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Chapter Text

Trypticon Prison, Kaon Flatlands, 4 Million Years Ago

Deadlock loses her footing as the titanic mobile prison comes to a sudden standstill. She drops her blaster, the weapon bounces against the grating before finding its way into the outstretched digits of a prisoner as she braces the thin railing preventing her from falling into the smelting pool below. She feels the heat of molten metal on her face and of a charging laser shot on her leg. The prison guard back kicks the revolting prisoner, her ped-tip connects with his arm, cutting it at the elbow. She regains her bearings and picks up her blaster. Her yellow gaze glares upon the clockwork, cyclopic mech who attempted to fight back. 

He was a member of the Fuctionist Council, a dozen figureheads for Cybertron’s prior dominate political ideology meet theology that classified and assigned each Transformer’s occupation and social hierarchy based upon their natural alternate mode (whether initially inscribed within their Spark’s source code or whatever constructed frame their Spark was shoved into upon onlining). Now, he rusts with other former socialites, politicians, celebrities, and figures of interests to the Decepticon Lieges who now command Cybertron. 

Her hand is torn between shooting down the injured mech or clipping it to her side. The former goes against her orders: every prisoner within Trypticon is to be kept alive until a Liege is done interrogating them. The latter betrays her energonlust. Still, her orders and honor came before joys. 

She clips the blaster onto her belt and takes out a small energon ration and hands it to the prisoner. “Need you in good shape, Councilbot.” Deadlock says as she spins on her heels, doubling back to continue her rotation of the cells. 

The Decepticon guard tunes out his response as she often did when on duty. A simple disconnect of her audio receptors does wonders in blocking out the more horrific sounds: the splashing of a freshly severed arm into the smelting pool, bubbles of slag and melt burble and pop as it liquifies the limb, the sobbing screams of its prior owner as he seizes up in shock, and the cries of everyone else awaiting their fates. Still, she can’t block out the orders sent over comm by her supervisor. 

“Deadlock! Report to the Head! We got Lord Shockwave onboard.” Turmoil growls over her radio. 

“Yes, sir.” The guard replies as she transforms into a sleek sports car more suited for drifting over the glasslands then clinging to the fragile railing in front of the rows and columns of dangling cages. She speeds up as the grating connects to a spiraling ramp. Upon reaching the landing pad within Trypticon’s lower palate, she transforms and approaches the warden rather than stand at attention with the other guards. She unmutes her audio receptors. 

At the tip of the landing pad, a large twin-rotor heliplane hovers and deploys a ramp. Lord Shockwave stomps onboard, his single yellow optic darts over his featureless faceplate as he inspects the prison’s maw like a studious dentist. A brightly-colored, goggled mech tiptoes behind him with an impish grin capable of making up for the Lord’s lacking expression. Turmoil gives a staggered bow that Deadlock imitates before shaking hands with Shockwave. “What can I do for you, my Lord?” Asks the warden. 

“I am here to interrogate a prisoner with the aid of Calyx. The identification number is #618.” Shockwave states. 

Turmoil looks over to her as she looks at the prisoner manifest upon a holopad. One of the sleepers. Well, here comes their waking nightmare. “Follow me, my Lord.” Deadlock says as she transforms and drives back into Trypticon. 

The procession arrives at a cage situated at the lowest level, closest to the smelting pool. “Hmm, Turmoil, is it standard for you to place two prisoner’s in the same cell? You do not otherwise seem to be suffering from overcrowding.” Shockwave asks. 

“What! Where would there be room for a second prisoner in this cage?” Turmoil stammers. Within the cage of interest is a blue and gold starfighter resting precariously inside. Their nosecone drags against the ceiling while their aft presses against the floor. Wings and tail fins stick out through the bars. 

“The cockpit, obviously.” Calyx says. 

“Hmm…Deadlock. Get in there and drag the stowaway out. Is that who you want?” Turmoil orders before deferring to Shockwave. 

Deadlock climbs up the sides of the cage and aims her blaster at the red glass of the prisoner’s canopy. Through it, she sees a cowering silhouette. She shoots in the negative space and drags out the passenger, a small black-plated mech with red optics. “Just some laser pointer. Thought you were the one to get rid of them.” Deadlock tosses him down to the grating. 

“Particlepoint of Peptex. He was deemed alt-mode exempt on account of academic pursuits within Polyhex University’s Unicron research program as was his cellmate. He has nothing of worth anymore.” Shockwave dismisses as he kicks the stunned stowaway into the smelting pool before he can even speak. “How long has Metalhawk been unresponsive?” 

“About two centuries. Got captured by a squadron of Seekers and shot down by a null ray. Since then they’ve been in self-induced stasis lock. You want to do the honors of getting them out of it, my Lord?” Turmoil explains. 

“Indeed, shock should be sufficient.” Declares Shockwave as he points the pulse disruptor in place of his left hand at the prisoner. The tool worked by blocking the Spark’s pulses to a Transformer’s frame. The starfighter rapidly desaturates and transforms into a tall, slender robot with wings upon their forearms. As they regain consciousness and sit up, confusion turns to panic. Their kibble and defining features recede and drip off. It’s like watching an organic being cooked alive, their body denaturing and breaking down. Through stilted, slow movements, they claw at their forearms, trying to keep their wings attached to themself before it pools down in puddles and drains through the grated floor of their cell. Shockwave powers down the disruptor. 

Deadlock pulls out a mode lock and slips into the cell. Metalhawk quivers and sobs as their hands run over their dull gray plating and skeletal, protoform-regressed frame. “My wings…” They whisper. They lean back but glare up at her with blue optics that cut her like a laser sword. Was she feeling…pity? Shame? Remorse even? She shoves the blaster barrel into their face as she attaches the mode lock around their elbow. Calyx comes into the cell and transforms into a feline beast mode. He pounces on Metalhawk’s back and unsheathes his claws, revealing long mnemosurgery needles that inject effortlessly into their soft, denatured metal. 

“What do you want me to look for, my Lord?” Asks the colorful catcon. 

“Anything related to their research into Unicron. Extract and upload. Then…” He looks to Turmoil. “Dispose of them.” 

Calyx pokes his paws into the astrophysict’s neck. “Hmm…It's weird. Cause, their memories before getting captured are just preparing for their thesis presentation. First to the Old Senate’s science committee and then to you. But all the files, you know articles, slideshows, figures, datalogs, etc related to that are empty and already uploaded to their Spark. Only they can redownload it. Willingly.” The Mnemosurgon reports. “And I doubt they’ll cooperate.”

“We’ll force them then!” Turmoil shouts. Deadlock tightens her trigger finger.

Shockwave raises his good hand in disagreement. “All that information is redundant.  What I am lacking is a location. Look through their flight logs.” 

“Err…one problem…” Calyx begins to say. 

“Oh…of course. In inhibiting their alternate mode, it also removed any corresponding auxiliary systems: flight log, navi-computer, and their blackbox. An oversight on my end.” Shockwave realizes. 

“We could always bash their brains out if sifting through it isn’t enough. Then get them to talk.” Turmoil says. 

“How could one be able to communicate if one no longer has the means?” Shockwave asks skeptically. 

“Ugh…you know what I mean.” The warden groans. 

“No I do not.” Shockwave replies. 

I understood what he meant, you walking calculator. Deadlock thinks before peering through the slits in the floor. “Could the blackbox survive the smelting pool?” She proposes. 

“Perhaps. Go reacquire it.” Shockwave orders as Deadlock steps out of the cage and Calyx retracts his needles, leaving Metalhawk catatonic.

She summons a hovering platform and swings over the railing to stand upon it. She crouches down, motioning the skiff to descend. She scans the angry yellow-orange waves for the rare part that goes unmelted. Finally, Deadlock spots the blackbox bobbing among hardened globules along the walls. She reaches out and picks up the flight recorder. Splashes of liquified metal lash at her limbs and the bottom of the skiff. She straightens up her stance as she hefts the box in her arms, the platform rises accordingly. The guard hands the blackbox off to Shockwave as she returns to the support. 

Shockwave transforms his pulse disruptor into a connector socket he plugs into the blackbox. His single optic narrows, “You wiped your flight recorders, downloaded files, and recent datatrax on purpose. Why? Your biography states that you are neutral in our conflict with the Autobot rebels and you were a part of a research project jointly funded by the Decepticon Science Division and the Senate Science Committee.” 

“Yeah, if anything, you owe us.” Turmoil adds gruffly. 

Metalhawk turns their head to stare at the wall as they fiddle with something in their fingers before flinging it out and into the hands of the Decepticons. “Fine.” 

“What is this?” Shockwave asks as he inspects the small flash drive the prisoner just produced. 

“It's a check, a reimbursement really, for how much of the money you supplied for our research went towards me.” Metalhawk explains, regaining their strength. 

“Ha! Loaded aren't ya? Didn’t get that impression clawing through your brain. So nervous yet dismissive towards others opinions of yourself. The only thing you can put your mind to is your academia.” Calyx muses as he weaves between bars with his cat-like grace. 

“I don’t have to worry about rent payments anymore. Seeing as how you likely blew up my residence and caged me up in here!” Metalhawk shouts back. 

“I gave a grant. Not a loan. Still, this reimbursement shows to me that you can at least be cooperative. That is a vital component of science often ignored. The element of peer review. You are doing a disservice to your fellow scientists by withholding such important data.” Shockwave says. 

“Unicron isn’t real. He’s just some dark god your cronies worship. He’s our people’s boogeyman. Our ultimate evil. The Chaosbringer. He’s just a figment of mythology. Our research was an extensive thought experiment.” Metalhawk protests. 

“Now look who’s being deceptive?” Calyx calls out, “Seems like you all phrased things differently to my Lord here. About him being a threat.” 

“Correct. Yet, he is not one. You have withheld both his location and trigger for reactivation from us. Without that, he can be considered a non-entity. This hypothetical, mythological figment you maintain he is. And that might be the case.” Shockwave says. “But it would be illogical for you to hold this all to yourself.” 

“You’re right. Others know. Just not with you.” Metalhawk spats. 

“I am aware. Sadly, my forces were unable to recover anything from the Siege onto Polyhex and Iacon. And you are the only online member of the research program that I know of.” He explains. 

The prisoner looks down at the smelting pool below. “So much for your own reverence towards the collaborative nature of science.” 

“Perhaps I am in agreement. And perhaps we can rectify this. In exchange for your information, I will offer an employment opportunity.” Shockwave offers. Metalhawk glares back until their optics dim and their joints go slack. They reenter stasis. Another cold body unwilling to scream. “Very well. I am a patient mech. It is only logical that they will come around on my idea. However long that takes.” Shockwave remarks as he begins to walk towards Trypticon’s gullet. 

“I still think that we should bash the truth out of them.” Turmoil grumbles. 

“I’m up for it while you’re gone, my Lord.” Deadlock adds. 

Shockwave stares back at them both. “No. Such…unnecessary violence can cancel out a captive’s willingness to cooperate. As I said, I am a patient mech. If they seem more willing in the future, contact me. Until then, here they will remain. Barring any unseen incidents.” 

Chapter Text

Autobot Repair Center, Iacon

Sky Lynx walks uncomfortably through hospital’s hallways. Perhaps it's the way the hall shrinks and expands to accommodate his large frame while indoors, making him feel like a large bite being swallowed. Though he was only half his normal size, his unified Spark occupied his avian/shuttle half while his feline/ground-crawler had self-destructed to escape capture from the Decepticons and further talking to Starscream. Maybe then it was the act of seeing through only one set of optics when he was so used to splitting apart. Or is something completely unrelated to himself for once?

The giant robotic proto-bird finally reaches the end of the hallway. He is in a secluded ward of the hospital sectioned off for long-term patients. Save for the distant scuffle of peds or tires on the metal floors, he’s alone. Placing a clawed hand on the door knob, he turns it open and ducks inside. To maintain the patient’s stability, the room doesn’t expand or contract unlike so many other Cybertronian buildings that are made of the same living metal and make use of their own subspace pockets. Thus, Sky Lynx tucks in his long tail over his tepid talons, squeezes his wings against his body, and bows his long neck. 

Inside the room is a recharge slab, a vitals readout, and a side table. Orion Pax rests on the recharge slab, his frame fully repaired after being stomped on by the rogue Titan Tortuga who rampaged through Iacon after a space whale calf fell to its death into the Rust Sea. The Autobot founder is in the best state Sky Lynx has ever seen him: antenna straight, tires deep in tread and well-inflated, glass and metal gleaming and spotless, plating without paint chips, dents, and gouges. The readouts put a damper on the mood: reportedly Orion’s motors and auxiliary processors remain inactive while his brain module over activates and his Spark flickers. On the side table is one of Cybertron’s most impressive and sacred relics and the very thing that Sky Lynx risked his Spark in retrieving, the Matrix of Leadership. The conduit for the Prime’s power and collective wisdom lays glittering in the stark white light. 

