared plates and moving antennas spoke it true. 

He watched the bot’s eyes spark a bright blue and the light respond. 

     Purple, greens, and blues seemed to brighten as cosmic ribbons fluttered. Then, they began to diverge, separating into several balls of light. From what he could count, seven, ten, twelve balls of light danced in his palms, floating in random and swirling in front of the mech who’s eyes lit in quiet glee. 

      Good mother of terasa, what the hell was this? Feeling the strain of his wide eyes, Lennox blinked and rubbed at them. When he looked back up, the prime had one servo up now, gazing down at the light in adoration as they all danced in a circle. 

    Until, one by one, each orb faded away. The white one went first, followed by the green, dark blue, yellow, pink, silver, and so on, until all but the purple one was left behind. It seemed to bob in place for a moment, before it too drifted towards the sea and vanished. 

   By the time Optimus had begun to move, Lennox was long gone. 

    The next day, when a soldier mentioned the ceremony, Will stayed quiet. But he too, wondered when it would happen. 

3.))) 

“Hey Bee, I’ve always wondered, how much bigger is Cybertron to Earth?”

     Standing in the hanger bay, Bee and Sam were off to the side as people and bots scuttled too and fro. Decepticons had been spotted near the Apallachians, specifically near Pennsylvania, and the government had sent orders to fly out within the next three hours. 

     Sam knew Bee was paying attention as the bots array lit up with conversation. If he focused and allowed the outside world to fade away, he could hear the static, the distorted speech of glyphs, Ironhide’s growl of ‘Deception-null//‘ followed by Jazz’s sparking laugh—

“Sam—,don’t—focus on—them!” Bee clipped through his radio, a digit poking at Sam’s shoulder as the man gasped. His migraine faded in intensity he hadn’t realized was there, pressure ebbing as the sound of keys clicking and people shouting came back to the forefront. 

Oh shit. 

“Sorry, bud. Didn’t mean f-uh-for that to happen.”

A binary whine was Bee’s response as he dipped his head in understanding. His radio tuned for a moment, before a reversed record sound was played followed by his own voice, “Cybertron?”

“Ye-yeah. How big is it to Earth? I mean I’ve seen it I think, the visions? Yeah but what’s the actual size? It had to be big as hell, to fit so many of yall and how everyone is different sizes and—“

“Samuel—“ his name was said followed by a clicked whistle. Calm, comprehension. 

“Sorry.”

Bee waved off the apology and chriped. Apology-null//

The bot’s optics flicked to watch the humans scuttle back and forth. He seemed to be trying to figure out how he could tell Sam. The brunette watched his best friend shift from ped to ped before he simply kneeled down to get closer.

     Black servos were brought out between them, almost acting like a bridge between their two worlds. For a moment, nothing happened, but then slowly, stars and planets seemed to appear. 

    Sam couldn’t stop the gasp as an entire solar system seemed to be held in Bee’s hands, the POV stopping and zooming past various planets until a familiar one came into view. Earth, even if it was depicted in blue hologram glory, that was his home.

   And shortly after, another planet he’d grown to recognize was shown after a cosmic zoom across the galaxy. 

    Cybertron, with towering metal mountains and the giant sea of rust, glowing energon rivers held deep within its core. The projection faded for a moment until Cybertron materialized next to Earth, in a digital assembly.

    The brunet’s jaw dropped open, he’ll admit it. Hell he thinks it would for anyone who saw it. And that it did as a few stray soldiers stopped what they were doing to watch Bee’s projection. 

   Compared to Earth, Cybertron was massive. It could probably swallow Earth twice, maybe three times before it even began to make up the overall size of the planet. Everyone who was watching murmured their awe, wide eyes watching their ally’s planet rotate. 

“My-home.” Bee introduced and the projection shifted to focus on just Cybertron. It zoomed into different areas of the planet: tall quart towers with busy streets, shining buildings that hung from caves with roads that looped around structures, floating structures with jet-like vehicles in the air and some mecha flying about. 

The projection destabilized and brought forth something new: a giant building with architectural feats Sam knew would give STEM majors a hernia just from looking at it. Curved, spiked and loops that stretched towards the sky, glass domes dotted here and there. 

    The yellow bot seemed to look over his shoulder, looking for what Sam didn’t know, but quickly, the bot focused the projection to float into the building. It took him a moment to figure out what he was looking at and he wasn’t alone as soldiers drew closer to see as well. But when it clicked, someone in the crowd cursed while others gasped. 

   Sam swallowed a wad of spit to see Optimus Prime frozen in time in prayer, kneeling on a raised pedestal to a giant statue that seemed to reach out towards him. The mech was draped in various cloths that clinged and flowed freely like a Greek statue. They seemed to be sheer and a very light blue in color. His antennas had jewels hanging while on his forehead laid one as well. 

“Is that—“

“Optimus?!”

“What the fuck…”

Bee crooned a word that Sam knew no one but him would understand. This was a chitter that vibrated his being, popping in purrs to end in a hum. 

Prime. All knowing

“He—ruled the world.”

   From there the projection spanned out to create a biblical image, Optimus’ figure standing and cradling Cybertron in his servos like a babe, ceremonial dress still on as his optics seemed to glow in adoration to Cybertron.

   Interestingly enough, this projection had no defining feature to the mech’s face, just the glowing eyes and flat smile. 

Huh..

When Optimus appeared right on time to address the commander in chief, if some soldiers looked at him with newfound awe, well that was neither here nor there. Sam listened in to the bots’ conversation and tried to keep himself sane as Ironhide publically berated Bee for what he did. 

Display-unnecessary../tired/

Display-/emphasis:-VITAL

He snorted. This was gonna be so fun. 

Chapter Text

“Miss Spades, we meet once again.” Optimus’ voice seemed to touch her entire being and it was a feeling she’d never get tired of. Pulling on her pigtail in usual habit, the lady laughed nervously as she walked up to him, finally coming to a stop beside him. 

“Ah, yes! Yes, we meet again, Prime, haha…”

Seated as he was, his height was enough set off her lizard brain to hightail the fuck out of there and also marvel before him. Effortlessly, the autobot held a regal air about him as the sea breeze combed through pistons and divots.

She could hear Ratchets cursing already, Cybertronix spitting out like electricity to strike at the Prime for allowing rust to infect his joints again and how many times did he have to beat his him upside the helm for him to understand that just because the ocean was pretty didn’t mean he had to sacrifice his health to see it!

She had heard the speech enough times to memorize it while deaf and blind. 

She must have spent too much time in silence, shifting on her toes and of course leaking some organic hormone, as Optimus shifted to observe her form. Gently, so quiet you wouldn’t expect from something his size, he questioned her. “You seem hesitant.” 

“Eh, well, yes I…I am, I won’t deny that.” She wouldn’t deny it, no. Not when she knew that Optimus knew. He knew everything. So much more than what she could ever dream to know. Than what her head could even comprehend before she probably experienced some form of psychosis. 

“May I ask why?” Again, gentle like the waves before them, he inquired on her behavior. His eyes—no, optics—searched her person while his sensors undoubtably scanned her for any inkling to her behavior. 

Thoughtful, he turned to the waves again. “There is no need to worry about my reaction, if that is your concern. I have announced and promised my compliance between our species concerning any cultural aspect it is you’d like to know. Seeing as a holiday is nearing, I could presume that is the topic for today?”

Sometimes, Adriana wanted to just dig a hole and cover herself up. It was embarrassing to be so…so…she didn’t even know what to call herself. She had spent years studying in her field, landing it bigger and better than any of her peers could have imagined. She was THE cryptologic linguist, literally working with an alien race and the human government to help people better understand their language and culture as a whole. 

She could ask their leader about Valentine’s Day, right? Yeah, yeah she could do it. She would! She definitely would…

“Perhaps you need more time to ponder on it?” At his prompting, Adriana came back to herself and just decided it was now or never. 

“Do you have a valentine?”

Not like that. 

The immediate embarrassment that drowned her nearly sent her tumbling to the ground, a grating squeal making her throat feel hoarse as she laughed at her fumbling. 

Holy. Shit. Adri. NOT LIKE THAT. 

She didn’t mean to just—spit it out so, so!…

“Clumsily?”

Whirling around, she pointed at the prime who watched her with his eyebrows hiked, a gentle yet somber smile on his face. 

“YES!” Then, the action clicked, another round of embarrassment leaving her face on fire as she finally sunk to her knees, hiding her face with her arms. “Oh my god..!”

Optimus sighed in good nature, the sound of his hydraulics and tires lightly spinning reaching her ears. 

“It is alright, Miss Spades. Truly, it is.” 

A dying squeal was heard and gently ignored. 

“To answer your question, no, I do not have a Valentine—“

Her head shot up, maroon cheeks hot as her she struggled to get her point across. 

“I didn’t mean to ask that question, Prime!” No, she was not whining to an alien commander, thank you. She slowly stood up, collecting herself as she readjusted her glasses, the sundress she wore fluttering in the ocean breeze. 

“That was…clumsy, yes. I didn’t mean to ask that, at least not in that way. I’m sorry.”

“It is fine.” Of course it was. Everything was fine! She coughed, wondering not for the first time how Optimus could be so kind. 

“What I meant to ask was, do the Autobots celebrate Valentines Day?”

“Yes, actually.”

Her eyes blinked stupidly and the prime proceeded on.

“We have a form of it, I would say this is an instance where our species are very similar. We called it the Spark Ritus, roughly translating to the Heart Celebration.”

Hearing this, Adriana searched her pocket for her notebook and recorder pressing play and getting her pen ready. 

“Instead of it being one solar cycle like your species, this celebration spanned a series of five cycles. Each cycle, couples across Cybertron would show their devotion to their partner and vice versa. This celebration was dedicated, for some, to Solus Prime, a Prime revered for her gift of creation.”

Creation? Spades stopped writing and her eyes floated along the paper. A bot celebrated during valentines for creation? Was it—

“Sex?” When her brain caught up to what she said, she tried to avoid dropping her pen in pure embarrassment. But once again, Optimus shook his head. 

“An easy assumption but no. Her main gift concerned weaponry and gadgets of the sort, but in its nature creation does bring life to many shapes and forms, sparklings as well.”

“I’m sorry, sparklings? What—what are sparklings?”

“Our children.” He answered kindly and Adriana couldn’t stop herself from blinkling owlishly. Seeing this, Optimus nodded, showing a bit of mirth at her expression. 

“We all start somewhere, yes? I know humans have many theories as to how we procreate but—“ His finials twitched, and his optics suddenly waned in strength, as if he was lost in thought. “—that is not the topic of conversation.” 

“Right, right.”

Soon. Maybe. She’d get it out there soon. 

“But, yes the Spark Ritus has many varying traditions amongst lovers, friends, and family…For example, Iacon—ah, the capital state of Cybertron—their ritual in the Ritus involved the gifting of crystal flora to one’s conjunx, while in the wastelands, hunting a cyber animal would fair better in the battle of love, if we want to become metaphorical.”

“Oh!” Her hands struggled to keep up with all the information but Adriana was everything but  a quitter. Another question probed at her and this time she made sure to think before speaking. 

“Do all bots celebrate it?”

“Similar to your planet, some mechs placed more importance on it while others cared little. The less religious mechs opted for rituals that did not center on Solus while others literally commissioned weaponsmiths to create something for their conjunx. 

“Could you give a list of the traditions?”

“Forgive me Miss Spades but there are many traditions in the Spark Ritus. Some are well known while other traditions are quite unique to the particular haven it hails from.” His optics shuttered from her to the sun that gradually moved to the horizon. 

“We’d be here for an entire solar rotation if I were to discuss all I knew.”

Oh…

Makes sense, she’s sure no one on Earth could give a list of everything people do for their loved ones on Valentine’s Day. 

“I will say, for my own conjunx, a millenium ago he had gifted me my axe.”

The prime reached in his subspace to pull out the sheathed energon axe, the large metal rod innocently glinting in the light. His hand brought the weapon down closer for her to see it. She couldn’t stop herself from marveling at the metal, catching sight of Cybertronix glyphs etched into the material, worn down from the continued use it saw from the moment it had reached Optimus’ hands. Parts of it were decorated in gorgeous engraved swirls, the flora spiky and rounded in some areas. 

“Your conjunx? You had a conjunx?” Her tone, even if she tried to stay professional, couldn't hide her curiousity. Above her, the Prime’s optics cycled to focus on her, blue orbs taking in her form as he seemed to debate whether or not to continue. 

“Yes…millenniums ago, I was conjunxed. It was during our fourth Solar Ritus that he had given me this.”