Sky Lynx anxiously checks his chronometer and internal calendar to convert it to Earth time. Hmm, it's been three months since we departed and another three months until Unicron is predicted to reawaken. In addition to protecting the human race from falling to Decepticon invasion or influence, the Autobots were also sent to Earth to protect the greater Galaxy from the Chaosbringer’s unending hunger for decay, entropy, and extinction. Orion’s role in all this will be to take up the Matrix once again to become Optimus Prime and use its power to stun Unicron back into his eons' long sleep. Sky Lynx’s whole role in this is to make sure he gets back to Earth in time. 

It was never specified what he would do in the meantime. 

Sky Lynx brushes open a window with his wing to peer outside. Iacon’s skyline feels shallow and overcast with yellow from sulfuric fumes and the tint of thick force fields that protected the Autobot occupied city-state from Decepticon bombardment. The populace is in a state of upheaval with not just Unicron’s predicted re-emergence but also the reappearance of Megatron. After the Emperor of Destruction’s misguided attempt to invade Earth just for a rematch with his old friend turned rival, many thought he would then turn his attention to Iacon. People from the surrounding neutral cities moved into Iacon, seeking refuge while some of the Autobots already living here fled offplanet or even out of the galaxy in fear of Unicron. Sky Lynx had lost track of how many times in the past few decacycles he had been approached in the street by some desperate Spark willing to pay him all their shanix just to take them to low-Cybertron orbit. No, not while I still have this duty. Finally, something draws his attention away from his friend’s comatose frame and the dowerness of Iacon preparing for apocalypse. 

A black plane dives down then levels out inline with the arches of the space whale’s still articulated skeleton. Much of the space-faring filter feeder’s flesh has been plucked off, broken down to manufacture biofuels, leathers, surfactants, and lubricants. What grabs his attention is the make of the plane’s alternate mode. Scanned as opposed to natural. He waits for the plane to fly by closer before identifying the model. Only for the plane to disappear behind a building and reappear miles closer, leaving no such contrail or sonicboom. A groundbridge, black and purple paint, and recently went to Earth. Oh no! Not her!

Skywarp teleports into the room, mid-transformation with her thrusters on full blast. Sky Lynx lunges at her. He fences in the Seeker with his wings while pinning her down with his talons. The room suddenly expands to accommodate the action, shoving the recharge slab several meters away to keep Orion safe. Skywarp gets an arm free, charges up her null ray, and fires. 

The bolt misses Sky Lynx on purpose, hitting the alarm system before it can alert the entire hospital of the Decepticon invader. Not that Sky Lynx ever needed the backup. Even when half the bot he normally is (literally!),he is still a formidable opponent. He hooks Skywarp’s arm back in with his dew claw and cuts into the rays, disabling her primary weapon. The avian Autobot bares his teeth at her while she smirks. It might just be their near identical bodies, but it reminds the shuttler of Starscream, at his best and worst moments. 

He stops. Not out of any sense of remorse or hope of redemption. But just for some sort of reaction beyond glee. “Why are you here?” He asks as he recognizes the wear on her frame: metal hot to the touch from friction and heat of reentry and near-constant rocket activation, spent venting, and the satisfied glow in her optics from a perilous journey now over. 

“What? Not even going to ask me how I got in?” She scoffs, shimming out of Sky Lynx’s grip. 

“You’re not the one with the pension for telling grand, once-improbable tales.” Sky Lynx dismisses. 

“Really? You won’t even indulge me this one time?” Skywarp pouts. 

“Letting you remain online is an indulgence.” The Autobot reminds her as he takes his talons off her but remains looming. “Instead, I’ll make a guess and you tell me if it’s true or not. I saw you fly in by the carcass which is near the docks. The shields there conform with the shape of waves, meaning that when the tides change there can be a small amount of delay, gaps can form. Must have taken several tries. Would you call that persistence or insanity?” 

“Wow, you are as good as you say you are. And in my case, it’s persistence. Insanity describes your old Amica and those who try to emulate him.” Skywarp says, a fluttery tone to her voice. 

“Don’t butter me up like that.” Sky Lynx growls. 

“Then why am I slipping through your talons?” Skywarp asks as she stands up. “I’ve been to Earth before, I know all its…” She looks at Orion, finally registering his presence and condition. Sky Lynx scrambles between them. “Hey! If I wanted to offline Pax, I would have! Direct teleport to Darkmount. Megatron would make me his new Air Commander in a Spark beat.” 

Sky Lynx tilts his head. “So, what I’ve heard through the grapevine is true then? Starscream really has been incapacitated? You are here of your own violation, not under any orders.” 

“Saw it with my optics. All it took was a bit of water. Guess with how many times he changed bodies, he never bothered to waterproof them.” Skywarp confirms. 

“You’ve come here to torment me, haven’t you?” The Autobot bemoans. 

“No. It’s been awhile since we’ve talked. I just want to play some catch up. We can go out, get some drinks, fly around a bit. What do you say?” Skywarp proposes. 

“I’m needed here.” Sky Lynx grunts as he backs off her. 

“How long has he been like that?” The seeker asks, pointing at Orion. Sky Lynx growls. “Oh! Don’t be like that! I’m not with the Decepticons! Starscream is gone and even then he never had control over me. I never gave a slag about them.” 

“Then why should I think you’d do the same for me!” Shy Lynx shouts. “You always come and go as you please. It's only when someone makes a mockery of themselves do you bother to react. Starscream might be able to tolerate that kind of thing because he is so shameless. Not me!” 

Skywarp cackles, “Ha! So all your bravado and arrogance is just an act!” 

“No!” Sky Lynx flares out his wings and roars. “I know I am great and so does the Universe. However, unlike Starscream who only cares for himself, and you who cares for nothing, I still care for others. You don’t want me to lose that.” 

The black and purple Seeker looks back indignantly. “Do you know how hard it is to care about something when you live for this long? When you can just leave and teleport half-way across the Galaxy!” 

“Pfft! You don’t have that sort of range. A few thousand kliks more like it.” Sky Lynx scoffs. “But the point is, you and I are not so different. Our Sparks come from the same Titan. You’re only seven, eight million years older than me? Ask any newly forged here in Iacon and that makes us ancient. And if you want to talk about traveling the galaxy…why I’m ready to be your tour guide. And we both were Starscream’s chauffeur for millions of years. I bet that’s why you changed your name, right? He kept on mistakenly calling you ‘Sky’.” 

“Ha! That’s just because you’re an Autobot and hey!” Skywarp recoils as Sky Lynx scratches at her Decepticon insignia. 

He inspects the ink. “Hmm, you went for the curdled engex life hack over your own Innermost? Didn’t even bother with a clear top coat. I think I know why you’re here. Really. You need someone to care for you.” 

“What! No! I know I look a little rough around the edges but I still function!” She dismisses. 

“I have no doubt that someone with your skills and experience could sell their services to whoever out there but you never struck me as someone willing to branch out.” Sky Lynx surmises. “Say what you will about Starscream, and there is a lot, but at least he’s talkative. There was even a time where he was the life whatever air strip he took off from. I know all about getting suckered in by the illusion of companionship he could provide.” 

“I tried following after Jetstorm, only for a few days. He can give a good hook but now? He’s just gone insane.” Skywarp says. 

“I don’t need your friendship, Skywarp.” Sky Lynx reminds her, staring back at Orion’s comatose frame. 

“Yeah? I don’t need it either! But…” Her vents and engines wheeze. She pounds her fist against her chest. Sky Lynx looks back at her as she breaks the glass of her cockpit, shattering the Decepticon insignia. “I think I want it.” 

“I will…tentatively grant it.” Sky Lynx says, dipping his head down. 

The Seeker reaches out and caresses his nosecone. “Thank you. Want to go get those drinks?” 

Before Sky Lynx responds, Orion moves. His arms reach for the Matrix, fingers slotting into its handles. He pulls it away from the side table and rests it upon his chest. A zap of energy traces from the artifact’s crystals to his power-downed optics. They flash blue then fad again as he goes still. Sky Lynx approaches the bedside, watching and waiting. 

“Guess it will be awhile…” Skywarp realizes. 

. 

Realm of Primes

The faint, external stimuli gradually fades away as his Spark retreats inward, away from real life and the living and toward the collective wisdom of thousands of past figureheads from Cybertron’s past. The Transformers best thinkers, warriors, leaders, heroes, and villains alike. Slowly, he is able to make sense of his surroundings, not new to him, he’s been here before when he first bore the Matrix and on many occasions afterward to heed his predecessors’ advice. 

The floor he stands upon feels like glass, strong, hard, yet very brittle. He presses down lightly with each step as he approaches what looks like the Hall of Records. Not the small archive with heavily encrypted floating data cores dominating, but a vast library. A grand, central foyer adorned with statues to Cybertronian scholars and thinkers. Diverse wings branch-off, with shelves displaying media of all genre and storage method; woven tapestries of Uhli womb-mind myths, REappropriated datapads with anti-Vocationist writings downloaded, ten-trillion terabyte flash drives bearing the raw metagenomics of macrosymbionts from a Space Ray’s gills, a stone tablet depicting the first interactions with Transformers from a Krixian perspective dated to 390 mya, and various editions of the Covenant of Primus. Alpha Trion’s greatest achievement. 

The Covenant is presented as hundreds of clunky datapads within maroon hardback cases, each covered with purple rhombus-shaped insignia, the sign of Alpha Trion. It is a detailed datatrack of the whole history of Cybertron, told from the perspective of the longest-living being in the Galaxy. Interspersed within the Covenant, where Alpha Trion’s own predictions for the future. Having tasked himself with detailing Cybertronian events in real-time, it left Trion with the need for some sort of creative outlet, a repry from the objective recollection of politics, warfare, colonization, peacetime, and social trends. Thus he wrote the Covenant with a collection of prophecies, prattles, and Aesop's he developed through conversations with his fellow Primes like Onyx, Alchemist, and Micronus and hypotheses on the cyclical nature of history. As the other Primes faded from memory and into legend and cultures were established upon their stories, Alpha Trion’s writings became less influential. While the earliest volumes of the Covenant readily circulated and were brought aboard colonizing Titans, the later ones remained within Iacon, a closely held secret. 

“Do you wish to read them?” A voice speaks from behind Orion as he runs his fingers over the Covenant collection. “It’s everything, even the logs that I never published.” 

Orion turns to see Alpha Trion. In life, the sage was an old mech, frame frail and outmoded as he never changed it since his Spark first bonded to the Quintesson-made construct. Perhaps through his reclusively and neutrality in current affairs, this weakness of body was never exploited. He gives no such weakness here within the Matrix. His plating luminates a purple glow, facial “hair” wispy-white like laser-ribbons, and his galactic cape is magnificent, like looking upon a twinkling nebula whilst riding a comet. He holds a quill-like stylus between fingers and a thoughtful smile on his face. 

Mentor and apprentice race to embrace each other after so long apart. 

Orion feels himself press into Alpha Trion. There’s a lack of solidity to the old mech. His ghostly glow does so much to hide his translucence. “So, you’ve become one with the Matrix?” Pax finally accepts. 

“Indeed. I could only postpone it for so long, I suppose.” Trion replies, pulling away from Orion and grasping the furls of his cape with more effort than would be necessary for a physical fabric. 

“Then why did I keep seeing you?” Orion asks. 

“I remained a public figure on Cybertron for nearly 4.5 billion stellar cycles. Not even Decepticon propaganda can exclude me. Instead, I am depicted as some babbling outmode. I’d even consider that accurate. A broken chronometer can be right two times per cycle.” Trion remarks. 

“I meant online!” Orion exclaims, clutching his helm. “Sometimes, out of the corner of my optics, I’d see you. Even after I relinquished the Matrix. At the end of battle. While infiltrating Decepticon bases. Patrolling alien worlds. And on the rare times when I’m back in Iacon, I see you!’

“I’ve tried to rationalize it. The side-effects of war and trauma. Some sort of audiovisual hallucination. Ghost data. After images. A lingering connection to the Matrix. Or maybe you actually survived and were watching over me, us. It wasn’t just me. Ultra and Pyra, Star Saber, and others claimed to see you. It felt like enough…’ Orion loses the words he could use, ‘to keep a seat open for you on the High Council. Proxima and I kept it warm.”