His optics seemed to become hazy as he drew away from her, fingers gliding across the glyphs and making the metal sing. 

“I had been surprised. While my conjunx hadn’t been atheist, he wasn’t the most religious mech out there. But the city he hailed from, they naturally worshipped Solus in their nature. Powerful and direct, his people fought with both words and weapons, slicing with well timed comments and blades yet coming together to drink in the nearest energon pub and rest weapons on tables despite bleeding injuries.”

“My city was the opposite. The culture looked down on the common folk being armed, believing enforcers and the such to own the right to these items. But he saw me and didn’t want that for me.”

“Our fourth Ritus together, he had bestowed this onto me, the glyphs are actually a poem he had written for me ages ago when I didn’t know he’d been courting me.”

As he mumbled, he spun the sheath around, reading the glyphs that Adriana could only hope one day she’d have the opportunity to understand. 

“He told me that day, to never part with it even if an enforcer tried to tell me otherwise. To keep it hidden if I must, even if it pained him for me to do so. He wanted me protected when he could not do so for me. But the silly mech…he had always done so, anyway he could. 

“He sounds like a kind bot.”

“He was.”

If Adriana was anyone else, she probably would have opened the can of worms that was OP’s previous lover. Thankfully, she was not anyone else, and had the decency to know that now, and probably for the foreseeable future, was not the right time to ask. 

At least, not until Optimus braved the first step himself. 

The bot that towered over her seemed small on that moment, rare vulnerability that Adri had the blessing to see. It made her heart thrum and try to comfort the alien commander. 

So she did. 

She took a few steps and sat beside him, facing the crashing waves just as he did as the wind playfully pulled on her hair. 

“You know, that’s honestly amazing.”

“I don’t know about now, but in the past, we—humans used to give gifts like that to their lovers. It’s a lost art now, I’m pretty sure. There’s probably a culture somewhere, uh, out there that still does it but modern times? It’s all about giving sweets and flowers and just, trying to show your affection through the latest capitalist focused method.” She rambled and her mind caught a stray thought. 

“And honestly, Valentine’s Day even though it’s a sweet holiday, it fucking sucks?? Like—of course there’s the messed up history for it and then it became romantic at some weird point but my thing is, it’s a day, just one! Where people are supposed to spend their money on their partner and it’s not to say that they don’t deserve it, on the contrary you should love spoiling your partner but it’s just weird how people judge if you don't do that even if your partner expressed their desire to not spend money and just stay home…”

And on and on she ranted to Optimus, who either out of politeness or genuine interest, stayed until the tides began to surge in. 

When it came time for them to return to the base and go their separate ways, if Optimus went to Jazz and sat with the SIC in silence, holding onto his energon axe and rereading the vows etched into the metal…

Well, it was no one’s business but their own. 

Chapter Text

“How are the sparklings, my dearest?” Servos circling his waist startled the Prime out of his thoughts. Though, the culprit’s deep voice settled him along with the sound of medics tending to slumbering sparklings who snored the suns away. 

     A small smile bloomed as the Prime spun in place, turning away from the cradle in front of him to plant his crest onto a waiting helm. His servos, not as muddy or dented, reached to cradle his conjunx’s helm as he shut his optics for a moment, inhaling the bitter scent of copper and silver. 

    “As lovely as they were this morning, my champion.” Adoring as he was, he knew if the medics paid them any attention they’d expel their energon at the sight of them. Sapphire optics fizzled into existence, cycling to land on its ruby counterparts who squinted in admiration. 

   His face wasn’t as scarred as Optimus last remembered, plating not as thin nor was his face stuck in that perpetual scowl. No, here, Megatron’s face was like a ghost long gone—young and charming as a fanged grin appeared as the mech nuzzled his conjunx. 

Yes, he’s sure the sweetness would spoil their appetites. But, here in this moment he didn’t care. He refused to. His champion, pure from dark energon and free from the corruption of greed and war, stood before him again as the guiding light. 

     His servos reached to trace the carved glyphs he had bestowed onto him. The glyphs were concise but various accents marked the importance of this mech to anyone with optics. His middle digit traced the sigil for ‘conujnx endura’, the silver etching contrasted beautifully against Megstron’s sharp, pointed armor  with its curved laconic writing. 

    The same went for his own, the glyphs in his finials stood proudly in silver.  Kaonite dialect true to Megatron deliberate and strong in every stroke and dot. The thought of the sigils elected a feeling he had grown to become used to. Optimus had never been a bot much for accessories.

The sudden ascension to Prime had not changed that aspect of him at all. However, kneeling before his conjunx in the quiet room during their Devotion, rebelling against the Council through this tradition…

Optimus—Orion, all of him had never felt more cherished, more treasured, more handsome in his life. 

His cheeks flushed as a giddy feeling rose in him. Being as close as he was, Megatron noticed instantly as his grin widened. 

“Oh? My librarian entertains such wicked thoughts? Surely, you wouldn’t keep them from your conjunx?”

“Oh hush!” He chuckled, pushing off to turn back to the sparklings. “You’ll wake the bitlets with your teasing.” Megatron’s servos still cradled his waist, digits flexing as claws gently pushed into delicate mesh and wires, hooking into grooves. 

His voice rumbled in his finials, quieter as his gaze shifted to the slumbering babes. “And deprive you of my voice, my intellect? The planet—no, Primus wouldn’t have it.”

“I'm sure he would understand, watching as you sit here, mercilessly teasing his youngest.”

“My dearest, what a daring assumption—to think mercy was ever in play”  The snort that slipped from him caused the blue flush to bloom further as he ducked his head quickly from the heads of medics.

His conjunx sent him numerous messages filled with laughter that was heavily emphasized with apologies and love. His spark was warm and he couldn’t bring himself to be mad, not when the rumbling of his lover’s quiet laughs vibrated him fully. 

   The couple along with numerous medics were in the nesting area for the Palace’s incoming generation, dubbed creatively as the Cradle. This room was every nurturers’ paradise: bitlets and sparklings napping or roaming about as medics and nannies followed their chaos. 

   In here was every worker’s offspring being cared for until the cycle came to an end, where they’d return to their parents arms to be tucked in at night. 

His optics roamed to observe the young ones. Where he was now, they were napping peacefully as a faint melody soothed their worries, encouraging their hyper minds to slow into slumber. He had been here to…to…

To bless and nurture them, yes. Oversee their growth and keep them close to Primus’ love in the form of himself, his field stretching and encompassing nearly every mech in the vicinity.

The mech latched onto him like a kiluwa was a good example of its affects, his engine purring as they rocked gently from side to side. 

His servos gently clutched at the arms circling him as he leaned back into Megatron. Dermas kissed his finials and he began to calm, earlier embarrassment forgotten. That was, of course, when Megatron happily reminded him of it. 

./. We are not past your forgotten thoughts, my librarian. .//.

./. Surely you could follow my lead, dearest. .//.

./. Surely, not. You know me better—a true rebel at spark and coding. .//.

./. Of course, how thoughtless of me.’

./. Never thoughtless, never. .//. Megatron cemented. The bitlet in front of the couple stirred and before a nearby medic could attend to it, Optimus gently raised a palm. The mech stopped and nodded, turning around to tend to another who had begun to rise. 

Megatron released him and short thereafter, Optimus departed.  He reached into the bitlet’s cradle to scoop them in his arms. The Matrix of Leadership pulsed and with it, the shard of the Allspark. Together with his field, they blanketed the troubled babe who whimpered electric sorrow.  

Instantly, the bitlet stopped all complaints, little servos that waved in the air retreating to curl up against its temporary carrier. A smile caused Optimus’ plush lips to stretch and the mech hummed to push the babe further into slumber. It was only when the child had been returned to the cradle that Megatron continued. 

./. What troubles you so, Orion?. ://.  Standing next to him, he denied with a light shake of helm. 

./.Ah, troubles are not present. ://.  He paused. ./. Moreso, glee. ://. 

For a moment, he did not speak as he gathered his thoughts. As time stretched, the leader couldn’t stop the apology as his conjunx patiently waited.

./.I apologize for drawing this out. I was happy is all. ://.

./.Expand. Whatever makes you happy has my attention, if only to duplicate it and provide more to you. ://.

Hearing this, the bicolored mech wasn’t surprised when his spark swelled. ./.Soft spark.//.

./.Only for you.//.

./.Must you spoil me so?.//.

./. Spoil implies you’d rot which isn’t possible my dearest. Instead, I’d call it properly caring for you how you should have been from your ignition. .//.

The blush was back with a vengeance. How Megatron could say this—anything of such romantic venture with a straight face, Optimus would never know  

./.Ah, the lapis haze is back..//.

./. Continue to tease me and you will not find the reason. .//.

./. … .//.

./. Good. I was happy—no, excited. It still feels so surreal. You are mine as I am yours. I chose you but you chose me as well. .//. A clawed servo reached to touch his hip plate, bringing him closer to his protector  

./.Wearing your mark and you wearing mine, partaking in a tradition long lost to time and prejudice to become each other’s permanently, so that historians will know millennia from now that we belonged to one another… .//.

./. It truly is remarkable. .//. Megatron finished when Optimus struggled to find an ending to his words. But even those weren't enough. But Optimus knew Megatron was aware of this as well. 

And taking comfort in that, he sighed as he seemed to melt into his lover’s side. Well, as much as he could considering their images as Prime and Lord High Protector. He had embarrassed himself as is. 

The thought of Jazz chasing him to relay the palace gossip. Oh, the headache. 

His field pulsed like waves, comforting and circling all of those within. In unison it seemed, every mech sighed in relief, worries melting off of them while bitlets snuggled deeper into their mesh blankets. 

His blue optics watched as the bitlet snoozed away, youngling melodies playing from speakers. Loose seems uttered the truth of the matter.

./. In simple terms, I feel priceless being marked by your servo. .//.

Looking up at his mate, a rare cheeky smile bloomed as he saw Megatron’s face gain a blue hue. 

./. Do my optics deceive me? My lord high protector seems to be in shock. .//.

./. …Sometimes, my constellation, you render me speechless. .//.

./. Only sometimes? .//.

./. Perhaps more often than not .//. 

A chuckle escaped him and the Prime laid his helm against his conjunx’s décolleté, contentment bleeding into his field to feed others around him. 

When Optimus returned to the real world, back to a body dented and tarnished through war and spilt energon, back to one heavily scarred and finial twisted, back to a chest so heavy and consuming as a black hole, he wondered if Primus would be so kind to reunite them in the afterlife. 

Twisting from the uncomfortable berth of human metal, the military leader sighed. His optics crawled to look at a nearby reflective surface.

The Prime’s unmasked face looked back at him, a stranger who was marked by his conjunx too.  He wondered why, despite wearing a mark much bolder, why he didn’t feel as cherished. 

As it was simply a mark, surely he should feel the same if not more happy? 

But that was a fool’s wish. Now, whether it was Optimus’ wish or some unnamed advocate, he’d never know. 

His internal clock sent him a notification. It was 5 AM. 

His battle mask snapped in place. He had a meeting to attend. 

Chapter Text

4.)))) 

Annabelle Lennox didn’t mean to wander.

One moment, she was holding her dad’s hand, his big voice booming over the noise of forklifts and clanging tools, soldiers moving like ants with purpose. The next, something slipped by—just a flicker of silver in the light. Maybe a beetle, maybe a wire uncoiling in the wind.

It danced just beyond the yawning hangar door.

So she followed it. Like kids do.

Outside, the world was quiet and gold. The kind of gold that made everything look softer, even the rusting edges of the Cybertronian drop ships sleeping in the grass. Some leaned like tired giants. Others were nearly buried, cradled by ivy and the earth. Like the land had decided to keep them.

The air was still. Big and still. It made Annabelle feel very small, but not in a scary way. Like standing in a library too tall to see the ceiling.

She walked carefully, clutching her stuffed rabbit by the ears. He dragged along behind her, already dusty.

Cresting a corner, that’s when she saw him.

Optimus Prime.

He was standing in the middle of the field. Not moving. Not talking. Just... being.

He didn’t look like a warrior here. He looked like a statue someone had carved out of time. A cathedral made of light and metal.

And all around him—floating in the air—were shapes.

They weren’t like the holograms her dad showed her from the mission files. These didn’t flicker or buzz. They were quiet. Soft. Slow-moving.

Each one glowed faintly, like the last bit of sunlight before it disappeared behind the trees. Some were sharp and straight, like arrows. Others curled like smoke rings. Some shifted as she looked at them, changing in ways that made her eyes feel strange, her head heavy yet light. 

She stepped closer, her light up sneakers crunching the dry grass. Optimus didn’t move.