Alpha Trion’s face saddens. “I did indeed perish shortly after giving you the Matrix of Leadership, during the first battles of this Great War.” 

Orion’s spark drops to his peds. Maybe if I hadn’t accepted it. Maybe if I had just let Sentinel….no not him. Not ever him. If I had given it to Magnus! Or Elita! 

“No. Do not hold yourself accountable for my termination.” Alpha Trion orders. “It was fated the moment I took action.” 

Orion looks behind to the Covenant. “Is this all some self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Not necessarily. More so…like so many things in life…a trade-off. In order to remain online for billions of stellar cycles required me to live as an impartial observer. I was like a pebble atop a wind-swept mountain: tiniest movement and I’m gone. When Zeta was assasinated without appointing a successor, it was left on me to pass on the Matrix for it will only open to those declared by a prior Prime. This had happened in the past, where a Prime would be terminated before announcing their chosen successor. And it was on the Senate to determine who it would be. My choices were a duplicitous con-mech who controls the frames of his downline or a warmonger who cares more for protecting this planet than the people who live upon it or you. In making this choice, one not of the ‘people’ but for myself, I was taking action. I fell off the mountain.”

“But someone was able to catch you, right? Was it Ratchet?” Orion asks. 

“No. The medic has worked his miracles on me before, they were few I trusted my old frame to. But rather it was an old peer of mine. Vector Prime. Like myself, he exchanged his autonomy for eternal observation. While I remained on Cybertron, he traversed space-time like a needle through fabric, his sighting the strings he leaves behind. Upon finding myself wearing thin by acting, he approached me and made a companion out of me in my last moments. Hence, my sightings.” Alpha Trion explains. 

“Through time and space? You mean we could…” Orion’s processor starts to run wild. 

Alpha Trion brings a hand up to silence Orion. “What Vector Prime does with his powers is his choice. We both expected judgement for our inaction. Perhaps in giving me a final chance to see you again in the metal, he too might have committed himself to deactivation, to at once view our world through your eyes.” 

“I…I don’t judge you.” Orion says. 

“I know. But others will and I hold no ill-will towards them. Perhaps to appease such voices, I chose you to be the current Prime. We are so alike, circumstantially at least. We are both historians, we have lived in Iacon for much of our lives, we’ve both poured over the information kept within these Halls, we both are Primes, and we are both writers. Yet, will I wrote of the actions of others, you wrote to inspire action in others.” Alpha Trion compares. “Will you do it again?” 

The old ghostly mech holds out his hand. Orion’s own hand remains at his side, unsure. Their surroundings become darker and fade, like a monitor flickering off and glitching out. Orion brings his hands up to wring in worry as he hears the scraping of claws, sees lengthening shadows, and shudders at the loud cawing of a scavenger. The Matrix is not only a means for mentor and apprentice to reunite but also a form of immortality, a realm created by hundreds of conflicting minds that persisted for as long as the Matrix’s crystal remained intact. They were not alone. And not all Primes were friendly. 

Alpha Trion scowls, his facial ‘hair’ coming together as a shield, optics like light dancing upon a steel blade. “Show yourself!” He shouts first at the mysterious invader and then at Orion as he cowers. He’s disappointed in me. 

Orion calls upon the Matrix’s power. He had allowed Alpha Trion to take control, once again relying on his mentor. But now with an antagonistic Prime approaching, he needed to take his place as an equal. The Matrix is intoxicating, overwhelming his mind with wisdom, strength, secrets, and an addicting sense of completeness and self-confidence. No…I’m not ready for it yet… Orion pulls back as soon as he manifests his ion cannon. He aims it at the shadows, still himself. 

“He doesn’t mean to take responsibility, rather rid himself of it forever! Trion!” Yells a raucous voice as the Hall of Records is overwhelmed by smoky clouds. Acid, ash, and brimstone hang in the air, hugging at the vents before Orion can shudder his shut. He aims the cannon at the darkness, unsure of what he’s targeting, the shadows, smoke, and figure blurring together. Something swoops down at them. Orion staggers back, connecting with hardening lava. His foot sinks in. Claws drive down into his shoulders, yanking him off the fiery earth and into the smoky sky. Wings made of gunmetal feathers and thin turbine fans flap up and down between him. He looks up, making out the silhouette of a sharp beak and pale face. The dark mechanical bird drops him onto a patch of solid land, a plateau of columnar basalt that rises above the hellscape. Orion gathers his bearings as the avian beast-former lands. “Do you know who I am?” 

Orion thinks for a long moment. Tis the pitfalls of history, what happens in the middle? Obviously, a beast-former so she had to have come into power before the Functionists were in power…

“Directly before.” Caws the giant metallic corvid. Orion stares into her white optics. “I know you’ve dealt with the children of Onyx. The King who now leads my people would be better suited for this trinket than you. Or perhaps the tyrant who made Megatron surrender.”

“Wait…Gnashteeth? She did what! How do I know that…” Orion grips his helm. “How do you know that?”

“I was a Fateweaver for the Cloud Walker tribe before becoming a Prime. And you’re still able to sense external stimuli; someone must have left on the news for you.” She transforms into robot mode. Wings fold in like a cloak, obscuring her powerful frame. Her talon-tipped digits grip a double-pronged spear made of the beast-mode’s skull and spine. Many Primes took to wearing a faceplate, Orion himself included, as it gave a sense of much needed anonymity and hid the weaker emotions. Hers was a long, pale silver mask with goggles and a long-curved beak. “Now do you know who I am?” 

“Corvus Prime.” Orion says defiantly as he lets his ion cannon dissipate. 

“Do you recognize where we are?” Corvus asks again, clipping the spear onto her back. 

Orion shakes his head. Without a clear sky, he can’t make out the stars and determine their galactic position. He tries to look at his internal settings for his hydraulics and motors as the output responds differently to the gravity of any given planetoid he’s on. Shows me set on Cybertron because I am still technically comatose. “No. I don’t know.” 

The light behind Corvus’s goggles dim and she swishes her rustling cloak as she walks further from the plateau’s edge with astonishing speed. Orion transforms into his earthly pickup truck mode to keep up. His suspension hisses against the fractiounous rocks, like driving down stairs. He stops when the ground becomes a dried mud. 

Corvus crouches down and taps at the middle of the remains of a puddle. Her claws tear open a muddy, mucosal cocoon. Orion shies away, expecting an alien larva to emerge. Water spills out and begins to evaporate on contact with air. A lungfish wriggles out of its sanctuary. It flops around the dry basin, seeking any relief from the hot poisonous air it breathes in. The unveiled flesh draws attention from a small fossorial predator. It scuttles over from its burrow on sprawling legs while a thick, striped pelt protects it. Its tiny sharp teeth tear at the fish’s scales as it eats it alive. 

“We are both among the only Primes to have visited Earth. You, a short while ago. Me? 252 million stellar cycles ago. And this? This is the Great Dying.” Corvus declares. 

Orion freezes up. “So…I’m not the only one then? I mean I’m still responsible for what’s currently happening on Earth but…you also know what I’m going through!” 

“What?” Corvus tilts her helm quizzically. 

“You know what it's like to be responsible for nearly awakening Unicron! But he didn’t destroy the Earth this time…I mean still a lot of creatures died, something like 96% of species did go extinct but there is still life! And you immediately past on the Matrix to Adaptus Prime, which means it wasn’t completely drained. Do you know how to defeat him?” Orion blurts. 

“No. I don’t. I didn’t find out until I read your mind, your memories of those articles. Perhaps Onyx and the other Thirteen knew, you know how they are, so secretive and detached even from us. And I was forced to give up the Matrix prematurely on the false promise that I could be “healed”. One does not escape this Inferno unscathed.” Corvus’s visage briefly changes, becoming smaller and weaker, herself without the Matrix. Her wings are tattered husks of bent scrap and turbines stuffed with smog and snarge. Bits of infected endoskeleton are exposed on her hands and thin joints. Her optics flickered. She then quickly returns to her prime. “Perhaps you need a review of history to best understand our place in all this?” 

Orion falls into white. 

Chapter Text

Arizona, Earth

A groundbridge opens up along a twisting bypass, pending by red rock deserts, towering cacti, and powerlines. A black and red classic full-bodied sudan launches out of the portal and leaves streaks in the asphalt as he lands. Behind, a massive mono-opticed silhouette approaches at the other end of the Groundbridge. “I can handle this myself, Governess Lugnut!” Roadkill hollers, gears grinding and miniguns ready to pop off. 

“I must accompany you though. Don’t forget that I outrank you, Tracker. And I must assess if this agent that Tarn sent is truly loyal to our magnificent, mighty Emperor Megatron!” The giant Decepticon protests. 

Roadkill drastically shrinks the diameter of the Groundbridge but stops in strain as Lugnut places her powerful arms in the way. “Perhaps, you should ensure our men are already up to his standard then!” 

“We wouldn’t have the D.J.D. inspecting us if not for…” She goes silent.

Roadkill snaps the groundbridge shut, slicing off Lugnut’s forearms. And I suppose I’m to blame for us no longer having a medic either? During his leadership of the Trackers stationed within the Solar System, he kept a light touch that was quite at odds with Decepticon doctrine. He never tightened it when people started to slip out. 

“I’m here.” He says over his intercom. 

The D.J.D. agent sends back a GPS location and a text message: “Keep quiet.” 

All he needed was either a coordinate or to be familiar with a location to send a groundbridge, yet he refrains. Perhaps it’s the lingering strain from severing Lugnut’s arm, he rarely used his generators in combat save for reinforcements or retreat. Or maybe he’s just sick of her. There’s being a loyalist and then there’s being a simpleton. Roadkill revs up his engine and accelerates down the road. His tires glide and grip over the sun-cracked asphalt. 

Magpies and shrikes bolt up from the barb-wire, shrubs, and cacti. As the birds fly over his windshield and hood, he calms his engine and shifts into neutral until he makes no more sound the flapping wings. He pulls over to shoulder and watches out of the corner of his side mirrors for any oncomers. The sun sets to a golden sliver between twilight and sandstone, no headlights are cast to disturb it. 

Roadkill transforms into a slender black and red mech with an antlered brow. He steps over the fence and into the desert. Each footfall is careful, quiet, and spread far apart as if he were dancing. He avoids stepping on shrubs, native grasses, tiny cacti, and entrances to burrows. The big-eared silhouettes and shining eyes of coyotes and tiny whitetails stare back at him, on edge by something so large yet quiet. For once, I am the observer, not the hunter. 

He projects a holopad that pings with the coordinate along a topographic map. The lines come in closer and closer together, jagged ripples between topside and basin. The ground slopes down underfoot and feels the nightly breeze intensify. He looks down the canyon’s bottom, more shrubland now illuminated in the stark floodlights of a shuttlecraft. A transformer crouches down several yards away from her ship, fixated at something on the sand. 

Roadkill carefully climbs down into the canyon. The agent’s hand flicks up, signaling for him to stop before he casts a shadow on what she’s watching. He narrows his optical scope and sees what caught her attention. A tarantula bears its fangs at its attacker, a large, dark wasp that bore a resemblance to herself. The insect dances around the arachnid, stinger tucked between six spindly legs. The spider lunges. The wasp shoots up several inches into the air, fluttering on rust-orange wings. Fangs in the sand, the tarantula reluctantly gets back up. 

The wasp’s stinger drives into its rearmost left leg. The spider goes limp, falling onto its abdomen and then cephalothorax. Its eight limbs curl in on itself. The wasp waits on the periphery as its victim is paralyzed. Once the deed is done, she grabs the envenomated spider’s head and drags into a nearby burrow. 

The femme stands up sharply, the thin wings and folded legs on her back twitch and she rolls her shoulders back. “Uh, you’re here. Kept me waiting, decided to do a bit of beastsighting in the meantime.” 

“You should have been here three months ago, Airachnid.” Roadkill points out. 

She turns around and pouts. “I’d have thought you’d like the delay. Gives you more time to scheme and bury your helm in the sand.” 

“I tried that, once. I was let off with a warning by your superior.” Roadkill replies. 

“Tarn isn’t my superior. I don’t have to rename myself after a city-state to have his attention, just need to be someone the Decepticons would rather have under their employee than without.” Airachnid explains. 

“Then you’re a mercenary?” Roadkill looks at her quizzically. 

“I’m a survivor as are you. Who were you? Some kind of cervine so a Forest Walker from Mitus Chondrius. But your mind…so dark, I can only go back about 10 million stellar cycles.” She peers at him through large purple optics, the legs on her back reach forward to pinch around his antlers. 