The symbols—shapes—fireflies made of meaning—they drifted around him, never touching, never falling. She reached out her hand, and one came to meet her, brushing her fingers like a snowflake. It passed through her.

Her skin tingled. Not cold. Not warm. Just known.

And then Optimus spoke.

“They are names,” he said, low and soft, like thunder two mountains away. “The first names. From a time when Cybertron still remembered how to whisper.”

Annabelle blinked up at him.

“Names?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Like… people?”

“More than people,” he said. “Makers. Singers. Keepers of light. Some were no larger than your rabbit. Some could move moons. But they are all gone now.”

She looked around at the floating lights, drifting like slow fireflies in orbit around his body.

“Are they… alive?”

He finally looked at her.

“No,” he said, and then—after a pause—“but not dead, either.”

He turned his gaze back toward the setting sun. “They’re echoes. Not ghosts. Just... memory. Still floating. Still listening.”

Annabelle didn’t understand. But she understood.

One of the shapes hovered close to her chest. It pulsed once, like a heartbeat. She closed her hand around it, and it slipped through like breath. She giggled a little.

And Optimus almost smiled.

They stood like that for a while. Just… standing. In the hush. The sky bruised darker. The shapes kept floating. Not one touched the ground.

Eventually, her dad’s voice came calling from far away—“Annabelle!”—growing louder, worried.

She didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

But she looked up at him and said, “Will they stop dancing?”

Optimus shook his head. “Not while someone remembers.”

She nodded. That felt right.

Then she turned and ran back through the grass, her rabbit bumping behind her, the sound of her dad’s boots pounding closer.

When he dropped to his knees and pulled her close, she just hugged him tight.

He pulled back, brushing her cheek. “Where’d you go, sweetie?”

She looked back once over her shoulder.

“I found Optimus. He was watching the air—he was helping them dance.”

And she didn’t explain. She didn’t have to. 

That night, before she slept she hugged her bunny tightly and wished on every shooting star that those people could dance forever and be happy. 

Across the base, Optimus smiled at the way they all seemed to glow brighter as they swirled and hovered. 

5.)))))

Cleaning up a battle was never easy. 

Never mind the property destruction or even the headache that was local law enforcement and giant aliens. Which, surprise to no one, didn’t mix well when put together. 

What made the aftermath the worst?

To Epps, it was knowing many people never got to say goodbye. 

One second, everything was good. Sharing dinner at the table or watching TV, or maybe just coming or going to work, ready to get the day over with. Only for everything to coming crashing down, figuratively and literally. 

Anybody in the military—in the marine corp, understood the hazards of their job. You could be a paper pusher one second and lugging bodies in a gurney the next, saluting families who hollered and screamed to just have one more chance. 

Cleaning up battles were never easy. 

Walking through the debris that was Pennsylvania, Robert tried to detach himself from the grey carnage that was the city. Empty, smoldering buildings, cars crushed to smithereens as dark liquid leaked from some. 

Distant sirens and wails accompanied the whistling wind.  The sun shone down on everyone, illuminating the disaster that was a Cybertronian battlefield. 

His eyes caught sight of a tattered scooter. One of the handles was missing and the pink paint was scuffed and burnt. 

He kept walking. 

In the distance, he could see the bots attempting to help clean up before they’d have to evacuate the area; the skies were currently marked as a no-fly zone until the bots could be picked up, seeing the streets were unusable. 

A beacon, despite being as equally dirty as everyone else was Optimus. Around him were Ironhide, Jazz, and Ratchet who barked orders to stray bots and soldiers. As he grew closer, he noticed something else. Only two bots stood tall—Jazz and Ironhide. Their weapons were displayed, ready to protect and defend if need be. Ratchet and Optimus were kneeling. 

Curious, he drew closer. Some soldiers caught sight of him and hailed him. He sent greetings back and when he turned around, Will was in front of him, face grim. The air was thick with smoke and the lingering scent of scorched metal. Fires had burned out, leaving only skeletal remains of buildings jutting toward the overcast sky. 

   Robert picked his way through the rubble, stepping over broken concrete and twisted rebar. His muscles ached, his mind too exhausted to register anything but forward motion. Will’s voice called out behind him, steady but resigned.

“Epps,” he said, not trying too hard to stop him. “You don’t want to go over there.”

Something in his tone made the sergeant slow, but not stop. He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Will didn’t answer right away. His boots crunched over the debris as he caught up, letting out a quiet sigh. “Just… don’t.”

Robert frowned, but the hesitation was brief. If Will wasn’t outright ordering him away, then there was nothing that was going to keep him from seeing for himself.

He crested over a hil of a half-collapsed structure and stopped.

Optimus was kneeling, his massive frame somehow gentle in the ruins. Cradled in his hands was a small, fragile form—a little girl, no older than six or seven, curled against him like the warmth of his presence was the only thing left anchoring her to this world.

His breath caught. He felt the cold settle into his bones before his mind could fully grasp what he was looking at.

The girl was still alive, but barely so. Her chest rose and fell in slow, uneven intervals. The carved out side of her body gushed weakly with tainted blood Dust and grime streaked her tiny face, but it was the quiet in her expression that hit him the hardest. There was no fear, no panic—just a calm acceptance, as if she had long since understood what was happening to her.

Ratchet knelt on one knee, his scanner, one he had created specifically for humans, was held in one hand as his optics took in the scene. Shifting his optics between the bot and human child, his expression never changed from a grim professionalism. 

The area had grown quiet with his arrival. Soldiers quietly watched on as he grew closer and closer until he stepped only a few feet away. His gut churned and eyes burned. The more dust must have gotten in there then he thought. Jazz’s wheeled pets gently moved to his side and Epps, despite his growing need to fall, stood tall under the weight of it all. 

His skin prickled. 

And then, there was the sound.

A deep, resonant hum filled the air—not loud, not intrusive, but steady, vibrating through the ruins like a lullaby from a world beyond. If one weren’t paying attention, they would miss it. OP’s optics were soft, his focus entirely on the child as the frequency pulsed through him, wrapping around her like an unseen comfort.

Richard felt his knees threaten to give. His hands curled into fists.

It wasn’t the destruction that got to him. Not the wreckage, not the war. It was this. This quiet moment of something slipping away, knowing you couldn’t do a thing to stop it as life slipped through your fingers. 

His own daughter’s face flashed in his mind—too quick, too early.

The man took a slow step forward as his throat tightened. OP didn’t look up, but he shifted slightly, enough for Richard to understand: He sees me. He knows. 

Will stopped a few feet behind, watching but not interrupting. He had known there was no stopping this.

Robert swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe. He could feel them watching, waiting for him to do something. His voice, when he found it, was quiet.

“What’s he doing?” If Robert hadn’t known it was him speaking, he would have thought another man—another broken barely healed man had whispered those words. 

Will shifted his weight, arms crossed with his eyes focusing on the sight before them. “Easing the pain,” was all he said.

Richard stared at the girl—at the way her tiny hand rested against OP’s armor, at the way her body, despite everything, seemed… at peace.

The hum continued, deep and unwavering.

Epps exhaled slowly, his chest tight. If his eyes burned, at least he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. They blinked rapidly and beads of water slipped past his lashes. He wiped his face, ash marking him. 

“…It’s working.” 

And…wasn’t that something? 

The little girl seemed to sag more and more into the Prime’s hold as the seconds ticked by. Her coily hair was matted with her own blood and concrete dust. Epps’ mind wandered not just to his little girl but to the soldiers who had passed—those who had died alone or in so much pain they couldn’t recognize their comrades in their last moment of grief. 

He wondered how many of them died with their last feeling being of panic, agony, and fear. How many wished for just one last moment of peace before it was their time. 

He wondered if their own God would cradle them like Optimus did. If their souls were worthy of such comfort before their time came. 

The cross on his neck felt heavy. It felt cold. 

He wondered. 

“Optimus.” Ratchet’s voice was sudden in the heavy quiet, no matter how gentle it bloomed in the air.  Optimus who gazed down at the little girl with an amount of love you’d never expect from a being of his nature, hummed on with the song. 

“Her heartbeat has ceased, old friend.” 

The Prime didn’t stop. 

Ratchet said nothing more, lips flattening to a line as the ambulance rose from his position. 

And there they stayed until a cry was heard in the distance. 

“JAZMINE!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?”

“JAZZY BABY?!? JAZZ!!” 

There was no scuffle as two parents came running around the corner. The mother’s braids clinked as beads bounced in her sprint, the father right beside her as they came to a dead stop at the sight of their still daughter in an alien’s hands. Robert knew the feeling, he understood the immediate shock and denial that strangled their throats, the staggered walks to reunite with their child who had passed. 

They didn’t fear the Prime, who’s size casted a long shadow over the soldiers who gazed in silence. They simply came crashing down to kneel with him, reaching for any part of their child to connect with her one last time. 

This was the worst part of war. 

But, there were some beings—he thought as he watched the Prime simply restart the hymn, extending his field to swallow the parents in their grief—some people who were able to ease the pain, even if just by a little. 

And that was more of blessing than anything else. 

~*~

The ruined outskirts of the city lay quiet in the aftermath, a landscape of shattered concrete and ash under a leaden sky. Robert lingered among the debris, still reeling from the earlier moments—a memory that would haunt him for years. The distant echo of OP’s frequency humming had faded, but its gentle comfort still resonated in his bones.

Optimus approached slowly, his steps measured in the stillness. He stopped a few paces from Robert, his eyes reflecting a deep, ancient sorrow mingled with resolve. “Sergeant Epps,” he began quietly, his voice steady, “I must speak with you.”

His jaw tightened as he met the Prime’s gaze. “What is it now?” His tone was rough, carrying a burden he couldn’t quite mask. Not when the pain he’d buried had been brought back to the surface. 

    The mech took a measured breath, something unneeded, something human. It brought comfort and vexed him.  “Earlier, what you witnessed—the act of easing that little girl’s pain—You saw more than just an alien ritual. It is a final rite, a gift offered to those in unbearable suffering. It isn’t merely an act of mercy; it’s a tradition of my people, meant to grant final comfort as life slips away.”

Robert’s eyes flickered with a mixture of anger and grief. “Final comfort?” He scoffed, looking at the horizon of destruction. “You expect me to believe that a-a rite can make up for all this…” His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely toward the ruined city and the painful memories it evoked.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, “This is the first time I’m seeing this.” You didn’t do it for your people, went unsaid but Epps knew the Prime had heard him clearly. 

The mech came to stand next to him, facing the city along with him. The sun’s rays was a blessing and curse, illuminating the destruction that the city had become yet refuge for wayward souls.  

“I house many regrets, Sergeant Epps. I dare not presume this would erase your own.” Prime replied softly. Epps didn’t say anything to that. 

 “But it may offer a measure of solace—a chance to witness a farewell that is not filled with torment, but with grace.” His deep voice, powerful in its constenance traveled to his soul.  

“I come clean about its purpose because…I believe, in time, you might find that attending the ceremony could help mend something broken inside you.”

Robert’s eyes gleamed, the weight of his daughter’s memory heavy as he swallowed. “I lost my daughter, OP. I’m not sure there’s any comfort left for me.”

It had been years after all. He was still waiting for time to heal him. Still. 

       The mech stepped closer, his presence both reassuring and otherworldly. “I do not ask you to believe in miracles. I ask only that you consider this: the ceremony is not solely for the dying—it is for those who remain, to help them bear their grief and to offer a final, dignified farewell. I think it may be the one chance left for peace to find you.”

     A long silence stretched between them as the wind stirred the dust at their feet. Robert’s face was etched with conflict—a blend of hardened resolve and a desperate yearning for hope. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “And if I’m not ready?”

Optimus’ gaze softened. “Then take all the time you need. The ceremony will wait until you’re ready to accept it. But when you do, I believe it may provide you the final comfort you deserve.”

The sergeant closed his eyes briefly, his inner turmoil evident. When he opened them again, there was a spark—uncertain, fragile, but there. “I’ll… think about it,” he murmured, more to himself than to Optimus.

The distant sound of helicopter blades became louder and louder. Their time was up. The mech offered a gentle nod. “I will be here, Robert. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll guide you through it.”

In that quiet moment amid the ruins, two souls, scarred by loss yet seeking solace, stood together—each silently hoping that even in the final farewell, there might be a chance for healing.

Returning to base, Epps laid awake—plagued with nightmares that followed him into the next morning. 

• 1

The day had finally arrived. 

    Weeks after the battle came the day of the ritual. By then, the entire American government responsible for their alien guests were well aware of what was supposed to happen.