He steps back with a snarl, “It would be prudent to save such “probings” for the people who are actually on the List.” 

She brings her hands to her side and straightens up. “Fine. In truth, there’s been disagreements in high places. The Seekers are without Lord Starscream. Most of the Leiges, Governors, and Generals have gotten by without Emperor Megatron’s direct input and are questioning if he’s necessary now that he’s back in the public eye. It’s causing splits between Megatron loyalists and independent oligarchs. The D.J.D. is at an impasse: is Decepticon doctrine the word of Megatron or above it?”

“Tarn believes the latter. I was onboard the Nemesis when Lord Shockwave voiced his…concerns.” Roadkill recalls. That and I’ve dealt with Lugnut’s near constant apologia and adoration for our Emperor. 

“Hmm. You are a perceptive one. I suppose that stolen shuttle was a rarity, then?” Airachnid asks.

Roadkill stiffens. Shortly after being summoned to take part in the Invasion of Sterling City, he had allowed Counterpunch, an Autobot double agent stay behind with a young mech named Inferno, found infected with Decepticon shell programs and viruses. When the Trackers returned to base, they found a shuttle, the Autobot, the youngling, and Knockout and Breakdown missing. “I had a lot going on that day.” He excuses pathetically. 

“Have you located its crash site?” She asks. 

Roadkill projects a holopad and pulls up a manifest of all the shuttles and starfighters his Trackers brought to Earth and their status. “Off the coast of Antarctica.” He reports. “It's quite possibly the most inhospitable place on this planet: bitterly cold, strong winds and currents, no permanent settlements.” 

“They're in stasis lock.” Airachnid says as she returns to her ship. “Come aboard!”

Roadkill slowly walks over. “I thought you worked alone.” 

“No. I want to make this a family business.” She beckons him into the cabin. It is decorated not unlike his own personal shuttle, filled with trophies from hunts across the Galaxy. The dismembered helms and hands of mechanoids are melted into the walls. Additional weaponry, ammo, and jars filled with exotic cyber-venoms, Tox-en, and tainted mechfluid hang off the shells. The cabin smells of formaldehyde, ethanol, and preservatives. Roadkill quickly finds the source, each piece of furniture constructed out of the taxidermied or preserved remains of her prey. Beasts contorted into chairs, pelts and claws spread over seat cushions, legs of table made out of long tubes filled with floating worms, and all manner of perverse combination between carpentry and taxidermy. 

She takes a seat up in the cockpit. Positioned on the bowing back of a juvenile Starfawn, she crosses her legs while her hands glide over the dashboard, entering in coordinates and initiating the repulsorlift. “Inferno’s one of yours, isn’t he?” He asks after some time. 

“So that’s the designation he took? Suitable I suppose. What’s he like?” She asks. 

“Counterintuitive to his alternate mode. He turns into a firetruck. He was more concerned about what to do rather than why.” Roadkill says. 

“Just a firetruck?” Airachnid frowns. Roadkill nods. “Must have been the final one I…nevermind.” 

“I know you’re a parasitoid. The Decepticons would rather have you as one of them than converting a factory into your new hive.” Roadkill deduces. 

Airachnid scoffs. “I fashion myself a single mother rather than a brood queen, actually. But first I need to see how they turned out.” 

Docks of Iacon, 8 MYA

“Alright, ya ready, Orion?” Dion hollered before tossing an energon cube from the boat and into his bed. 

The pickup buckled under the new-old, precarious payload as he refamiliarizes himself with his old workplace. He was parked on a dock along the Rust Sea, sloshing red waves to his tailgate, grandiose Iacon skyline to his hood. To his right is a massive hover-barge with stacks of bright purple energon cubes, just barely processed enough so that they could be transported without risk of exploding. A glancing blaster shot would do the trick…

Orion rolled at the thought. That isn’t something I know at this time. Here, he was only a million years old. The first 100,000 years online were spent in primary education and career selection: the Functionists had given him a limited selection of occupations based upon his alternate mode. He chose to become a dockworker for the promises of stories from faraway travelers. 

The slight change in position caused Dion’s next toss to teeter on the edge and the second cube fell into the sea. Orion transformed, clutching one cube while reaching for the other. The lid slipped off and a slurry of broken crystals and radioactive liquid poured into the water. Orion snatched the corner of the cube. Several energy leeches swim up to the surface, slurping up the energon and sucking onto his fingers. Their fat rubbery bodies fumbled over his hands as their syringe of a mouth poked into his plating, zapping at his electricity. He tried to transform his hand into a weapon or something but this was from a time long before such modifications for war. All he could do was wave it around and scream. 

CHOOM!

The thick, purple blast from a fusion cannon glanced at his hand. Waves splashed upon the dock and his feet. The leeches fell and sunk back into the deep. Orion looked in horror at the firer, a bulky gray miner with red optics beneath a heavy brow and bucketheaded helm. Unlike his present self, he knew to put the cannon away after use. “Say thank you. I just saved your life and that precious energon I mined.” Megatron growled from onboard the barge. 

Orion froze up. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything polite to that mech. Not after 2.5 million years of constantly being at each other's teeth. Intense speech and debate degraded into catchphrases and quips and into grunts and growls of pure hatred and finally into the cling and clash of an energon ax and mace. 

“Thanks!” He finally spoke. That wasn’t…current me… Orion, current Orion tries to recall this datatrax. I known this day, this cycle, is an important one because it's the first time I ever met Megatron. I know the actions of this day. But not the thoughts… He glances to the dock he slipped forward on, it was worn down. I had gotten no traction and slipped, that's why the cube fell but now I can actually think for myself and I thought it was my shock that caused it to fall. 

“That was so cool! You actually have weapons?” Dion hollered.

“Indeed!” Megatron jumped off the barge and presented his hands. He transforms them into hammers, pick axes, shovels, and back. 

“We use them to help with mining and technically, they were to remain in Kaon, Megatron.” A second miner reminded him. He was a mech similar yet softer features than Megatron, twin headlamps, and blue optics. He was a mech Orion wished he had gotten to know better in the past, rather than his companion. 

“Urgh, Terminus, how else am I to protect you if I didn’t bring the fusion cannon?” Megatron asked his friend who returned a cutting glance. “How am I to defy the Functionist order on my life then by putting down the tools they forced into my hands and picking up one by own volition?” 

Terminus’s face lit up. “You’ve actually been paying attention to my writings!” 

“Of course, considering it's the only thing you talk about.” Megatron groaned. 

“Uh, what are you two talking about?” Dion asked, optics darting between the two miners. 

“I,uh, came here to Iacon to speak to a senator about some reform.” Terminus said. 

“What kind of reform?” Orion asked.

Terminus looked back and forth, a new sense of paranoia gripped him. “I can’t say. I must be going.” He transformed into a tracked driller and hurried off the dock. 

“Forgive him. He hasn’t been in the Pits long enough to know that running away isn’t an option. Soon enough though and everyone will know the truth: You are being deceived.” Megatron cryptically said as he walked after Terminus. 

“Huh. What was that all about?” Dion wondered. 

Orion took a step forward. “I don’t know. Wanna find out?” 

Dion’s optics went wide and he shook his helm. “Uh ah! We still have to unload this barge. Magnum won’t let us go on break till that’s done. I could go see if Ariel wants to help us unload.” He pointed to a small garage at the shore, a small pink femme stood close by as she examined a datapad. 

Orion feels his Spark sink, helpless to change the actions of his memories yet unwilling to bear through the monotony and provide commentary. His ghostly memory-self continued on, stacking towers of energon cubes onto his bed, driving up to Ariel who would direct him to which warehouse to deliver them to and repeat. By the time Cybertron was lit with more headlights, streetlamps, and the eerie yellow and blue glow that permeated up from its core rather than the star it orbited around, Orion and Dion could finally take a break. As the barge floated back out to see, the two trucks drove to a seaside gas station to refuel. The diesel was thick and delivered by refueling drones straight into the gas cap. They didn’t even trust us to drink for ourselves. He waits for his past self and co-worker to converse about the day’s events. 

“Hmm. Offworld diesel.” Orion remarked. 

“How can ya tell?” Dion asked. 

“Remember a vorn ago when we met that Seeker who helped protect cargo shuttles? He said that they put in a bunch of preservatives and anticoagulants to keep it from spoiling in space. But they never take them out of low-grade fuels.” Orion explained. At Least I wasn’t entirely helpless.

“Ha! You remember stuff from that long ago?” Dion laughed. 

Orion’s tires wriggled into the pavement. “I like talking to the people we meet at the docks.” He mumbled. “Like those two miners from earlier?” 

“Oh yeah! One of them saved you from the energy leeches! Gosh they were so cool! One of them had a fusion cannon!” Dion raved. 

Orion exits the datatrax and returns to the hellscape Corvus Prime occupied within the Realm of Primes. She waits in beast mode, preening metal plates with her long, pointed beak. “A mindless bunch, the lot of you.” She caws. 

Orion scowls as he recollects on history. “And who’s fault was that?” 

“Mine. But even upon seeing the state you were in, I don’t regret it.” Corvus says. “Perhaps it’s my turn to tell the story.” 

Primal Basilica, Cybertron, 252 MYA

Without the tether of his own datatrax, Orion manifests as a faint figure, a watcher and not a partaker in the actions. 

Corvus Prime stood in a grand golden foyer before a towering sculpture of Onyx Prime. The original beastbot was posed upon his hind hooves, wings spread against the domed ceiling, and his forelimbs and clawed hands gesticulating. In the shadows of the doorway was a triple-changing guard and a red Eukarian, no doubt one of her constituents. The Primal Basilica had once been a temple, and mausoleum dedicated to the Primes. It had fallen into disuse by the time Orion was forged, little more than another Golden Age relic that the Functionists deemed had no purpose. Like other old Iaconian landmarks like the Grand Imperium, the Hall of Records, and the Old Oilhouse, it had been ruined and repurposed by war. I forget what part though…need to look into that. Corvus stood in place for mega-cycles, somewhere between prayer, meditation, and scheming. Occasionally, she would look up at Onyx’s statue before bowing her head. 

The door slammed open. The red mech jumped back in alarm. The guard transformed into a mobile turret gun and auto-aimed at the intruder. Corvus Prime turned around, the light behind her beaked mask went dark. 

“Ah, finally I find you alone, my Prime.” A tall dark blue and white mech walked into the room. He had the markings of a medic. 

“You’re not very observant, Chief Medical Officer Pharma. Clearly no one from the Senate who voted for you in every had you for primary care.” Corvus snarked.

“I’m a surgeon turned social engineer, Prime. I’ve never done check-ups for sparklings. Such a waste of my talents.” He snarled back. 

“On the contrary, it would show that you actually have respect for future generations.” Corvus counters. “Rather than not respecting them enough to actually choose their own occupations and path in life.” 

“Ah, so you have read my proposal.” Pharma said with a slight smile on his faceplate. 

“If you come looking for my support, I reject it.” Corvus dismisses. Pharma’s face fell. “Revolve, see him out.” 

The guard bumped their barrel against Pharma, stumbling his attempts to move closer to the Prime. He launched a pair of over-the-shoulder cannons and glared at the guard. The other Eukarian, long silent and meditative, bolted into his beast mode, a creature that stood upon four cloven hooves with an antlered head upon a long neck and tail covered in tiny, rubbery stub feet. He used his long body to pin in the medic. 

Pharma leaped into the air and activated his thrusters, effortlessly cleaning the blockade. “Why would you reject it? It would solve Cybertron’s problems: the unemployment, the inefficiency present in every sector and industry, the Energon shortages, the chaos making a muck. My proposal would give everyone purpose, a role in society, a function. We would all be one in the grand machine that is Cybertron.” 

Corvus cocked her head. “That’s my exact problem. The problems facing Cybertron are uniquely its own and yet bots like you only turn inward to try to cure it. You snip away at anything you deem maladaptive or vestigial without discerning the consequences of it. If the people won’t work then make the jobs worth working. Look at the Velocitrionians, all they do is just one thing, racing, yet they do it with all their Sparks. If there’s Energon shortages, then ask the Camiens how they deal with such things. They live outside the Galaxy yet their lives are filled with more warmth than your thrusters give off. And if there is discontent in the people, then maybe reroute power from your vocalizer to your audio receptors. On Eukaris we have a saying, "The sound of a swishing grass is as loud as the tiger’s roar.” 

“What in the Pits is a tiger?” Pharma scoffed. 

“What it means is that everything is interconnected and equally important. Your Senate decided it was louder than the grass. It would just roar and roar until the grass stopped swaying and started burning. And now you’re trying to plant new seed but it will only burn again.” Corvus explained.

“Pfft. At Least let me try out a pilot program. Let me apply Functionism to a City-State that’s falling behind in their output. We’ll give everyone the role determined by the alternate mode and let them play it out for a few vorns. If the populous is in favor of the new changes and efficiency has returned to a satisfactory level, then we’ll consider applying it planetwide.” Pharma proposed. 

“Do you truly mean everyone?” Corvus asked as she stepped forward, claws rattled against the floor. 

“Yes. It might be jarring at first but we are known for our adaptability.” Pharma said, pleased with himself. 

“Even the Senators and noble bots? Would they be so willing to abandon their posts within the aristocracy to work as janitors, sky spies, dockworkers, or miners? What of the multi-changers? Would they have to work multiple jobs? A shift per alt mode? What of non-vehicular bots? Targetmasters, Headmasters, Action Masters, combiners and modulators, and transformers like myself.” Corvus scornfully pointed out. 

Pharma shuffled then shrugged. “Obviously the former would not…”

“Why not?” Corvus interrupted. 

Pharma’s turbines spun in frustration. “Because by being elected they’ve proved themselves exempt from such things. The alt-mode determinism is just a baseline, for the young, aimless, or unproductive. Once they’ve proved themselves to society, we’ll offer them a seat at the table.”

“And the others?” Her claws pulled at gold-plating beneath her feet. 

He waved a hand in dismissal. “They’ll be given time to change frames or get off-world. Then, we’ll just have to…advise the Blacksmiths and frame manufacturers to discontinue such…designs.” 

“You dare propose genocide to me?” She shouted.

Pharma jolted. “No…no bot would be deactivated, no Sparks extinguished during the transitionary period.”

“Ha! You don’t even expect civil unrest. The grass will keep burning.” Corvus cawed morbidly. 

“I don’t see how the people will rebel once they’ve heard of the benefits and are given a new purpose.” Pharma scoffed again. 

“For someone who heals the frame, you know nothing of how it interplays with the brain and processors.” Corvus gripped the edge of her mask, about to take it off.
“Don’t you dare perform unsolicited mnemosurgery on me!” Pharma freaked as she merely readjusted it. 

“Why would I read your mind when I can so easily read your face?” Corvus cooed. 

“What’s your point then? So this isn’t the solution you deem acceptable, then go pitch your own!” Pharma yelled. 

Corvus ripped off a huge sheet of gold-plating from the floor, revealing a rusted border between herself and the medic. “Your people can start by removing the gold plating and removing the rust beneath. The Primal Basilica doesn’t need such opulence. Such inefficiency. It needs people to come in here and face the Primes, whether that is to pray and respect them or…” Her optics flashed behind her mask, “Waste their time.” 

“Your people…” Pharma echoed. 

“Yes. I must make such a distinction because you seem so eager to remove my people from this planet. If you inflict hostility onto someone, expect it in return.” Corvus paused before looking back to Onyx’s statue. “But you came here for guidance didn’t you? Tell me, what do you think Onyx Prime’s alternate mode was?” 

Pharma’s scornful face turned toward confusion. “A beast?” 

Corvus groaned behind her mask. The red worm-deer by the door gawked, splayed legs and drooping ears. “At first, his Spark occupied the frame of an artificial pet the Quintessons manufactured. However, he desired a form truly his own and made the Triptych Mask. It allowed the wearer to peer through time and space at all the configurations of life across the galaxy until they found the suitable beast mode. Upon putting it on for the first time, his alternate mode changed from what the Quintessons designed to a bobbit worm, a frightening ambush predator that strikes from a hole on the ocean floor.” 

“Interesting.” Pharma awkwardly commented. 

“Onyx Prime rejected the purpose of his frame in favor of something that better expressed his Spark. As did nearly all of the original Thirteen and a majority of Transformers at some point in their lives. Surely you’ve performed a designation change for at least one of your patients?” Corvus concluded. 

“I see. Well, I’ll have time to consider such things. And perhaps you as well.” Pharma said as he backed out the door. “Good cycle.” 

The surroundings ripple; the golden floor undulating like ocean waves as the walls become hazy. Corvus looks at Orion as the memory comes to an end. “Was that Adaptus Prime? Did he used to be Pharma?” Orion asks.

“Yes. He succeeded me. I didn’t select him to be my successor, he was the Senate’s choice. But he was the only one able to heal the wounds I sustained during the Great Dying. In return, I relinquished the Matrix and left Cybertron for good.” Corvus confirms. “I choose myself over everyone else.”  

Chapter Text

Maccadam’s Old Oil House, Iacon

Eventually, Skywarp was able to drag him away from Orion’s slab-side. Sky Lynx flies over Iacon Central, bypassing the near-constant gridlock traffic that dominates the Autobot’s city. Skywarp trails behind his tailfin. It is a tight maneuver that takes him back millions of years to flying through the skies above Vos with other Seekers. It was one of trust in their own air superiority, a feeling Sky Lynx now reserved just for himself. Sky Lynx checks the reservation he made for Maccadam’s for outside seating. North balcony. I’m surprised no one has called attention to us yet…

Once the Old Oil House is in view, a spotlight shines on Skywarp, singling out the former Decepticon. “Ah? Halt!” Shouts a white and orange helicopter as he approaches them. Skywarp flashes up her airbrakes and stalls up but doesn’t stop. “Uh…I said halt!” 

“I’m a plane, I can’t just hover in place like you.” She scoffs. “Is this because I was a ‘con or something? Cause my new best bud, ‘Lynx over here can vouch for me!” Sky Lynx banks  in the other direction and takes a wide circle around the saberjet and helicopter, leaving her to her own devices.

“Oh…right and no. It’s because you’re flying with a shattered windscreen. It could cause glass shards to fall down and hit someone in the helm or tire. Please get it repaired as soon as possible.” The helicopter informs her as he projects a hologram detailing the latest aeronautical guidelines. 

“Oh! Yeah…I’ll get on it.” Skywarp says as she resumes her flight. Once Sky Lynx rejoins her, she asks, “So do you bots just not have any police or Sky Spies?”

“We do have a police force but it's more of an investigative agency than pure law enforcement. Outside the city, there are more guards and militias.” Sky Lynx says. “We prefer maintaining openness and dismantling sources of oppression and injustice rather than punishment for the sake of punishment. Yet, Ultra Magnus can’t help himself when it comes to the minor regulations. Be lucky that the helicopter was new on the job or he’d start reading off every subsection.”

Skywarp’s wings shudder. “How can you stand living here?”

“I don’t. I have a hanger I live in but most of the time I spend it offworld.” He says as he dives down toward the balcony on the Old Oil House. He transforms mid-decent, spreading out his neck, legs, and tail to create drag. The giant proto-bird lands clumsy, his threshing limbs clattering against the unused furniture. Thankfully, there are no other patrons upon the North Balcony. Skywarp performs a more elegant landing, pitching back to a steep angle and transforming, thrusters on full blast till her feet touch the platform. 

Sky Lynx approaches their table. He sits back on his haunches while Skywarp’s chair and the table adjust in height. A burly burgundy waiter steps out onto the balcony, datapad menus in hand to pass out to the shuttler and Seeker.

Sky Lynx dips his head in thanks as he takes the pad. He holds it awkwardly in his wing-claws. To fuel his massive frame, the most efficient and available source of energy were energon cubes. But now he has a rare opportunity to broaden his culinary palette. 

The waiter returns to their table. “I want a kerosene and Synth-En blend seasoned with foil-flakes.” Skywarp orders. 

“I’ll take the organic sample plater.” Sky Lynx says to Skywarp’s shock. 

As the waiter walks back into the building, she keeps gawking. “Why…would you eat…food?” She asks in horror. 

He shrugs. “I have teeth and a mouth that connects up with my fuel tank. I should use these, should I not?” 

Skywarp recoils in disgust. “I’m not going to fly behind you ever again.” 

“I keep my exhaust fumes fresh, mind you. I have to buy fuel fragrances in bulk from a peculiar mech on Chaar. He called it “Desolation”, made from the metabolites of irradiated microbes found on starship wrecks.” Sky Lynx retorts. “Do the Seekers still have you on the synthetic stuff? At Least go with the bio-fuel crystals.” 

“The Decepticons are anti-organic so, no, we aren't about to start harvesting whatever algae grows in the Rust Sea. Besides, it was you wasn’t it who introduced Starscream to that chemist who developed it or something?” She deflects. 

“Yes I did. I forget their name but I remember Starscream introducing a law in the Senate that allowed it to be manufactured at a large industrial scale. One of the better things he put into motion while in office. The Functionists didn’t like it because it meant that the people weren’t dependent on their miners both on and off-world for energy but it helped keep millions fueled up.” He remembers. He struggles to classify it as a good memory. It was often the way of Starscream, a few upstanding actions and good ideas were all it took to hide the taste of poison he fed you until all pretenses were dropped. 

“Yeah, well, now he’s gone.” Skywarp remarks as she reaches down for a cup, only to not have anything. “Urgh! I should have a drink already! But you go ahead and order something that requires…prep time and cooking.” She groans, wings drooping and hands clattering on the tabletop.

Sky Lynx chuckles, “One would think that with your effortless ability to travel you would be more curious.” 

She shakes her helm, “Starscream and his crowd of sycophants can drain away at your appreciation for the Galaxy like an energy leech.” 

“As I recall.” He agrees. 

“You were one of them. You were his fragging Amica Endura! Seekers above Seekers together! He’d parade around that rank to alot of us, use it to entice Thundercracker or Thrust into his favor!” She reminds him. 

Sky Lynx recoils. “And I regretted it and I continue to do everything in my power to counteract his schemes.” 

The two of them go silent for a few moments. Skywarp looks out to the skyline. Her lip wavers and her venting stutters as she internalizes her bitter guilt. Beneath the table, Sky Lynx flicks his tail comfortingly against her leg. “You can still make amends.” 

She looks back at him. “I don’t hate myself for standing alongside Starscream. I hate myself for not doing better than him, even now. I…”

They are both interrupted by the waiter as he comes back with their orders. He sets down a tiny plate and two glasses, one of water and one of ethanol, before Sky Lynx. Upon the plate are a collection of colorful protein pellets and oily bulbs. “Ha! It's different from the last time I had this! And could I get a nozzle for these drinks?” Sky Lynx remarks. The Seeker stares at him at the idea that he regularly eats this dish. It was a lie, he only ate organic materials in desperate circumstances while on missions. Still, to see a former Decepticon squirm. 

“The elements of the platter change regularly to match what is locally available. And the drinks are meant to be consumed via the mouth. Do you require accommodations?” The waiter explains. 

Skywarp smirks at him. “Uh, no. No thank you.” Sky Lynx says as he stares down at the two glasses. I don’t even have a tongue! How am I supposed to lap it up? 

The waiter gives the ex-con her mixture, complete with a nozzle, then departs. She picks up her drink and injects it into a fuel cap within her collar. “Take a sip, ‘Lynx.” She urges. 

Sky Lynx carefully clamps his teeth around the glass and snaps his head back, taking a swig of water. “It tastes like nothing! How can organics stand to be dependent on this?” He gasps. 

“Maybe they squeeze burger juice into it?” Skywarp suggests. 

“A burger? I think you mean a lemon.” Sky Lynx corrects. As the conversation topic turned back to Earth, it prompted Sky Lynx to pry. “What happened on Earth that you now regret? I know you saw Starscream get incapacitated and told off Jetstorm and then fled back to Cybertron.” 

She withdraws once again and uncouples her drink. “I wasn’t the only one who defected that day. Of the five of us, only Nacelle made it back onboard the Nemesis. Ramjet went and got himself killed by some humans. And then there was Slipstream and Red Wing.” 

“Ah yes, I’ve met Slipstream. Seeker of the Mind, worked as an investigator, mentored one of my new friends, used to be a boat, and she did a bad job at keeping me captive. I got some dirt on her.” Sky Lynx adds. “And who?”

“Red Wing was Starscream’s latest body double. He was fresh off the assembly line when Starscream called him into service. He was a curious kid, a wanderer. Anyway, Starscream did his thing, frame-swapping after getting blinded and bashed in with a flock of birds. Last I saw of them, they parted ways with Jetstorm. And I…I wonder if I should have brought them back with me or stayed with them on Earth.” Skywarp confesses. 