    Helicopters had flown in to drop off important figures: the Vice president, military officials, secretaries, congressmen and Galloway in his constipated glory.

   They had all stepped off the vehicle only to stop and marvel at the sheer size of the Cybertronians who stood next to Epps and Lennox. 

Ironhide, Jazz, and Prowl, while they weren’t the biggest were certainly larger than life as they knew. Jazz’s laidback smile did little against Ironhide’s natural mug and Prowl’s flat face, the cool professionalism that government officials seemed to be born with almost faltering at the sight of their alien refugees. 

“Mr. Vice President, sir. Galloway, sir.” Lennox greeted as the chopper’s blades bent the air. If he sounded a bit stiff greeting Galloway, well, who was paying attention right?

   The two men nodded, one more peeved than the other as the Vice President led the entourage towards the hanger for humans. 

“Colonel. I hear we’ve got a party today?”

“Party, is something to call it, sir.” 

The man huffed at that, looking up to the horizon which slowly turned more red by the minute. Galloway groaned as he seemed to obsess over his watch, whipping out his phone to text someone in a mad rush. 

“Please—a bunch of alien mush. We’re here for this when I have to meet with some of our allies at 2 sharp? Why today of all days?!”

Lennox and Epps glanced at the other, side eyeing the grown man baby that was their superior. Epps decided to take the lead with that question, marching towards the hanger to help them settle in. 

“Can’t say we know either, sir. All we know is that it had to be today or else this Rite wouldn’t work.”

The man’s grumbling could rivals toddler’s. The duo made sure to brace themselves for evening ahead as they showed their guests around, the Autobots trailing behind eventually splitting away to prep for the ceremony.  

~*~

No alarms. No shouting. No engines. The base was quiet tonight.

A kind of hush had fallen over the valley—like the earth itself had paused to listen. Soldiers stood in loose lines, their rifles forgotten. Technicians leaned against crates, hands still dusted with grease. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders, blinking up at the sky.

Even the Autobots stood still—Ironhide with his arms crossed, Bee crouched low near the front, Arcee seated like a statue, optics dimmed. Scattered among the humans like guardians of a forgotten temple.

And in the center of it all, beneath the open mouth of the stars, sat Optimus Prime.

He sat in silence, legs folded beneath him, his vast frame lit only by the pale light of the moon and starlight glinting off his armor. There was no spotlight. No ceremony. Just presence. Gravity. Stillness.

Annabelle Lennox sat beside her father, her knees tucked to her chest, rabbit in her lap. She didn’t speak. No one did.

Then—without warning, without movement—the air changed.

It began with a sound that wasn’t a sound. A vibration, low and deep, like a memory of thunder long gone. The ground didn’t shake. It resonated. 

From around Optimus, the first symbols rose.

Not holograms. Not projections. They simply appeared, like dust catching starlight. Strange, elegant shapes—some curved, some jagged, some impossibly old. They floated up from the earth like sparks, orbiting around him slowly, their light pulsing with quiet breath.

Annabelle reached out on instinct, but Lennox gently held her hand, not to stop her—but to witness with her.

The symbols multiplied, lifting higher into the air. Dozens. Then hundreds. Each one unique. Each one speaking, though no voice was heard. Stories in shape. Names in motion. The field shimmered with memory.

Optimus opened his optics.

He looked skyward, then slowly, deliberately, placed his hand to his chest.

And then—he spoke.

Not in English.

Not in any human tongue.

He spoke in Cybertronix.

The sound was layered, ancient, echoing in tones that didn’t belong to a single voice. It was like listening to wind over metal and fire beneath stone. Some felt the words in their teeth. Others in their bones.

As he spoke, the symbols began to burn brighter—turning from pale memory into form.

They shimmered—and took shape. 

Figures began to emerge from the constellation of light. Cybertronians. Tall and regal. Warriors and scouts. Builders. Seekers. Lost friends. Lost kin. Each one formed from memory, from code and shape and song, glowing like stardust given purpose.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some of the Autobots took a step forward. Ironhide whispered a name.

And then—

From the farthest edge of the circle, twelve shapes stepped forward. 

Larger than the rest.

Radiant.

Impossible.

The Twelve Primes.

Each stood apart and yet in unity. Their forms weren’t fully solid—more essence than matter. Faces lost to history, bodies bearing emblems that predated memory. Symbols burned in their cores like forgotten suns.

And in the center of them all, still seated, still calm, was Optimus. 

The thirteenth. 

The final Prime.

He did not rise. He simply bowed his head, and the others bowed theirs.

The stars pulsed.

The field held its breath.

And in that silence, every soldier, every scientist, every Autobot and every child knew: they were not witnessing a trick. They were not watching a machine.

They were standing at the edge of a graveyard and a throne.

And the last of the Primes was speaking with his dead.

The silence didn’t last.

It couldn’t.

Because when the dead stand among the living, silence becomes unbearable.

Gasps broke first, then murmurs. Questions rising in a wave, hushed but urgent, from soldiers and civilians alike.

“Are they real?”

“Who are they?”

“Is this some kind of projection?”

“Why are they just standing there—are they looking at us?”

The bots—Prowl, Wheeljack, Sideswipe— could barely stop their look of shock, leaping to their peds in disbelief. 

“Oh my God, that one—he looks like—like the one who died at Tyger Pax—”

“Is that… is that Solus Prime?”

The names hadn’t been spoken in millennia. But something in them recognized. Resonated. Even the humans could feel it—the gravity of it.

Sam Witwicky pushed through the cluster of stunned techs near the front, half-tripping over a toolbox, his eyes wide.

“Bee—Bee, what the hell is this?” he asked, head whipping back and forth. 

Bumblebee didn’t respond immediately. He stood frozen, his optics glowing dim and wet, his whole frame humming with static.

“Bee?”

Bumblebee finally looked down at him.

A quiet, broken series of notes played from his comms—a soft, sad lullaby—something Sam had never heard before. It sounded like mourning.

Then, Bee whispered through his voice box:
“Family…”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Bee pointed—just slightly—toward one of the glowing figures near the edge of the ring. Smaller than the others. Broad-shouldered. One shoulder guard cracked and shimmering, forever caught in the shape it had when he died.

Sam realized—

“Is that… was that someone you knew?”

Bumblebee gave the smallest nod. His fingers twitched with the memory of a handshake that would never return.

Arcee stepped forward, hand clasped over her spark chamber. Her voice trembled.

“That’s Chromia…”

Ironhide stood like stone, but his jaw clenched tight. “They brought her back,” he whispered. “Just for a moment.”

Wheeljack, normally rambling with excitement, said nothing at all. His optics blinked slowly, as if taking in the shape of the long-lost mentor who now stood flickering in the circle.

Ratchet stepped forward and knelt. Not to the Twelve, but to a single medic-shaped memory standing silently behind them.

“First responder on Kaon’s western wall,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “She stayed behind to treat the wounded. Never made it off the line.”

Across the crowd, Autobots were breaking. Quietly. In small, private ways.

Some reached out but dared not touch. Others bowed their heads. One or two turned away, unable to bear it.

And the humans—watching this sea of titans, once invincible—weeping—began to understand.

They weren’t seeing projections.

They were seeing grief. Shared grief. As old as war. As deep as loyalty.

“Dad…” Annabelle whispered, tugging at Lennox’s sleeve. “Are they angels?”

Lennox didn’t answer right away. His throat was tight. He was staring at Optimus, still seated, still surrounded by the Twelve, the symbols orbiting like moons around his core.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Optimus just called his family home.”

And no one—not man or machine—dared to interrupt.

The hush fell again—but this time it wasn’t silence.

It was waiting.

The Twelve stood behind Optimus like statues of fire and myth, their forms flickering with layered memory. Though they were not solid, their presence weighed on the night air like planets in orbit.

Then—one stepped forward.

Vector Prime.

He was the tallest, his body draped in shifting lines of timecode, his optics twin points of celestial blue. When he moved, it was like watching constellations shift.

He raised a hand—and spoke.

Not loudly.

But the voice moved through the crowd like music that had always existed.

“You who stand upon the living world… bear witness.”

A ripple passed through the humans. Soldiers stiffened. Sam’s breath hitched in his throat.

“The Vault of Sparks has opened. Memory walks among you—not as echo, but as truth.”

“These names are not forgotten.”

“These sparks are not lost.”

“They endure in the Allspark’s weave, in the soul of Cybertron—and in him…”

He turned, and all Twelve bowed their heads in unison to Optimus.

“The Last Prime. Child of Primus. Voice of the Living. Mourner of the Dead.”

Optimus did not rise. He simply inclined his head, accepting their reverence not with pride—but with sorrow.

Then, one by one, the Twelve Primes turned outward, facing the assembled living.

Their forms began to brighten—resonate—and the floating lights among them began to drift forward, toward the crowd.

The fallen were coming closer.

One stepped past the circle of Primes.

A tall bot, weathered and proud, with the telltale scarring of old war across his armor. One optic flickered. He walked with a limp.

Ironhide’s vents caught.

“…Kup?” he whispered.

The bot smiled. Crooked. Familiar.

“Still got that cannon, Ironhide?”

Ironhide didn’t answer. He just laughed—sharp and broken—and stepped forward, his hand clenched over his chest.

“You old rustbucket…”

Another form emerged.

Smaller. Sleeker.

Blue and silver, with a faintly glowing lattice of circuitry wrapped across her frame.

Arcee stepped forward, mouth open.

“…Chromia?”

“You always did take too many risks,” Chromia said, her voice like music over metal.

“You died,” Arcee said. “I saw you—”

“And still, I remember you.”

Then came more.

A scout saluted Bumblebee with a grin. A massive, quiet medic touched Ratchet’s shoulder. A hulking figure knelt before Wheeljack, holding a half-finished invention—one Jack had lost on Cybertron.

They came forward—not like ghosts. But like family returning home.

The humans were silent now. Breathless. Awed.

Sam took a small step back, overwhelmed.

“Bee… is this real?”

Bumblebee looked down at him, and nodded.

“They’re home, Sam.”

And then—

All the fallen turned as one.

Optimus Prime finally rose.

Slow. Measured. Ancient.

He looked at the living. At the dead.

Then he spoke—in English now, voice strong but soft enough to belong to a temple, not a battlefield.

“These are not memories.”

“They are legacies.”

“Cybertron remembers. The Allspark remembers. I remember.”

“And as long as you remember them—they are not gone.”

A wind passed through the field—warm, impossible.

Every spark of light began to flicker. The angelic bots, though saddened at time being cut short, knew it was their time. The fallen returned to the sky, their forms unraveling not into dust—but into starlight.

The Twelve Primes turned once more to Optimus.

And then they, too, dissolved—leaving only the Thirteenth.

Standing alone.

Alive.

And carrying them all.

Where the earth was still warm from the memory of light, Optimus Prime stood alone.

His shoulders were heavier now. Not bowed, but burdened—as if the memory of so many voices had settled on him like armor he could never take off.

Then—

Soft footsteps.

Jazz stepped through the quiet, parting the sea of people with ease. Not flashy, not with a joke. Just there. Steady.

He came up beside Optimus and stood close, optics low, hands at his sides.

“Y’know, big guy,” Jazz said quietly, “if you hadn’t asked me to be here, I would have been lost on my purpose.”

Optimus said nothing at first. His gaze was fixed upward, where the symbols had disappeared.

Then: “They remembered me.”

Jazz smiled faintly. “Of course they did.”

A pause.

“How could they forget their Prime?”

“I failed them.”

Then another presence joined them—Ratchet.

“Failed? No.”

He stepped beside his Prime and gently laid a hand over his shoulder plate. Not as a medic. Not as an officer.

As a friend.

“You carried them home despite how lost we were—how lost they were.”

And for a moment, Optimus let his optics dim. Just enough to feel it.

Behind them, the humans began approaching again. A few at first. Then more.

A young tech in a patched jacket. A grizzled sergeant. Annabelle, holding her rabbit close. The vice president. Sam, walking beside Bumblebee. Lennox, with that battle-hardened quiet in his eyes. Epps, in his quiet raw grief. In his understanding of what Optimus felt. 

They didn’t come to gawk.

They came to ask.

To understand.

“Who was the one with the staff?”

“Were those your ancestors?”

“Are they really gone?”

“Do they watch us?”

A little girl stepped forward, holding up a metal dog tag she wore on a chain. “Was my friend in the sky too?” she asked.

Optimus knelt, slowly, so he could meet her gaze. His eyes met hers as well as everyone who watched him with newfound awe, loyalty. His voice was gentle.

“If you remember them, little one—then yes. They were.”