“They could stay with the Autobots or there’s a small group of neutrals on Earth. And there are plenty of other places throughout the Galaxy they could seek refuge at.” Sky Lynx says as he bends his head down to graze from the plate. Within a few movements of his jaw, the food is gone. 

“I know all that!” Skywarp screams. She clutches her face, bubbly tears leak through her fingers. “But…why do I feel so bad? Why do I want to go back?”

Sky Lynx leaves his side of the table and walks over to hers. He wraps a wing around her. “Do you know why I betrayed Starscream? I knew he was building an army. I knew that he could control each and every Seeker frame that was being manufactured. And I knew he wanted to be Prime. I knew all of that and I turned a blind optic because he had his ways. His ways of making it feel that his own arrogance applied to every Seeker, that everything he did, no matter how foolish or counterintuitive or amoral, would be worth it in the end. And was but only for his benefit, not everyone else's. We spent some time apart a few centuries before the War broke out. Vos had fallen under Decepticon control by that point but we still hadn’t voiced our support yet. I began a correspondence with Orion Pax and other Autobots. I wanted to align with them and I wanted Starscream to do so with me. But then he declined and I did some digging and for so long he had been going behind my back and supporting the Decepticons, dating back millions of stellar cycles. And at this point, at the precipice of war, there was nothing either of us could say to each other to bring us back together. I had stopped listening to him and he never listened to me unless it benefited him.” 

Skywarp looks up at him. “Why do you always have to make this about yourself?” 

Sky Lynx looks to the horizon, the Rust Sea glitters a coppery green as Cybertron’s sun is replaced by Luna 2. “Mostly it's to fill the arrogant hole left in me by betraying Starscream. I became too humble afterwards, too willing to atone for things that weren’t entirely my fault. Starscream may have shot the final blow in my back but it was while I was close to exhaustion shuttling people to refuge across the Rust Sea. In this new life, I needed to remind myself that I am worth it. And I am. And so are you. We don’t need Starscream’s hollow words.” 

Her wings droop further and she reclines into his feathers. “Do you think I should go back? To Slipstream and Red Wing. To Earth.” 

“You’re welcome to accompany me back to Earth once Orion awakens although I will have a Prime as a passenger.” Sky Lynx offers. 

“Better the definitive article then the diet version.” Skywarp grumbles. 

Streets of Iacon, 7.5 MYA

Every vorn or so, Iacon used to hold a parade. This one was different. This one would turn into a riot. 

Orion stood at the sidewalk alongside Dion and Ariel, and several other Iaconians who shared their goal. City outsiders gather on the other side behind a barricade and guards. Among them, Orion recognized Megatron and Terminus and many other members of the proto-Decepticon movement. But it wasn’t only the labor reformers of Cybertron; it was the unemployed, either as protest of Functionist classification or the outmoded and unable; it was the Colonists who returned to their ancient homeworld only to find it distorted by a system that excluded and discriminated against them; it was bots deemed “disposable”, the Action Masters, the victims of automation or mode recalling, modulators and combiners, and those with non-humanoid robot modes; it was experts, economists and scientists who disproved the Senate and Functionist’s promises that this was the most effective and efficient system of governance for Transformers. Looking back, Orion comes to a new conclusion. Corvus was right. 

Slowly, floats cruised down the street, carrying the newly elected or remaining Senators from the latest election. This one had been different then previous ones in the waning cycles of Functionist rule, rather than being open to any Transformer who held permanent residence within a City-State or its surrounding distinct, it was only open to those who were registered within a class. Even if it was an unpopular system, it was still the system and those who wanted to change it (civically) had to remain within it. 

Leading the floats was Zeta Prime, Optimus’s non-partisan predecessor. She drove down the street, a large, curvaceous truck with silver and blue plating. Behind her was a blue and orange guardbot with a massive chin. Sentinel! Next were the Senators from Iacon, Polyhex, Tetrahex, and the other city-states of the Hexian gulf. None of them were notable bots, just clingers on the status quo. The crowd stared at them with a disappointed indifference. 

The next two senators garnered more of a reaction; Starscream of Vos and Termagax of Tarn. Both had retained their seats, this being one of Starscream’s final terms in office. The Seeker summons a squadron of his comrades to fly above him and perform a brief yet spectacular aerobatics display that succeeds in getting cheers from the crowd. 

Termagax took a different approach. She was a broad and stern femme with steel-gray plating and yellow accents, reflective of the militant city-state and minority Ascenticon party she represented. Her float freezes and she picks up a microphone. Before she could say a word, the crowd erupted into clamorous applause. 

Starscream glared back with envy. Orion listens to her brief speech with an interest brought on by future context. Megatron had his ways of appropriating various rebellions, rogue elements, revolutionaries, and outsiders into semi-cohesive Decepiticon rhetoric, erasing the original authors from history and ophistating the true context and meaning. Terminus and Termagax had been victims of this. Megatron stole the inciting incident and the suffix. 

“I see we have a varied crowd. Good. Unlike the Functionists, the Acenticons and I do not seek to needlessly and discriminately divide us. Instead! Let us rise up with what we have in common! Let our minds think of the progress we make! Let us change into a grander Cybertron! And let our Sparks descend to the stars to share in our prosperity!” She declared. The joyous shouts intensified, Orion feels his memory-self’s voice box crackle with strain. 

The speech betrayed its rallying point by some Ascenticon dog whistles: ‘rise up’ and illusions of Cybertronian supremacy. They turned their bigotry outward with organophobic policies and increased militarism. They held a nostalgia for the Age of Primes and Expansion. An age that was only justified in the lack of complex life in the Milky Way at the time. Megatron quickly became fond of it and co-opted it. Rather than let the people come to their own conclusions about joining it, he made it seem like the only way. 

Termagax departs. The parade procession continued; the crowd cheered for their own reflected voices, Ascenticons and anti-Vocationist aligned independents, apathetic to the clout chasers and fence sitters, and the vocal Functionists received jeers. In anticipation of reactions boiling over, the Recallers were brought before the final three floats. 

Four massive Transformers marched upon the street. They were the Functionist Council’s enforcers, a class unto themselves that combined unparalleled brawn with emotionless, efficient brainpower. Their job was to decide who was disposable based on their twisted taxonomy or enemies of the state. Then they would enforce it by any means necessary. Orion crept closer together with his friends against the wall, giving a healthy breath between the curb and himself. Across the street, Megatron stood back and gave a curt nod to the Recallers in recognition for their supreme brutality. Terminus scowled, reconfigured a hand into a pickaxe, and hid it behind his back. The Recallers changed formation, standing at attention against the barricades. The one closest to Orion was familiar, a purple armored mech with a pulse disruptor in place of his left hand. Shockwave. 

The floats resumed. Senator Decimus of Kaon was first of the last. He was a caped mech with opulent blue and gold plating that betrayed the weary look on his face. Unlike most of his Functionist peers, he didn’t attribute the Spark as a source of Transformer supremacy and as such had no qualms with replacing rebellious laborers with vacant frames powered by battery packs and narrow AI programs. Megatron sneered and Terminus raised his pickaxe. Screams of ridicule and retribution followed Decimus, his optics dimmed by the moment. 

First Senator Proteus surpassed Decimus’s dismal reception, receiving boos and hateful shouts from every protester present. Whatever shame the mech felt was hidden by his ceremonial plating, ornate and embossed with the Senate’s old winged insignia and gear motifs. His float stopped and he rose to his feet. His cold gaze analyzed the crowd, matching their collective contempt. He opened his mouth. 

The shouting rattled Orion’s audio receptors. He was barely able to hear his own thoughts let alone his speakers. Beside him, Dion transformed into truck mode and began to rev up his engine into a shriek that could rival Starscream whilst blaring his horn. Orion pushed himself to the front of the crowd, chest plate against the barricade to add his own hollars and better view the commotion. 

A small motorcycle raced over to Proteus’s float, a tiny bot with flared platting upon their back. The tiny Transformer turned into a megaphone and leapt for Proteus’s hand. “There. This is what I expect from each of you: perform your function. Do it well and with dedication and perhaps, one cycle you will be rewarded with a position like mine.” The senator spoke. 

“Don’t give us that slagging scrap about promotions and exceptions!” 

“Yeah! The only chance a megaphone has of getting any kinda good life is by letting you suck your speaker around them!” 

“The elections are rigged in your favor!” 

The crowd surged at the barricades. 

Proteus’s frown deepens, replaced by disappointment rather than hatred. “All we do is in the name of further increasing the efficiency and prosperity of Cybertron and its citizens! And now we need that from you all. Return to your work stations!” 

If anything, Orion clung tighter to the barricade. A few bots took a step back and exchanged nervous glances. Others deployed their tools, using shovels, drill bits, scalpel, scrappers, and styluses as makeshift weapons. The Recallers shifted into a battle stance and the tips of their pulse disruptors.  

The First Senator shook his helm. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. We tried to be civil but the Council can’t bear to see anyone defining their functions. It would be too much for their frail, flickering Sparks. And, unlike you all…they are not replaceable.” 

This was the first time Orion had seen battle. 

Chapter Text

Iacon Medical Mechanics Facility, 7.5 MYA

Orion awoke from the recharge slab yet didn’t feel anymore restful. His side-plating was dented in and even parked in truck mode, his fists still felt sore and clenched. He had no weapons on him at this time, something he would soon rectify. During the prior protest turned riot, he resorted to bashing his chassis into the Recallers, Functionaries, and Senate Guard. 

The door opened and Ratchet walked in, at this point, just a humble doctor. “Ahh, you’re awake!” 

“Ugh…why am I not in a jail cell?” Orion groaned. 

Ratchet’s pleasantries shifted to a sorrowful look. “You can discuss that with your public defender when he gets here. In the meantime, you have two visitors.”

“Who are they?” Orion asked as he transformed and wobbly got to his feet. 

“Your boss and a fellow rioter.” Ratchet informed. 

Orion signed. “Turn Magnum away. I know what he’ll say. I’m fired, aren't I? For going to the parade.” 

Ratchet shook his head. “No, that’s not the reason.” The medic’s voice got low and regretful. 

I’m fired because I had no more co-workers. Ariel and Dion died during the riot, shot down by guardsmen. And they weren’t the only ones. Orion remembers as his frame shook with grief, sorrow, and rage. Behind the door, he could hear a disappointed huff and the rumbling of an engine as Magnum made his leave. I don’t think I ever spoke to him again before he died during the Siege. 

Ratchet gripped his shoulder comfortingly. He didn’t speak, still bound to confidentiality and neutrality, yet his optics betrayed that. Shining a warm blue like sunlight skies while offering a reassuring smile. Once Orion calmed down, the medic departed and allowed Megatron to come inside. 

The miner’s plating had been peeled off in large portions, exposing his robust endoskeleton. Solder and foil grafts covered what they could. The pickaxe was welded atop his forearm by blasterfire and the wires that remained of his left hand. “Terminus is dead.” Megatron reported, his exposed dentary grinding together. 

Orion nodded along. “You don’t look surprised.” 

Finally, the former dockworker asked, “Was your mine automated?” 

Megatron shrugged. “The newer ones are. Decimus’s staffers claim its “to protect us from radiation poisoning”. What a lot of scrap! There aren’t any virgin crystals left on Cybertron, they're all safe, for a bot like me. Even then they’d just slather us up in mud and call it anti-rad armor! But I get shipped around between the older mines near the Sonic Canyons.”

Orion winced at the thought. “I bet they're just counting the cycles until you slip off with the winds.” 

“They might get their wish once I’m behind bars.” Megatron growled. 

Orion bumped against him. “Don’t be like that! We gotta public defender coming in soon. We both know what Proteus did was wrong. He made the first order, the first shot. He can’t even use recalling as an excuse because they weren’t targeting us based on alt-mode. What he ordered was mass murder, not genocide.” 

“Ever the optimist.” Megatron said. 

“Do you have any ideas?” Orion asked. 

Megatron looked away. “We will fight again. But next time, we will bring some proper fighters and weapons.” 

“Do you think it will really come to that?” 

“Come to what?” 

“War.” 

Megatron gave a critical glance. “Are you afraid of war?” 

“Yes! Of course I’m afraid of it!” Orion squealed. Megatron’s optics narrowed. “I know, one cycle might be necessary. I know not everyone can just wait out another election cycle with a Functionist majority. Very few have such a luxury. Even I don't even have that luxury. I just lost my job for Primus out loud! I’m useless in their optics but that means I find a new use for myself.” 

“What are you saying, Pax?” Megatron stood up and crossed his arms. 

“I’m not a coward if that’s what you’re thinking. And I’m not a pacifist. I battered my frame in just as much as yours. But we need to think ahead, past the Functionists. What do we want when they're gone? What do all of us want? We’ll have to do this together. And we need a plan.” Orion explained. 

 “Pfft.” Megatron scoffed. 

“That’s it?” Orion questioned, bewildered. I should have recognized Megatron’s single mindedness sooner. His lack of consideration for intersectionality, for a fair system of governance to replace the Functionist. Even now he uses his friend’s death as another source of rage for rage’s sake. You can’t hate your enemies without also loving their other victims. 

“If you come up with a plan, Pax, I’ll listen. And if I like it, I’ll act it out.” Megatron accepted. 

Someone knocked on the door. “Is this the public defender?” Orion hollered. 

“Yes, but I have a few guests with me.” A white and green truck-former holding a datapad stepped inside. He had yet to adopt his conjunx’s last name nor his iconic armor, instead Ultra Ambus was overshadowed by Senator Termagax and Alpha Trion. “You two are pretty popular, are you not?” 

“Megatron and his recently offline friend practically brought to my attention the great injustices brought upon by Decimus’s push for automation. They would be rendered functionless without reassignment. A disservice to both our people and our planet!” Termagax announced. 

“That was quite passionate, Senator.” The future Ultra Magnus observed. 

“What do you need from me? It was always you and Terminus talking.” Megatron asked. 

“I…Trion what are you doing?” She was interrupted by the old Prime as he settled up in the corner, transformed into a stenograph, and began to type. Orion had gawked at him, now he tried to discern what exactly his mentor was taking note of.

“Recording an important moment in history. You all should be honored.” Alpha Trion stated. 

“Very well. I wanted to invite you to an event.” Termagax offered. 

“What kind of an event?” Megatron said skeptically. 

Termagax looked to Ultra and took a step closer to the miner. She whispered into his audio receptors, “A discrete one. In Kaon. One that requires a handler and her champion.” 

Megatron considered it, his optics glow at the new prospect. “Better than rotting in a jail cell.” 

“I actually feel pretty good about your odds of being tried innocent.” The white truck-former piped up. “All I require from you two is some testimony: why were you at the…parade, what incited your actions, what damage did you personally cause, and how do you plead?” 

Ultra took out a microphone and held it in front of Orion. “My co-workers and I heard about it at the docks. I didn’t like what Proteus said, he tried to make it seem like we were at fault when everything was in his control and it still fell apart. I pushed over a barricade, ran over three Senate guards, and left rubber mulch on the sidewalk. I plead innocent.” 

Megatron let out a reluctant groan. “Terminus insisted. The Recallers being brought out, the astrosecond the Functionists and the Senate anticipated backlash, I was certain they would receive it.”

“Is that an admission of guilt?” The lawyer asked. 

“Of their own, not mine.” Megatron deflected. “Anyway, I was directly responsible for two deaths, one of a police officer and the other of a Senate guard.” 

“Those are fairly heavy admissions.” Ultra said. 

“They were done in self-defense.” Orion piped up. Megatron glared at him. Orion had said a lie. During the riot, Terminus was the first of the protestors to attack, succeeding in swinging his pickaxe into the forearm of a guard. The two tussled until police arrived on the scene to offer support. An officer shot Terminus to deactivation. Megatron returned the favor out of revenge. I didn’t blame him and I still don’t. The whole system needed to be torn down. I only regret how many Sparks have been extinguished along the way and in the ways the Autobots still perpetrate such a system, even if it's in the smallest ways. 

The lawyer wrote it down and Megatron never corrected him. “You plead innocent?” 

“Yes, I suppose because I don’t feel any guilt over my actions.”  Megatron admitted. 

Ultra Ambus clapped his hands together. “Good. Now I can get on with dealing with this. It will not be necessary for either of you to come to court. At Least until further notice. Until then, please refrain from anything compromising.” With that he left. Termagax and Megatron followed shortly, the miner trailed the Senator. 

Orion sat for sometime, still nursing his wounds and his mind. He was disturbed by Alpha Trion’s typing. While he now regards the sound as a source of comfort, at the time it was… “Would you stop typing! Please? That is so annoying! The conversation ended astro-minutes ago!” 

The old Prime transformed, a drawn-out and laborious process that dragged at Orion’s attention. It ended in a huff complimented by the miffed expression beneath his long mustache and beard. “I’ve never been a good copywriter.” Trion confessed. “Yet I still like the frame. After billions of stellar cycles, I’ve become sentimental towards it.” 

Orion tilted his head. “You’re that old?” 

“Yes…if I remember correctly. I remember when Primus’s body was still warm and whole. I remember the patterned light of stars long gone cold and dark. I remember the names and faces donned by every Spark that drifts up from Cybertron’s core. And I remember that you still need to pack up your belongings from your former supervisor’s garage.” Alpha Trion recalled. 

Orion groaned and slammed his face into his palms. The magenta mech chuckled. “Would you like a place to stay tonight?” 

“And where would that be?” Orion grumbled as he looked up through his finger tips. 

Alpha Trion made his offer. “The Hall of Records. You can stay as long as you’d like.”

Cybertron Central Spaceport, 252 MYA

Orion once again finds himself the spectre in Corvus’s memories. During his own time, Iacon’s spaceport is a small tower adorned with short runways and landing docks rising above warehouses and garages. It’s a functional bare-minimum meant to serve the small shuttlecraft the Autobots sent and received. In the past however…

The air buzzed with chatter, afterburner flame, and repulserlift. Spaceships, aircraft, and flying beasts of all shapes, sizes, functions, and origins. By wing, thruster, propeller, and envelope, they all fly. Twisting, gliding, twirling, diving, climbing, dancing. They’re like tropical fish swimming in a reef, following the air currents, the contour of the buildings, and the direction of air traffic control. 

Rising above Iacon; taller than the Council’s spire, taller than the solemn, still helm of a War Titan, the Primal Pinnacle. At the base was a train station, welcoming passengers from Cybertron’s other city-states who couldn’t drive on the transplanetary highways. Like its tiny, modern predecessor, what followed were suspended runways and landing pads that radiate off the tower like branches on a tree. They taper towards the top and the occupancy shifts from passenger and cargo bearing crafts to individual flyers or hired wings. Even then the Seekers still held influence, I think I see some Cacerian space cruisers, Devisien dualpods, and even a Camien solar sailboat, not to mention all the birds. Orion observed, taking in a far more cosmopolitan Cybertron. 

There was a brief gap between the Pinnacle’s topmost antennae and a massive space elevator that drilled down through Cybertron’s atmosphere. It widened out towards a nexus of space stations, docked capital ships, and even a Titan. Squinting through the clouds and crowded sky, he made out its form. The Titan was in a quadrupedal robot mode, with brown plating, four strong limbs that stood solid despite floating in low orbit, and a long head with sabre teeth. Gorgon was his name. Eukarian in origin. Corvus Prime brought him and several pilgrims to Earth. Orion then considers what he knew of Earth’s natural history. He turns into a gorgonopsid, Earth’s first saber-toothed predator and a distant relative of humans. They were alive at this time. Put it together. This is a rare opportunity for one’s beast mode to be living at the same time as yourself. Gnashteeth has to settle for fossils in a museum. Nightviper might wait millions of years more. Gorgon might have waited a billion years for this. I see now why this was so imperative for her to make this journey. 

Corvus Prime dived down through the clouds, wings tucked and beak straight. Her appearance triggers other flighted beast-formers to burst into the sky and soar upwards to the Titan. A sign to wrap things up, they were ready to depart. Someone had other plans. 

A dark blue jet intercepted the mechanical raven. Pharma banked past her. Corvus broke out of her dive and flapped her wings furiously, cawing and clawing at the intrepid social engineer. Orion couldn’t make out what they were saying but Pharma managed to convince Corvus to fly down with him. 

Orion’s vantage point shifted to an empty landing pad towards the Pinnacle’s tip. Pharma landed first. He took his time in appearing professional, not letting a panel come out of place. Corvus gave him no such courtesies. Her descent was lazy yet labored, wings caught on thermals, talons outstretched. Once within an appropriate height, she fell to her feet, transformed, and pulled herself back up with her staff and the twisting of shifting metal. 

Pharma extended a hand and gave a wide grin. “Thank you for meeting…”

“What is so important that you delay me further!” Corvus interrupted. 

Pharma frowned but kept up his polite charade. “I’m sure while planning your little trip you’ve neglected the latest news from the Senate. More Senators are backing up my proposal. We’ve gotten some details ironed out.” He presented her with a data slug. 

She crushed the drive with her talons. “When’s your pilot program being rolled out then? Once I take off? Once there’s no one powerful enough to push back against the harebrainery of your government? Once most of my follower’s are offworld? That would save on deportation ships, wouldn’t it?”

“When the Matrix of Leadership is finally ripped out of your claws.” Pharma let his mask slip for a moment. 

Corvus’s optics glowed bright white as she realized something. “Even though you haven’t run a real-world pilot program, you now have the resources to model this in full. Not unlike my own abilities. And you realize the same thing I did when you first told me about this: this isn’t about increasing efficiency, it's about increasing control. Your Senator friends like that but most of the general population won’t buy it once you have hard data. If a Prime were to introduce it, then it has more credence. You need the Matrix to give it legitimacy.” 

“Such is the way of most paradigm shifts on Cybertron.” Pharma admitted. 

Corvus erupted into sneering laughter. “I’ve held the Matrix for barely a million stellar cycles and I intend to keep it for many more. Even if your proposal keeps its popularity until the next competition, there’s only a 1/7 chance of your candidate winning.” 

“Sometimes, during tragedy we must abandon traditions. Looking through the medical records of past Prime’s, it's not unheard of for the Matrix to be passed on the death slab rather than through a grand ceremony.” Pharma’s voice was heavy. 

The corvid Eukarian struck out. She thrusted her spear at Pharma, stabbing threw his chest-mounted cockpit and shattering yellow glass. “I have bared through much of your nonsense and half-threats but now you openly plot against my life? The life of a Prime?” Corvus accused as she pinned him to the wall. 

A few onlookers hover and circle around them, but no security officers arrive. Pharma grabbed at the spear, trying to push it away from his chest. Corvus’s grip remained strong yet controlled, she didn’t threaten his life anymore then he did to her. “I have done nothing of the sort! All I was doing was bringing up historical examples. But…” A pair of guns swing up from his back and onto his shoulders, hydraulics push him away from the wall just enough to get an edge on Corvus. “I’d be happy to hasten things – ahhaAHHH!” The Chief Medical Officer fell to his knees while Corvus stood solemnly before him. Orion recognizes the attack as something Nightviper would do uncontrollably. 

“I’ve put up a Recall Radius, a simple yet powerful Fateweaver technique where I put up a telepathic shield around myself. Fall within it, and you are forced to relive a memory with a strong emotional response.” Corvus explained. “In your case, its shame.” 

Pharma managed to growl at her. “I’ve said no unsolicited mnemosurgery!” 

“This isn’t mnemosurgery. The crucial difference between mnemosurgery, fateweaving, cityspeaking, and mental mediation is the degree of communication. In the latter two, its a two-way link between speaker and Titan or combiner partners. Mnemosurgery is at its basis, a medical procedure. Memories are removed, rewritten, or your reaction to them modified in some way. In fateweaving, memories are reread." Corvus corrected. 

“Are you trying to blackmail me then?” Pharma struggled to regain his strength. 

“You might. But I won’t.” Corvus Prime took a step back and leapt into the sky. She transformed and flew away up to the Titan.  

Chapter Text

“Why did you drag me away from Nebulos Space Station, Prowl? Do you have another ethics committee to chew me out?” Brainstorm begrudgingly asks as he is joined by Iacon’s police chief. 

“Do you have a spare transtector?” Prowl keeps a few paces ahead of the turquoise and grey weapons engineer. 

“Ugh, yes. My docking ring doubles as one. It’s poorly made though, one of my first models. It has two left feet, suboptimal nerve impulses for the hands, and to source a t-cog I had too…” Brainstorm stops himself from confessing a crime to the officer. 

“Change into it. Now.” Prowl orders as he turns a right down the corridor. 

“Why? Why am I here?” Brainstorm demands. 

Prowl sighs through his vents. “I need you to do something that Wheeljack refused to do.” 

Brainstorm’s yellow optics light up. “Something too dangerous for Wheeljack? Something that surpasses firing a gravity-increaser on a neutron star? Something that is more probat-shit insane than neutralizing a seismic-shock warhead with a planet smasher?”