She nodded solemnly and stepped back, her mother taking her hand.

One of the soldiers wiped his eyes and asked, “Is this… gonna happen again?”

Optimus stood and looked toward the stars.

“Only when the sky is ready to listen.”

Jazz leaned toward Ratchet with a quiet murmur, “I think we’re gonna need a bigger field.”

Ratchet just huffed softly. “Or more tissues.”

And as the humans kept coming—asking, wondering, remembering—Optimus remained there, not as a commander…

…but as a keeper.

The stars burned on.

And Cybertron, though far away, felt a little less lost.

Chapter Text

It started as a bet.

Jazz had claimed—with all the swagger of someone certain he was about to be proven right—that he could still do a three-sixty spin on one tire without eating gravel.

Amongst the jabbering bots, Optimus, standing nearby with the kind of ancient calm that only made things worse, had replied:

“I recall you doing that once. You hit a lamp post.”

Everyone paused only to break out into muffled giggles. Jazz had scoffed. “Style is pain, Prime. You just wouldn’t understand.”

Optimus tilted his head slightly. “I understand more than you think.”

Which was how—twenty minutes later—both of them were roller skating across a back lot of the base, tires transformed and engaged, coasting in wide, graceful loops like two giant kids who had momentarily forgotten they were war relics.

Jazz led the charge, naturally. He was carving figure-eights into the cracked pavement, one tire tucked under as he leaned low and spun into a full spiral, laughing over the wind.

“Yoohoo! Watch this, big guy—”

He tried to leap a crack in the pavement.

It did not go well.

The landing was mostly successful, but his balance wobbled, his chassis leaned too far left, and he started listing dangerously—

Optimus, skating a little more cautiously behind him, caught Jazz’s arm with practiced ease before he could faceplant into a parked Humvee.

“Steady,” Prime said, a low chuckle in his voice.

Jazz blinked up at him. “Did you just laugh?”

“I’m allowed,” Optimus said dryly. “We’re off-duty.”

They pushed off again. Jazz recovered quickly—too quickly, if you asked anyone—but Optimus… Optimus surprised everyone.

Once he got his balance, he moved like a freighter in low orbit—slow, deliberate, but graceful. Tires gliding across the ground with uncanny smoothness. He didn’t show off. He didn’t spin.

But the calm precision of it—the sheer serenity—was mesmerizing.

Jazz skated backward in front of him, arms wide. “Okay, okay, this is way cooler than it has any right to be.”

Optimus gave a small smile. “You forget—I was built with treads before I was built with purpose.”

Jazz burst out laughing. “That’s the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard. Say it again.”

The Prime released a snort that sent Jazz back a melanium.  They rolled together a little longer, until Bee and Arcee appeared near the edge of the lot, watching in disbelief.

Bee clicked his comms on.

“Are they… skating?”

Arcee crossed her arms, squinting. “That’s either the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—or a midlife crisis with rims.”

Jazz called out to them. “Come on in, the asphalt’s fine!”

Optimus, still gliding, added without missing a beat:

“We roll out… with style.”

And somewhere, just barely, you could hear Ratchet muttering from the medbay:

“Primus help me, they’re all losing their minds.”

~*~

It started with a low rumble.

Not the kind that meant danger or engines firing—but a rhythmic, rolling hum that echoed off the walls of the base.

Sergeant Alvarez was the first to peek out from the mess hall, tray in hand, brow furrowed. “You guys hear that?”

Private Miller glanced up from his food. “Sounds like tanks.”

“No,” Sam said slowly, rising to his feet. “That’s too… smooth.”

Outside, on the cracked old tarmac near the eastern lot, Jazz spun past at full speed, one arm lifted high like he was in a Cybertronian ice dancing routine, tires whining with flair.

And directly behind him—calm, balanced, absolutely regal—Optimus Prime coasted along, massive frame gliding with surreal elegance, like he was skating through time itself.

Everyone inside the mess hall went dead silent.

Then the yelling started.

“What the hell?!”

“Is that Prime? Is he skating?”

“I’m not high, right? I didn’t eat the bad MRE?”

“I knew it—Jazz finally got him!”

Annabelle came running with her jacket half-zipped, dragging her dad by the arm.

“Daaaaaad, Optimus is skating!”

Lennox stopped mid-step when he saw it—Jazz doing a little hop-turn over a parking bumper, followed by Optimus rolling in wide, lazy circles like some kind of mechanical monk on rollerblades.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Okay,” he said, utterly deadpan. “Sure. Yeah. Of course he is.”

Nearby, Spades had pulled out her phone, aiming it with wide eyes. “I’m recording this. If I die tomorrow, the world needs to know this happened.”

Epps emerged from the hangar just in time to catch Optimus doing a controlled drift around a light pole.

He stopped in his tracks. Looked at Lennox.

“…I leave for ten minutes.”

Lennox nodded, still staring. “He’s… surprisingly good at it.”

Annabelle was practically vibrating with joy. “Jazz taught him! Jazz says he’s got ‘slow-swag.’”

Back in the lot, Jazz pointed both fingers at the humans as he skated past and shouted, “You’re welcome!”

Bee rolled up beside Arcee, who was recording it all for blackmail later, and leaned in with a chitter of amusement.

Arcee just grinned. “Let’s see if he can still look dramatic after that.”

Optimus, finally slowing, coasted to a perfect stop. He looked out at the stunned crowd—humans frozen in their tracks, phones raised, jaws dropped.

He inclined his head in perfect, calm dignity.

“Balance… is a virtue.”

And then he skated away.

By the time Optimus had skated off into the sunset—well, behind the storage hangar, but it felt like sunset—a whole crowd of humans had gathered at the edge of the lot. Still staring.

Still trying to make sense of what they’d just seen.

Lennox crossed his arms and turned to Jazz, who was doing lazy loops around an old military Jeep. “Okay, Jazz. I’m gonna ask what everyone here’s thinking.”

Jazz kicked into a little spin-stop and faced him with all the flair of a street performer about to drop truth bombs.

Lennox gestured to the tire marks now circling the lot like crop circles. “Why.”

Jazz shrugged with a grin. “Because sometimes, man, you gotta roll it out instead of burn it out.”

“That's not an answer,” Spades said, smirking.

“Oh, but it is.” Jazz winked. Then he got a little more serious, optics dimming in that way Autobots sometimes did when remembering something far from Earth.

“Look,” he said, “back on Cybertron, before the war... we had a whole class of bots—grounders—built low and fast, tuned for city streets. Mechs like me. Delivery couriers. Strip runners. Glide scouts.”

Sam tilted his head. “So… like street racers?”

Jazz laughed. “Nah. Not all speed. Some of it was just… rhythm. Community. Fun.”

“Some of us used to wake early—before the skylanes got packed—and take to the empty boulevards, skating through the dawn light. All kinds of styles. Some just glided. Some danced.”

Bumblebee beeped a soft sequence, translating via comms: “It was like music, but with wheels.”

Jazz nodded. “Closest thing you’ve got here? I saw it once in a vid—rollerskating crews in Thailand. Took to the streets before the cars came out. Moved like they were painting the road with their joy.”

Spades blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Swear it,” Jazz said. “Was beautiful. Reminds me of the old days.”

Ratchet muttered from nearby, arms crossed: “Until you broke your stabilizer doing that 'side-pop turbo-kick.'"

“That was style,” Jazz said defensively.

Lennox smiled, just faintly. “So this wasn’t just messing around.”

Jazz leaned on one tire. “Naw, man. This was culture. Memory. The kinda thing you do to remember who you were before life turned into blaster fire and battlefield scars.”

He glanced at where Optimus went, soft.

“He remembers it, too. Might not say it. But skating like that? It’s not just movement. It’s freedom.”

“A quiet world. No war. Just the hum of wheels on smooth ground.”

Annabelle looked up at her dad, whispering, “Can we try it?”

Lennox looked to Jazz, who grinned.

“Grab some wheels, kiddo. We’ll teach you the old street way.”

And as night slowly edged in and someone dragged out a Bluetooth speaker, the base found itself hosting the weirdest, sweetest roller session this side of the galaxy.

And in the middle of it all, Optimus Prime glided in quiet circles…

…remembering who he used to be.

Chapter Text

The dam’s floodlights painted the night in sterile white, beams cutting through mist rising off the reservoir. A deep metallic groan rippled through the structure as the final steel cables strained, hauling the drowned carcass of the shuttle from the dark water.

It broke the surface with a roar of cascading runoff, water sheeting down its twisted hull. The craft hit the concrete staging platform with a hollow clang that echoed through the gorge, rattling loose stones and sending a flock of nightbirds scattering.

From a distance, it might have passed as a wreck of war. Up close, it looked like a cadaver. Plates were warped, blackened, not with fire but with something corrosive. Fissures ran along its spine, sealed crudely from the inside, as though something had clawed for release only to be welded shut again.

Jazz gave a long, low whistle, arms crossed over his chest. His visor reflected the wreck in a ghostly blue arc. “Now that’s an ugly piece’a hardware. Looks like it crawled out the pit itself.”

Beside him, Mirage stood with arms folded, the hard neon glow of his optics unblinking. He didn’t move closer. His expression was unreadable, but his stance radiated tension. “Ugly… and sealed. Look at those seams. That’s not crash damage. Someone didn’t want this ship opened.”

Jazz tilted his head, visor narrowing. “Or didn’t want whatever’s inside gettin’ out.”

Neither of them laughed.

The soldiers were already swarming below, barking orders as they unlatched the tow cables and began securing the perimeter. Sparks snapped off welders as cutting gear was prepped, floodlights powered higher. The air was thick with diesel, damp stone, and something else.

Something that didn’t belong.

Mirage’s optics flicked once, sharp, before narrowing. He took a step back, vents rattling faintly. “You smell that?”

Ratchet arrived with a low growl of his engine, scanner arrays humming on his arms. His plating flexed as the scent hit him too, faint but unmistakable. “Primus,” he muttered. “Sweet… and rotten.”

Jazz’s cocky posture stiffened. He shifted back half a pace without meaning to. “Smells like… old rust.”

Mirage’s tone cut low, edged with instinctual revulsion. “Old rust?… You know what that means.”

The three Autobots exchanged a look. For Cybertronians, smell wasn’t just data; it was survival. The sweet, sick tang of oxidized iron carried memory deep in their coding. It was the stench of bodies failing, of metal decaying from the inside out. It was a warning their instincts had never let them forget.

The smell of the Plague.

Optimus Prime approached at last, massive frame looming through mist and floodlight glare. His optics hardened as he took in the shuttle, but unlike Mirage or Jazz, he did not advance beyond the floodlight’s edge. Even Prime’s field betrayed unease, energy pulsing in low waves of caution.

“Report,” he rumbled.

Jazz tried to shake off the tension, visor flicking bright. “Fishing trip paid off, boss. Got ourselves one Decepticon bird fresh outta the drink.” He paused, tone shifting to something less cavalier. “But… thing’s locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Not normal for a crash job.”

Mirage didn’t take his optics off the ship. “It’s wrong,” he said flatly. “Every line of it feels wrong.” His plating twitched as another wave of the smell rolled over them, seeping out of the shuttle’s hull seams like a phantom miasma. “Tell me you don’t sense it.”

Ratchet’s scanners whined, panels flickering erratically as though refusing to process what they read. He shook his head hard, face plates tightening. “There’s a resonance inside the hull. Not energy signatures… distortions. Flickers. Whatever’s in there, it isn’t stable.”

Optimus remained silent, broad shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the shuttle. His stance was like a sentinel, rooted but unwilling to close the distance. He did not need to touch the ship to feel what it exhaled.

The smell thickened the longer it lingered, like rust and spoiled energon twisted into one, burning at the edge of olfactory sensors. The Autobots found themselves shifting back, subtle steps away, optics narrowing. Not one of them acknowledged the movement. It was instinct, buried deep: stay clear.

Down on the platform, Captain Lennox cupped his hands and shouted up toward the giants. “You want us to crack this thing open, Prime?”

The Autobots’ optics all flicked his way. Jazz hesitated before calling back, voice pitched light but wavering under the weight of that stench. “Looks like the job’s all yours, Cap.”

“Figures,” Lennox muttered, turning to his men.

Sergeant Epps took one long look at the shuttle, then up at the Autobots’ distant, unreadable stares. He let out a sharp laugh that didn’t hide his nerves. “Yeah, uh… why do I get the feeling none of y’all wanna be anywhere near this thing?”

Mirage’s lip curled faintly. “Because your instincts aren’t wrong, soldier.”

Epps groaned while his stomach did backflips. “That’s not what I wanted to hear, man.”

As the soldiers began prepping breaching torches and helmet feeds, the Autobots lingered at the floodlight’s edge. They didn’t move closer. Their engines rumbled low, restless. The smell clung to them now, every intake cycle sour with sweet, rotten iron.

None of them said the word aloud.
None of them needed to.

But the thought was there, pulsing in each of their processors:

The Rust Plague.

The hiss of cutting torches split the night. Sparks rained in showers of orange against the shuttle’s blackened plating, hissing as they hit damp steel and vanished into mist. The soldiers worked in silence, each one conscious of the eyes above them — massive, unblinking optics watching from the floodlights’ edge.

The ship didn’t protest. No alarms, no internal defenses, no Decepticon insignia glowing to life. Just the steady stink of oxidized iron rolling from the seams as if the ship itself was exhaling rot.

“Come on, come on…” Epps muttered under his breath, shouldering his rifle. His helmet cam blinked live, feeding to a wide screen set up for the Autobots’ vantage point. He glanced up at the Autobots, searching their unreadable faces. Prime said nothing. Jazz shifted from foot to foot. Mirage’s optics narrowed every time the sparks spat out. Ratchet had his arms folded, scanner plates twitching like he wanted to be anywhere else.

The cut torch ground to a halt with a squeal. The breaching soldier kicked the plate in — it gave way with disturbing ease, as if the metal had thinned from the inside out.

A wave of air rolled out.

Sweet. Rotten.

It clung to the soldiers’ throats, made their noses scrunch against filters. Their helmet mics caught every cough, amplifying it back to the Autobots above.

Jazz swore low, visor flaring. “Slag, that’s bad.”

Mirage turned half away, venting sharp. “It’s worse than bad.”

And beneath it all, a noise.

Not machinery. Not power systems failing. Something else.

A long, drawn-out beep.
Then another.
Faint, distorted, echoing through the hull.

The soldiers froze, rifles raised.

“Say again?” Lennox barked into the darkness.

The sound came again, longer this time, like a monitor tone stretched and warped until it cracked at the edges. The pitch sent a shiver through the men, rattling in their teeth.

The soldiers’ lights swept deeper into the shuttle, beams cutting through haze that clung to the corridors like mist. The walls dripped condensation, rivulets running in strange patterns as if the ship itself wept rust. Every footstep splashed in shallow pools, the water blackened with grime and metallic residue.

Epps swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. “Man, this place smells like a busted battery factory dipped in roadkill.”

“Shut it,” Lennox muttered, voice taut. He clicked his comm. “Feed holding steady?”

Above on the dam, the Autobots watched the shaky footage play across the live screen. Every flicker of light revealed new shapes slumped against the walls — half-seen outlines, limbs twisted at wrong angles, plating cracked like eggshells. The distorted beeps grew louder the deeper the soldiers went, bouncing down the corridor in warped echoes.

“Looks like life signs,” one soldier whispered. His voice cracked.

“They ain’t alive,” another muttered.

“Quiet!”

They reached a wider compartment. The soldiers fanned out, rifles trained. Their helmet cams caught reflections everywhere — orange optics sputtering in the dark like dying embers. A low chorus of venting filled the chamber: ragged, stuttered intakes like wheezing lungs.

The figures twitched in unison, spasms rippling through their frames. Spines of metal jutted from their shoulders, backs, even their jaws — sharp, jagged growths that seemed to pulse faintly with each distorted beep.

One soldier dared a step closer, beam fixed on the nearest bot. It was slumped in a corner, arms folded tight across its chest as though holding something inside. Its plating was etched with long cracks where a black, tar-like fluid leaked and hissed in the water.

The soldier swallowed, voice trembling. “They’re… they’re still functional. We should—”

The bot’s optics flared red. It spasmed violently, head snapping back with a clang against the wall. A hiss rattled from its vents, sharp enough to cut the air.

The soldier stumbled back, splashing water. His rifle wavered.

On the dam, Mirage’s plating bristled. “Pull him out! Now!”

The feed jolted as another soldier swung his cam left. A bot dragged itself across the floor on its arms, legs twisted and useless. Spikes jutted from its knee joints, forcing them locked at wrong angles. It clawed toward the light, optics flickering red-orange-red in rapid bursts, each flash syncing with the long, warbling beep.

“Contact! We got movement—”

“No, no, hold fire,” Lennox barked. “Don’t shoot unless they engage!”

The soldiers’ circle tightened, weapons trained on the twitching figures. The air was thick now — every breath filled with that sweet-rotten tang of oxidized iron. Even through their filters, it stuck to their tongues, heavy and rancid.

A low groan vibrated through the hull. Not mechanical. Organic. Like the ship itself exhaled.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed, scanners buzzing sharp. “Something’s wrong ,” he growled. “That’s… systemic.”

Inside, Epps’ feed tilted as he pointed his cam up. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, but not just water. Long strands of corroded filaments hung like webs, shuddering faintly as if something had breathed on them.

“What the hell is this place?”

Then the chamber lit up.

Dozens of optics snapped open at once, all red, then all orange. The distorted beeps surged into a cacophony, overlapping tones that fractured into static. The infected bots jerked, spasmed, dragged themselves away from the beams of light — not toward the soldiers, but away, scraping their limbs across metal to retreat deeper into the shadows.

They hissed, a sound that came out wet and broken.

The soldiers froze. Not one dared pull the trigger.

Lennox’s jaw clenched. “They’re not attacking.”

“No,” Epps breathed, voice raw. “They’re hiding.”

Above, the Autobots exchanged a silent look. For creatures built for war, for survival, for combat in every form — seeing others of their kind retreat like feral animals was worse than an ambush.

Ratchet was the first to break the silence, his voice flat and cold.

“Get out of there. All of you. Now.”

“Negative,” Lennox said into his comm, voice tight but steady. “We’re not pulling out yet. We need to know what’s in here.”

On the dam, Mirage’s vents snarled open. “You fool, get out before you lose men!”

“We’ve seen worse,” Lennox shot back. But his voice cracked on the last word.

The feed shook as the soldiers moved deeper into the shuttle’s main corridor. Their lights flickered across warped walls slick with moisture. The air grew thicker, almost humid, as if the ship itself sweated. Every surface was lined with hairline fractures, corrosion spreading like veins under the plating.

The distorted beeps echoed louder. They didn’t sound random anymore. They came in pulses, almost rhythmic, as though the infected bots’ spasms were synced to some broken signal.

Epps whispered, “This… this is some zombie movie shit, man.”

“Stay sharp,” Lennox ordered.

A soldier swept his cam left — revealing a cluster of three bots slumped together against the bulkhead. Their frames twitched in unison, spines of jagged metal protruding from their arms and backs. The helmet feed zoomed closer, shaking as the soldier leaned in.

“They look… alive,” he said, voice trembling. “But… they don’t even register us.”

One of the bots twitched violently, optics blazing red. It let out a hiss that rattled through the ship’s comm systems, distortion bleeding into static. Then its optics shifted to orange — and the hiss cut off, replaced by a long, low beep that reverberated through the walls.

The other two mirrored it a heartbeat later. Red. Orange. Red. Orange.

The soldiers froze.

From above, Jazz muttered, “That ain’t right.” His visor dimmed, hands clenching into fists.

Ratchet stepped forward, voice snapping through comms. “Do not—do not—engage. Keep your weapons lowered. If they react to you, they’ll react to everything.”

Lennox ground his teeth. “Copy.”

The soldiers edged around the cluster, boots splashing through blackened water. Every movement echoed too loud, like the shuttle amplified their presence. Each time a soldier’s foot hit water, one of the infected bots flinched, twitching in seizures that rattled spikes against the walls.

Then the feed cut right.

A soldier froze, light fixed on a figure in the center of the hall.

It wasn’t slumped. It was standing.

Tall, skeletal, plating pulled tight over a frame eaten by corrosion. Its optics were black pits until the light hit — then they snapped to life, flickering between red and orange so fast it blurred. The beep stretched long and thin until it cracked into static.

The thing didn’t move. It just… watched.

The soldier’s voice broke into static. “Uh—command—?”

Before anyone could answer, the figure twitched. Its jaw unhinged slightly, emitting a hiss that didn’t come from its vents but from inside its frame. It staggered forward one step, dragging its foot.

Mirage’s field flared in panic. “Pull them out now! Now!”

But the soldiers stood frozen. Weapons raised. Lights fixed.

The figure’s optics flared orange one last time. Then it recoiled violently, stumbling back as though the light itself burned it. With a guttural hiss, it dragged itself into the shadows, vanishing with a splash into deeper corridors.

“Son of a—” Epps muttered, voice breaking. “It’s scared of us.”

“No,” Ratchet growled. His optics blazed as his scanners screamed warnings he couldn’t ignore. “It’s scared of the energon on you.”

The soldiers had gotten used to carrying packs of the sludge around for their alien comrades.  You never knew who was running on an empty tank and it was nice being able to help them whenever. 

Now, it seemed to be the only thing saving them. 

The soldiers exchanged terrified glances.

Lennox clenched his jaw, whispering under his breath. “We need to get out of here.”

The feeds jittered across the big screen, each soldier’s helmet cam painting the shuttle’s interior in shaky slices of light.

The Autobots stood back from the dam’s edge, hulking silhouettes just outside the floodlights. Not one of them moved closer. Their fields pressed tight against their plating, every vent cycle sharp. The smell of oxidized iron clung in the air, sour and sweet, a reek that made them instinctively recoil.

Mirage muttered, “We shouldn’t even be watching this.”

Jazz kept his visor locked on the screen, hands twitching at his sides. “I’m startin’ to wish I was blind.”

Inside, the soldiers crept deeper. The chamber was full of bodies now, sprawled or twitching in shallow water. Optics flared red, then orange, then red again in a sickening rhythm that echoed with distorted beeps.

One soldier’s cam zoomed tight on a figure slumped against the wall. Its jaw trembled, vents rattling like lungs drowning. The sound was caught by the mic and blasted across the dam.

Even Optimus shifted, optics narrowing. His voice rumbled low, heavy. “That is not a ship of survivors. That is a tomb. Pull back.”

Lennox’s voice crackled over comms, tense. “With respect, Prime, we need to document this. If this is some kind of Decepticon experiment, intel could save lives.”

Epps’ laugh was short and sharp, covering nerves. “Yeah, and if it’s a weapon, we can’t just walk away without gettin’ something we can use.”

Ratchet barked, cutting across both. “Listen to me: that is no experiment. It’s infection. Contagion.” His optics flared as he snapped his gaze to Optimus. “If even one of those things breaches containment—”

“I know,” Optimus said. His tone carried iron, final. “That is why no Autobot will step inside.” He turned back to the screen, voice lowering. “And why the humans must withdraw.”

But the soldiers kept going. The feed jolted as a ration of energon was offered out, trembling in one soldier’s hand.

The infected bot recoiled like it had been branded, optics strobing between red and orange until the feed warped into static. It hissed, screeching through the hull, then dragged itself backward with unnatural speed, spikes cracking against the wall.

Another soldier tried the same on a different bot. The reaction was worse — the bot spasmed violently, frame convulsing as it scrambled away on all fours, shrieking in broken distortion.

The chamber erupted in sound: dozens of beeps overlapping into a shrill, fractured chorus. Optics snapped open everywhere, red and orange flickering in waves. The water churned as bodies twitched and scraped, dragging themselves deeper into shadow.

On the dam, the Autobots all stepped back at once. It wasn’t planned — it was instinct.

“Primus,” Jazz whispered, visor dimming.

Mirage’s vents snapped shut with a harsh rasp. “They can smell the energon.”

Ratchet surged forward, voice exploding across the comms.
“Enough! Get out of that ship before you kill yourselves!”

The chamber feed shook as one soldier leaned closer to a convulsing mech. His voice carried, thin with fear.
“Ratchet, these things aren’t hostile. They’re sick. Maybe we can stabilize—”

Ratchet’s growl cut through every channel, sharp enough to rattle the humans’ headsets.
“Stabilize? You’re feeding plague victims! Are you trying to condemn yourselves?”

“Plague victims?—“

A soldier flinched, his cam jerking. “We don’t leave people to die!”

“You’re not dealing with people!” Ratchet’s roar cracked across the dam. His optics burned a searing white. “You’re dealing with rust plague! A death sentence for all of us!”

Onscreen, another infected bot clawed toward the soldiers, dragging itself by shattered hands. The sound was all scraping metal and wet distortion. Its optics flickered violently between red and orange until smoke hissed from the seams of its helm.

The humans froze, rifles coming up. Their breathing filled the comms.

Jazz muttered under his vents, low and fierce, “That thing takes one step closer, I’m vaporizing the whole ship myself.”

Humans be damned. 

Mirage kept silent, helm tipped away, but his hands twitched like he wanted to cover his olfactory sensors. The iron-stink carried even this far, rotting-sweet, an instinctive warning to stay away.

Epps’ voice broke over comms, defiant but tight with nerves.
“Prime, we’ve gone toe-to-toe with ‘Cons before. We can handle sick ones. If this is contagious, we need proof.”

Before Optimus could respond, Ratchet snarled. “Proof? You want proof?” He jabbed a servo toward the feed, plating bristling with fury. “Look at them! Do you see cognition? Do you see control? That is what the plague does — it hollows you out and leaves nothing but hunger and rage.”

The infected bot on screen seized violently, hitting the wall so hard the entire feed fuzzed. Its optics flared bright orange, then dimmed to dead black before sparking red again in jerky pulses. It hissed at the humans, lurching close enough for the cam to catch flecks of rust flaking off its vents.

The soldier nearest it staggered back, breath breaking into static. “Command, requesting permission to—”

“You will evacuate that ship,” Ratchet thundered, cutting him off. His voice was a command, the kind that brooked no argument. “As the resident medic I pull the trigger, not Optimus. Now, before you bring this infection out into the open.”

“Before you doom us ALL.”

Optimus finally stepped forward, his own tone grim but firm, urgent. “Ratchet speaks the truth. Captain Lennox. Sergeant Epps. You must fall back.”

The dam was silent for a beat — only the ragged breathing of soldiers over comms and the distorted beeping of the infected.

Then Lennox’s voice, reluctant and strained: “All units, fall back. That’s an order.”

The soldiers’ cams jostled as they backed away. Figures twitched in the shadows, optics flaring as though watching their retreat. The chorus of beeps grew louder, higher, until it peaked in a distortion that nearly blew the comms out.

Jazz hissed under his vents. “That ain’t right. They don’t want energon. They want us.”

Ratchet didn’t even flinch. His optics were locked on the shuttle.
“That ship is a plague vector. It doesn’t leave this dam intact.”

The order to withdraw had been given, but pulling back from the shuttle was easier said than done.

Inside, the soldiers moved with agonizing slowness, every step punctuated by the scrape of boots on damp plating. Their helmet cams shook with nervous hands, beams of light catching the twisted shapes of half-living Decepticons sprawled in the gloom.

“Eyes on the exit,” Lennox’s voice pressed in their ears. “Don’t stop for anything.”

Epps was patched into every feed, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “Move, people. Don’t gawk. Get the hell out.”

But gawk they did. It was impossible not to.

One soldier’s light passed over a mech slumped against the wall — optic shutters cracked half-open, flickering weakly orange before sputtering back to red. The thing’s mouth moved, venting a hiss that sounded halfway between a plea and a threat.

“—Christ. It’s trying to say something.”

The camera zoomed in despite orders, trembling as the soldier leaned closer. The mech’s chest heaved, plating split with rust, cables twitching beneath like worms. It croaked a distorted sound that echoed through the entire hull:
“...hun—hunngrrrhhh—”

The voice dissolved into static, followed by a piercing beep that rattled every comm in their ears.

The soldier stumbled back, nearly dropping his rifle. “Permission to fire!”

“Negative,” Lennox snapped. “You shoot, they’ll all come running. Keep moving!”

They shuffled toward the hatch, but the infected stirred at their passing. Heads snapped, optics jittering between red and orange like warning strobes. Some twitched against the walls, dragging themselves forward a few inches before collapsing in seizures. Others merely watched, their optics glowing dim through the haze, silent but intent.

The smell was worse near the exit — copper-sweet, like a wound gone rancid. The soldiers gagged inside their helmets, muttering curses under their breath.

Outside, Jazz shifted from foot to foot, visibly restless. His usual grin was nowhere to be found.
“They’re takin’ too long in there. I don’t like it.”

Mirage had his back turned, helm tilted as though he could block out the scent, his tone sharp with restraint.
“They’ll come out, or they won’t. We are not going in.”

Optimus’ optics narrowed. He didn’t argue, didn’t reassure. He simply watched the hatch with the stillness. 

On the feed, the final soldier’s cam caught a last glimpse before stepping into daylight: a half-dozen infected pressed against the far wall, all of them staring at once, their optics pulsing orange in ragged unison.

The comms spiked with a shrill, echoing distortion, like a signal failing to form words.
—ggghhhRRRAHHHH—

The soldier bolted out into the open, gasping through his mask. Jazz, waiting a distance away, threw a metal container into the small entrance. The hatch shuddered as something struck it from inside.

The humans scrambled across the dam floor, rifles up though their hands shook. None dared look back.

Optimus’ voice landed like a hammer.
“Melt it. Now”

The last of the soldiers tumbled onto the dam, gasping and shaking, their helmets streaming live feeds of the horrors inside. Behind them, the shuttle groaned, black and slick, the water cascading off its hull like it was still bleeding.

Mirage stepped forward first, optics narrowing. He didn’t hesitate. He could smell it, the sweet-rotten iron pressing against every sensor. His vents rattled in low warning tones.

Ratchet’s plating shivered, scanners flaring with residual warning pulses. He didn’t need to say the word. Every Autobot present understood: the shuttle had to be gone. Nothing inside could be allowed out.

Optimus Prime watched from the edge of the floodlights, silent but resolute. His optics swept the dam, taking in the soldiers retreating behind the barricade and the lurking shadows of the shuttle. He gave a single nod to Mirage.

Mirage didn’t wait. His arm extended, transformed and a barrage of blue fire lanced out, melting the ship. Sparks erupted, water hissed, and the smell of burning metal and rust filled the night.

Jazz flinched, then grinned grimly. “Yeah… that’s the ticket.”

The shuttle’s plating began to buckle under the heat, warped steel groaning in protest. A long hiss issued from the vents as the residual infected convulsed inside, spikes twisting and scraping against the hull. Their distorted beeps erupted into a cacophony, distorted through the metal until it cracked into static.

“Mirage…Jazz…” Ratchet’s voice carried over comms, tense but restrained. “Be careful. Don’t get too close. Even outside, fragments—”

Mirage’s optics flared. “I’m aware.”

He unleashed a second barrage, wider and more destructive this time. The hull buckled, steel melted and twisted. Water hissed violently as it met the heat, sending geysers into the night. The infected inside thrashed violently one last time, shrieking in broken distortion before the fire consumed everything.

The entire shuttle shuddered. Then, with a final, deafening roar of twisting metal, it collapsed inward, molten steel dripping into the reservoir below. Steam hissed up, blackened water boiling as the carcass of the plague vector disintegrated.

The Autobots stepped back in unison. Mirage’s optics glimmered with residual heat. Jazz vented a low whistle. “Well… that’s one way to deal with a bad day.”

Epps, still catching his breath, approached from the soldiers’ side. “What… what the hell was that?”

Ratchet didn’t answer immediately. He inhaled slowly, scanning the horizon, the smell of burned metal still clinging. Then, flat and steady:
“That,” he said, voice hard, “was the Rust Plague. And if we hadn’t acted… everything here would’ve been at risk.”

Mirage’s optics swept over the molten ruins. “Some things are too dangerous to study. Some things need to die quietly.”

Jazz chuckled dryly, but there was no real humor in it. “”Quietly”, he says.” The bit scoffed, some of his vents closing tight as he shivered,  “Yeah, sure. That ship’s gone, but I think the smell’s sticking around.”

Ratchet’s sensors flicked back to the soldiers, then to the other Autobots. “Do not get complacent. The signs are out there. And if the Plague ever spreads…” His tone dropped, deadly serious. “This planet will fall by our hands.”

The night was silent except for the hiss of molten metal and the distant drip of water from the dam. Every Autobot present felt it — the lingering warning of what had just been destroyed, and the memory of the horrors inside that shuttle.

The humans didn’t speak. None of them wanted to. Some things weren’t meant to be questioned. Yet some fool, who it was they don’t know but someone dared to ask what troubled them all:

“But—what is it—what has yall so scared about some rust? Can’t y'all just shave it off or something? Change out parts?” The bots all stared at the idioctic human before ratchet cracked a laugh that sent chills down their spines.

“Just shave it off? Just shave it—“ 

“Easy, old friend.” Optimus’ voice was like cold water, pulling Ratchet back from his rising meltdown. “Ignorance is to be forgiven. They do not know.”

The bot scoffed, cursing in cybertornix as he eyed them all with disdain for a few more moments. 

“Look, whichever dumbass just said that—they ll be punished later alright? But he’s got a point.”

“What the hell is the Rust Plague?”

Lennox had been looking at Optimus but the bot seemed to tense entirely, hydraulics settling as pistons stiffened up. Pittering rain seemed to fall in sheets now, the black droplets causing the concrete to sparkle from the flood lights.  

It was Ratchet who bore the weight of sorrow as he began the story, frame humming as his plates expanded in what Lennox now knew to be agitation. Ratchet stood like a statue, optics downcast, his voice shifting low and deliberate as if afraid the words themselves might summon what he described.

Optimus stood silently, broad frame unnervingly still, same for Jazz and Mirage who watched the melted ship hiss at the rain. The humans knew this was no ordinary history lesson.

Ratchet’s voice carried them to millennia past, settling them down in the streets of Iacon as his hand projected a view of the city. “It began with silence where there should have been speech. Conversations ending in static. Binary strings where laughter once was.”

He showed bots in conversation, gesturing and laughing as they walked to their destination. All seemed well until one of them froze mid-sentence, voices breaking into fractured beeps, optics dimming from bright cobalt or crimson into a dull, molten orange.

Back in the present. Lennox muttered, “Like—like a system crash?” Ratchet glanced his way. The bots around them shifted on their pedes. 

“Like a soul burning out.”

The humans exchanged uneasy glances.

Ratchet continued, describing the scent that swept through the palace halls first — sweet, rotten, wrong. Oxidized iron. Rust

Epps wrinkled his nose instinctively. “Like blood.”

“No,” Ratchet corrected, his tone carrying something almost reverent.

“Worse. To us, it was the stench of corruption. A scent every spark was programmed to fear.”

“The afflicted bot began to decay from the outside in, plating decaying faster than the optic could see, faster than the mind could process. It was different for every one, some found their plates falling in pieces within cycles, some within the hour.”

“I had numerous patients come in to our camp, soldiers stalling while others spoke to me easily with half their armor splintered. They all seemed to think nothing was wrong, unaware of the accelerating damage.”

“If they were unaware how did they get to your clinic?”

“Friends, amicas, family—all dragging them to my team to find out what was wrong.” Ratchet shrugged his shoulders, the projection continuing in its blue haze of recountment. 

Priests who had survived the war up to now had lit braziers of burning energon, flooding chambers with smoke, praying to the Guiding Hand that the corruption pass them by. They marked the collapsed walls with glyphs, desperate sigils that glowed and burned, smoke trailing into vents.

Jazz’s voice cut in low, half-wry, half-serious:

“Some whispered it wasn’t sickness at all. Said it was him. Unicron. The End stirring in our marrow.”

The humans stiffened.

“Come on,” Will said sharply, voice cutting the tension. “Gods aren’t real. Disease doesn’t come from demons.”

Mirage’s optics glinted in the gloom. His tone was casual, but the edge was unmistakable.

“We’ve seen our gods, sergeant. Can you say the same?”

The living god amongst them seemed to sigh into his pedes and Jazz’s visor flashed a bright yellow before it left.  The soldiers went still. Will looked away, jaw tight.

“They would all be in various states of oblivion. But they all shared the same trait.”

“They all refused energon, detested it even.” 

He did not mention the incident of the starved bitlet who had been trapped under rubble for the human equivalent to weeks.

Dragged out with legs rusty and joints seemingly stuck, the child could not seem to comprehend that the rust was the reason for its immobility. 

He didn’t mention the bitlit denying energon despite its systems lagging for it, the withering skeleton feebly crawling away in a feral manner unfitting for the robotic race.

Ratchet pressed on, voice like a scalpel.

“Then the bodies changed.”

Rust spines burst through plating, rending armor. Tar-like sludge seeped from joints, each twitching step trailing black streaks. They convulsed, their movements snapping like marionettes jerked by an unseen hand.

One priest — chanting still — ruptured mid-word, collapsing in a disfigured heap of rust and wires as the dirty congregation screamed.

Simmons muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ…”

“No,” Ratchet said coldly.

“No salvation. Not for them.”

“The marking of our doom came not in war, but from each other.

“The final stage was hunger.”

“They tore into each other. Bots shredding armor from comrades, gnawing on plating, sparks sputtering under denta. Screams mixed with the wet scrape of metal tearing, the shriek of energon lines being split.” The projection spared no one as film of it all replayed, bots being torn apart in the blink of an eye, carriers running only to be quickly slain as bitlets cried in agony. 

Ratchet’s optics dimmed, his voice quiet.

“They devoured their kin, bodies corroding as they shambled. Cities burned, but it was not war. It was consumption.”

Epps whispered, almost to himself: “Zombies. You’re telling us you had zombies.” The man seemed in a fever as his head turned to eye the melted shuttle in a new gaze, the weight of what was on the ship finally hitting. 

“Zombies, I guess that works” Jazz said grimly. Ratchet shook his head and pressed on.  

“Worse. Rust doesn’t stop eating.”

Ratchet spoke of the war halting mid-battle as armies broke, both factions scattering as plague hosts surged over trench lines. Priests dragged banners through smoke while guards abandoned palaces to the swarming infected. Whole sectors of Cybertron rotted in days, collapsing and severing from the planet to drift off into space. 

“It was not Decepticon against Autobot,” Ratchet said.
“It was life against a death that seemed to be insatiable.”

Humans sat pale, shifting uneasily where they stood.

The fleets had long been gone due to the Allspark being flung from Cybertron. They searched for decades before the Rust Plague hit. Then, stragglers and neutral party. Then whole battalions. Decepticon warships and Autobot arks alike filled the skies like comets, not as rivals but as refugees.

Ratchet’s voice broke, for just a moment.

“And Optimus…” He started, turning to eye his friend who stared out into the valley, fists closing at the mention of his name. 

“Optimus was the last aboard the final shuttle. He left as the towers burned and the sky stank of rot.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. The only sound was the steady hum of the dam.

“You all must understand, I speak of this not to tell a scary tale. Not to frighten just for the sake. I speak of it to warn you all. If the plague is here, there’s no telling what else has arrived on Earth.”

The silence after Ratchet’s last words was unbearable. No one moved, no one breathed too loudly. Even the dam’s turbines seemed muted, as if the whole world bent to the weight of the memory.

Epps finally broke it, his voice thin.

“That’s… worse than anything I’ve ever seen. I mean—hell, we’ve seen cities levelled, but… your own people eating each other?”

His face was pale, as though the thought itself made his stomach turn.

Lennox sat rigid, his jaw working as he tried to swallow the image. “You’re saying you were… what? Refugees? The Autobots, the Decepticons—you all ran from home?”

“I know yall said the planet was dying—“

Jazz leaned against the wall, visor dim. His usual humor was gone, his tone flat.

“We didn’t run. We escaped. Or we’d be heaps of metal by now.”

“Wait, wait—so what the hell are yall even fighting for?” Jazz tilted his head along with Mirage as Epps exclaimed. 

“If your planet is dead, undead it seems, what is there to go back to? Why do you need the Allspark?”

Optimus finally spoke, turning to look at his newfound comrades with a weight of a thousand suns, “the Allspark is our salvation, Lennox.” His voice carried an amalgamation of guilt, sorrow, rage, and longing. “With it, we can restore our planet and defeat Unicron’s influence of the plague, cleansing our home and return it to its former glory.”

“The Allspark is our beginning and end.”

The dam seemed colder now. Every soldier, every human tech, every Autobot felt the memory hanging in the air like a fog.

Ratchet finally moved. His servos clenched tight, his optics snapping bright as he turned to face the humans.

“That ship must be destroyed.”

Epps blinked, still pale. “Y’all already melted it. What do you mean destroyed?”

Ratchet’s voice cut through, brittle with fear disguised as anger.

“I mean melt it. Drown it in acid. Tear every panel apart until there is nothing but slurry. Do it somewhere far from here. Somewhere no one—no human, no Cybertronian—will ever stumble across it.”

The silence after his words was suffocating.

His voice cracked, and for a moment his mask slipped—the terror underneath plain for all to hear.

Mirage stepped in, quieter but firm, glancing at the humans with narrowed optics.

“He isn’t exaggerating. We won’t go near it. Can’t. The scent alone is enough to warn us. Sweet rot. Rust turned sour. It’s the plague.”

Lennox muttered, almost to himself. “Christ.”

Jazz’s visor dimmed. One by one, they all transformed and rolled out from the dam, leaving the humans to deal with the heap of darkened alien metal.

When they returned to the base with the help of Stratosphere, the bots huddled together on their side of the base, eerily silent as they comforted their leader who stared at nothing and everything. 

He remembers. 

He always had.

Optimus would never forget it. 

The swarm had cornered him — a horde of rusted forms, screeching with static, jaws slick with corroded fluid. He remembered the heat of his spark, the dread certainty that this was the end. 

Then the shadow had fallen.

Blades and cannonfire split the plague-horde apart. The protector — his brother, his rival, his other half — had come for him.

Megatron had saved him. Lifted him bodily from the swarm, dragging him through fire and ruin, setting him on the path to the shuttles.

“Not you.” He had muttered, seemingly in a frenzy as he snarled out at nothing “Not you.”

Their parting had been jagged, furious, full of words unsaid. But it had been him.

Optimus’ hands curled against his own. He had never spoken of it. He never would. Even as he sat here enshrined by the others in darkness. 

Off to the side, Ratchet lingered. His optics softened, heavy with the weight of knowing. He said nothing, but his silence carried all the concern in the world.

//. Jazz .// 

//. Wassup doc? .//

//. Medbay. Now. .//

//. 🫡 already there .//

The bot spun up from his position on the floor and skated past Ratchet with a grim look, flying down the hall as Ratchet made his way down as well. 

He had checkups to do. Immediately. 

Chapter Text

The bots rarely spoke of their lives before the war.

Not because they were secretive—though a few definitely were—but because the past didn’t seem like something they wore the way humans did. Their history clung quietly beneath layers of armor, visible only in the way they moved or the flicker in their optics when old names and places came up.

Well—unless you were Jazz.

Jazz talked about his “totally spy” days with all the gusto of someone who missed the thrill but not the politics. He’d drop stories over breakfast like legends in passing: dismantling black market Energon rings on Velocitron, running infiltration ops in alt-modes that hadn’t existed for eons.

Which. Okay.

Then there was Bulkhead, who mentioned in a surprisingly casual tone that he’d once been a Constructicon. “More of a build-bot, really,” he rumbled, while gesturing vaguely at a low-slung hangar they were retrofitting. “Roads, skyscrapers, bridge networks. That kind of thing.”

Will had asked what exactly “Space Bridge Sector” meant, and Bulkhead brightened like someone finally asked about his dream.

“Oh! Yeah, you probably wouldn’t know—” The big mech’s servo rotated in an awkward shrug, and Will could already sense the galactic superiority about to hit. “—a space bridge is kinda like your... hyperjump thingies. Except ours actually work.”

“So... you’re saying Star Hike can be real?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Still. That was good to know.

The twins, no surprise, were loose-lipped about their delinquent roots—frequently bragging about their street-racing days, and once, vaguely, an art theft that might’ve just been a dare. One of the Arcee sisters had let it slip they used to perform as acrobats and dancers before the war, and when Will glanced down at their mono-wheeled, vehicle-locked forms, the blue one caught his curiosity.

“Ah,” she said, clicking smoothly into a pause, “on Cybertron, we are bipedeled roots.”

“Roots?” he echoed, confused.

The pink sister coasted closer, crouching with a casual grace that made it clear her current body hadn’t dulled her muscle memory. “You call it ‘robot mode,’” she smiled. “It’s our base form. The original before we scan alt-modes like your Earth vehicles.”

“Ohhh. That makes sense.”

They had loved the performance. The movement, the rhythm. What they hated was the audience—staring, predatory, or sometimes worse: indifferent.

When Will asked more, the purple sister opened her mouth to respond—but her siblings flanked her with practiced ease, each taking an arm and hauling her away with synchronized head shakes. They shot him a breezy farewell as they vanished down the corridor.

Okay then.

But the one who really surprised him—had truly shattered his preconceptions—was Optimus.

Which, yeah, sure. He was their leader. The figurehead. The face of the Autobots. And if you'd asked Will or anyone in command to guess his pre-war occupation, they'd have rattled off guesses like: General. Tactician. Officer-class from the spark-up.

None of that was true.

It all came out after a tense meeting with Galloway and the top brass, where Decepticon activity had started lighting up the net like flares. Encrypted cybertronian messages buried deep in forums, scraped from security cams, or embedded in the code of corrupted satellites. The humans—shorthanded and decoding nothing—had practically begged the Autobots for help.

“We will decode these messages,” Optimus said, after listening in silence. “And determine their next target.”

He ended the call with a nod, and while the humans burst into frantic motion, Optimus stood still—so still Will thought maybe he’d powered down for a second.

Then: “Jazz.”

The second-in-command skated over, almost too bright for the heavy air in the hangar. Optimus’ seams shivered—just barely—and his voice, always calm, carried an edge of anticipation.

“I believe this problem may be suited for me.”

Jazz stopped short. His grin twitched. For a moment his visor flashed with static—and then he laughed. A loud, unfiltered whoop that echoed down the metal walls and made more than a few soldiers look up from their terminals.

“Oh, you bet your aft, OP!”

He spun around. “Yo! Anybody got a spare port? Preferably around 10?”

The confused murmurs thickened. Jazz smacked his lips—somehow perfectly human—and called out: “Prowl! Get the big girl!”

Prowl returned moments later, wheeling in what could generously be called a ‘terminal.’ It was part Earth scrapyard, part Cybertronian tech miracle, cobbled together with human wiring and Wheeljack’s wild ingenuity. It shouldn’t have worked, and yet it did.

“Here, Prime,” Prowl said.

Optimus stepped forward, gaze scanning the cobbled-together interface like it was a memory made real. Panels across his sides hissed open, revealing slender cable-tendrils—six of them—snaking out with purpose. They slid into ports with a sound like old locks clicking into place. His digits hovered over the keys, and—

His optics flared. Bright.

Then he moved.

Faster than Will had ever seen a being move. The terminal whirred, the screen burst into cascading layers of web pages, code, overlays in both English and Cybertronian. Will’s brain tried and failed to track it all.

“What the hell is he doing?” someone whispered.

Jazz, who had planted himself nearby with arms crossed, tilted his helm. “Before he was ‘Optimus Prime’... he was Orion Pax.”

Will blinked. “That’s... another name for him?”

“It was,” Ratchet said, stepping up behind them. “His designation before the war. Before the Matrix. He was an archivist.”

“A what?”

“A librarian,” Ratchet clarified. “One of the highest-ranking knowledge keepers of Cybertron.”

Lennox laughed. “Wait, wait—Optimus Prime... used to be a librarian?”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

Ratchet’s tone was cool. “Would you laugh if someone said they were once a nurse? Or a sanitation worker? Archivists held our histories. They unearthed forgotten truths. Preserved memory. They shaped civilizations—not with war, but with understanding.”

Will turned back toward the Prime. The cords connected to him pulsed with faint energy. His entire body was fluid motion, perfectly synchronized. The image of a weaponized machine flickered, briefly, and in its place: a scholar, drowning in data, alive in the flood.

“He’s happy,” Jazz said softly, pointing at the micro-ripples in Optimus’ seams.

“Happy?” Epps echoed. “That means he’s... enjoying this?”

“Sure,” Jazz grinned. “We ain’t complicated. I like my tunes and spying. Ratchet likes fixing mecha. Wheeljack likes blowing things up—on purpose, anyway. And OP? He loves information. Give him a sea of ancient code and a problem worth solving, and you’ll see a mech come alive.”

Just then—

“I’ve found the location.”

The voice cut clean through the chatter.

Lennox glanced at his watch. The meeting with Galloway had ended ten minutes ago. Optimus had connected to the terminal five minutes ago.

Five.

Seconds passed before anyone moved. Then Will slowly turned his head—around the room, others were reacting the same. Staring. Some with awe. Some shaking their heads and closing tabs on their screens. Useless now.

One of the techs exhaled, long and low.

“Holy shit.”

~*~

After the mission, someone —Will’s sure it was of the techs—had gotten a mug for Optimus that read “this is how I roll” with a library cart housing some books.

Despite its comically small size in comparison to the Prime, everyone knew it was well taken care of in the darkness that was Optimus’ hab. 

And if people started coming to OP about the latest artifact discovered, that was just soldiers checking if it was possibly linked to Cybertron. Definitely.

.

.

This is the mug they got him.