“No. He declined to participate because there was a risk of possession. The only other scientists I could bring onto this procedure would only agree if there was someone else with a transtector or power armor.” Prowl explains. 

“What will you have me do?” Brainstorm asks, interest still peaked. 

“Change. Then follow me to the labratory. I don’t want to explain the procedure more than necessary.” Prowl says as he walks away, giving Brainstorm some privacy. 

Brainstorm mutters something unintelligible beneath his faceplate as he brings his hands up to his head.  He squeezes at the sides and yanks up, pulling his head and neck out of a port between the transtector’s winged shoulders. His severed head transforms into a small white and yellow robot, a headmaster. His kind settled on planets such as Nebulos, with thick stormy atmospheres that would scramble the sensors and lead a bot to a premature yet deadly crash. His ancestors evolved and reengineered themselves, concentrating their vital organs and processors into a tough yet maneuverable head that would eject from a remote control body should it take too much damage. Eventually, the storms calmed down and Nebulos developed its own organic life. Even a sophant species evolved and discovered veins of Nucleon running through newly eroded bedrock. Eager to acquire the energy-rich crystals, the Headmasters revealed themselves and made an offer to the Nebulans: mining rights in exchange for Transformer technology. Within a matter of centuries, the Nebulans advanced from prehistoric to a post-industrial society and the Transformers became close allies. There was collaboration between both sides for millennia until the War broke out on Cybertron and Decepticons came to Nebulos, looking to take the Nucleon for themselves. They convinced some Headmasters to join their ranks and destroy both settlements and wilderness to expose more veins to harvest. The destruction extended to the relationship between Nebulans and the Headmasters. Those who didn’t join the Decepticons, returned to Cybertron. During that time, Brainstorm had been an engineer working alongside a Nebulan tool manufacturing company. That shifted to weaponry when he joined the Autobots, his work quickly drawing the attention of the Wreckers and the Elite Guard. Some other headmasters, eager to return to their homeworld, established a secret space station in the Nebulos system where they could monitor Decepticon activity. Brainstorm moved there after his experiments and inventions couldn’t pass Iacon’s regulations. Still, Prowl harbors no ill-will and regularly calls upon him to return to Cybertron to do what Wheeljack was unwilling to do. 

Brainstorm returns his main starfighter transtector to subspace and takes out the docking ring. Painted to match his colors, it transforms into a poor imitation of his normal body. He transforms back into a head and attaches to the transtector. After taking a few steps, he starts veering to the right. 

“Hmm…you were right. It does have two left feet.” Prowl observes upon returning. 

The headmaster glares at him. “You’re not expecting me to be performing anything elaborate, right?” His hand slips as he leans against the wall. 

“No, that will be my duty.” A large dismembered hand hovers down the hallway and then transforms into a small purple mech with an extravagant blue visor obscuring much of his face. 

Prowl turns to introduce the hand-former, “This is Chiralis, he’s a chemistry professor at the Autobot Academy.” 

“And I know who you are.” Chiralis admits. “You’re quite…”

“Infamous? I know…” Brainstorm interrupts.

“Notorious.” The chemist corrects. 

“Oh! My reputation has…” Brainstorm stops once Prowl coughs for their attention. 

“Is something the matter, Chiralis?” The police car asks. “I notice Hox isn’t with you. I told you both to wait by the lab.” 

“We were. Until we got impatient. I wanted to stretch my fingers while Hox went in to see the immortal Spark.” Chiralis explains as he cracks his knuckles. Prowl gasps. “Oh don’t be alarmed. She knows what’s at stake, she’s curious, not stupid.” 

Brainstorm’s optics lit up again. “I’m sorry, did you just say an immortal Spark? How is that even possible?” His brain module goes racing, not just over how it's possible but how he would go about extinguishing such a spark. 

Prowl groans. “I think it's time for the debriefing.” He leads the two mechs further down the hall and into the laboratory. It’s a long narrow room with counters on either side and a center exam table. Upon the table is the desaturated and decapitated frame of a Seeker. A small, spiky blue femme scurries around, inspecting the body. Towards the Seeker’s pedes is a tiny jar filled with some orange gelatinous substance. It draws in both her and Brainstorm’s attention. The gel seems to ripple with distinctive, slow pulsewaves. “Brainstorm, Hox, step away from the Spark, you’re doing him too much of a service in giving him your undying attention.” Prowl orders. 

Brainstorm and the blue bot turn around. “What do you want us to do, sir?” She asks.

“The Seeker you are looking at is no other then Starscream himself.” Prowl reports. 

“That explains his continued survival. I’ve heard from battle reports, the nasty ones, the ones where my weapons were authorized for use, that he would always survive.” Brainstorm gasps. 

Hox picks up the jar and taps against it. “A Spark persisting outside the body…fascinating. There hasn’t been a documented case of this in billions of stellar cycles.” 

Prowl takes it out of her hands. “Do you have any hypotheses?” 

“An outlier of somekind?” Chiralis guesses. 

“Experimentation?” Brainstorm proposes.

“Neither. Outlier abilities line up in a few specific categories: telepaths, elemental emissions, or slight physical abnormalities. They are coded in the Spark’s source code but they only manifest the frame.” Hox denies. 

“Are you sure its not experimentation or something inducible like becoming a combiner or triple-changer?” Brainstorm asks. 

“We’re looking at out-of-body persistence, not immortality. This isn’t new. Its an atavism,” Hox deduces. 

Prowl nods. 

“A what?” Brainstorm tilts his head.

“Starscream is a genetic throwback. The first Transformers had Sparks that could persist without a body. However, structurally Sparks are inept and so it's better for them to reside in a frame. That also helps stabilize the molecular structure of Energon which is how you go from radioactive raw crystals to living metal that can be forged into bodies. But what most people don’t like to admit is that Energon has a half-life and is slowly decaying. Luckily, it can also integrate different elements into its molecular structure. However, this required Sparks to evolve as well, becoming more tolerant to different chemical compositions at the tradeoff of our Spark’s ability to draw out protons to make up it’s own physical form. Thus, we evolved the Spark casing and Innermost Energon.” Hox explains in full. 

“Not sure I needed the exhaustive history lesson.” Brainstorm crosses his arms. 

“Not history, it's our phylogenesis.” Hox corrects. “I’m an evolutionary developmental biologist and a blacksmith. But I’ve never seen a Spark like this.”  

Prowl projects a mission report on his holopad. “Starscream was captured during the Decepticon’s failed Invasion of Earth. He was chased into hazardous weather and mountainous terrain by two Autobots, Cloudburst and Metalhawk; you might be familiar with the latter from their research on Unicron. Starscream became low on power, was decapitated, and fell into a freshwater stream…”

“Never let a Spark near water or you’ll put it out! We have that saying at the Hot Spots. Sparks are actually persistent for a few hours after emerging, enough time to put them into a temp-casing or photonic crystal. But if they get wet, then they fizzle out, start to shrink.” Hox interrupts. 

“But water is highly polar and the universal acid. Because water molecules attract around the protons of a Spark, spreading it out into a gel.” Chiralis surmises. 

“A normal Spark would be extinguished.” Hox says, melancholy. “But he went into a sort of stasis lock.” 

“I already know this. Can I continue?” Prowl pouts. 

I didn’t. Brainstorm thinks. In all the grand calculations of how to disrupt pulse flow, introduce anti-matter, subject them to spaghettification, I forget the small ways, the basic ways physics and chemistry come together to frag up a Transformer’s very soul. 

“You three have your own duties. Chrialis, I’ll need you to perform a fractional distillation to boil the water and free Starscream’s Spark. Hox…Yes, Hox?” Prowl points to the evo-devo biologist as she raises her hand. 

“Do any of you have any idea of what could happen to a Spark during distillation?” She asks. 

“With all respect, Hox. This isn’t a newly forged Spark that must be treated with utmost care, this is the Spark of Starscream and if we cause him any discomfort during this procedure…then I’ll mark it down as just the beginning of his punishment.” Prowl declares with a growing intensity. 

“Technically speaking, only the water he’s dissolved in will go through the whole apparatus. Starscream’s Spark won’t leave the round bottom flask.” Chiralis clarifies. 

It is at this point that Brainstorm notices that neither Chiralis or Hox bear any insignia. It isn’’t uncommon to encounter neutrals within Iacon. Autobrand brought on its own privileges but it wasn’t a necessity to live within Cybertron’s freest city. Brainstorm deals with a different crowd. The warriors, security officers, Wreckers, rebels. The type of Autobots who’d sooner call a ‘con a ‘creep rather than view them as a person. Great, I bet their own moderation and morality extends over to their science as well. 

Hox nods along. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Ensnare his Spark. As per his own testimony, Starscream knows his way around a spark extractor and whiteout vaccums. Instead, I want you to put him inside a photonic crystal. Then, we’ll attach him to this.” Prowl takes out a pair of handles connected to a spherical hold. 

Brainstorm bursts out laughing as he recognizes it. “You want to put Starscream into a Matrix holder? After all your talk about not giving him any undue honor? The irony!” 

Chiralis nods. “I can’t help but agree. Starscream was once a candidate to become a Prime and coveted the position. Now you’d be indulging him by creating this Matrix of Starscream.” 

Hox scratches her chin in thought. “You’d be able to communicate with him like this.” She takes out a small orange stylus, a crystal generator.

“And what about me? Aside from being bait.” Brainstorm asks as Chiralis transforms into a giant hand and takes out a round bottom flask. Prowl offers him the tiny jar. The purple hand unscrews it and pours the dissolved Spark into the flask, each finger acting independent of each other like the arms of a servo-squid. 

While the other two scientists prepare an apparatus for a fractional distillation, Prowl beckons Brainstorm close to Starscream’s deactivated frame. “Notice anything out of the ordinary?” The police car asks as he points at the shattered cockpit. Brainstorm goes in for a closer look. There are holes in the cockpit’s floor and warped seams around the panels that allowed water to seep in. By tilting his head around and using auxiliary scanners, Brainstorm can identify the frame’s bloomed Spark casing and corroded capillaries, but also something else, an unusual PCB. 

“Yeah, a circuit board.” Brainstorm notes. 

“It doesn’t show up in other Seeker frames. We think that Starscream adds some special features.” Prowl theorizes. “I want you to investigate.”

Brainstorm takes out a laser scalpel and begins to cut into the Seeker’s chest. “I’m surprised you hadn’t ordered a full autopsy yet.” 

Prowl gives a shrugging grin. “Ratchet…”

“Was unwilling to do it. I’ve heard it before.” Brainstorm pulls out the floor of the cockpit and starts yanking out wires, fuel lines, and avionics. The components of the frame weren’t unlike his own starfighter transtector or the body of any other constructed flyer; aluminum, titanium, and laminate for the outer plating and kibble, lightweight motors and hollow struts on the interior. He hollows out much of the space around the life cord aside from the strange PCB. He traces his fingers over the circuit board, trying to find what it plugs into. He feels thin grooves stream around the interior cavity, moving up along the panels. He taps against them and notes their difference in composition from the rest of the walls. It’s living metal, deep wiring. That’s hard to do in a constructed frame. It must have been forged or grown separately then implanted in during construction. The grooves lead upwards toward the lifecord. Brainstorm pulls his hand out and inspects the frame’s collar. He gently exposes the severed neck and looks at the space between the lifecord and inner plating, the same grooves continue. 

He lastly looks at the base of Starscream’s decapitated head. Brainstorm’s optics widen with surprise as the grooves veer off away from the brain module, what he would expect, and towards the audio receptors and comm links. “That’s…interesting. Now that I know what it connects up to I’m going to take it out.” 

Taking his laser scalpel, he cuts carefully at the corners of the board and removes it. Brainstorm holds it up for Prowl to look at. “Getting ideas?” Prowl asks. 

“I was wondering if you had any idea of what it could be. You have more knowledge than me on Seeker flight patterns. All I know about them is how to blast them out of the sky.” Brainstorm offers up the circuit board. 

Prowl takes it and does a quick scan. “They often fly in tight v-formations. When we do get the rare Starscream sighting, the formation becomes more staggered. He plays favorites and distances himself.” 

“Hmm, I do recognize some components on the board: but it's miniaturized, an entire avionic system and sensor array compressed into chips the 5th of the size you’d expect for a frame this size.” Brainstorm points between the tiny components and their larger counterparts he previously removed. “I suspect harvesting, probably from a flighted minicon or micromaster protoform.”

Prowl’s optics widen. “And what of the components you don’t recognize?” 

Brainstorm looks at the rim of the circuit board. While the miniature avionics were in the center, they fed information into a series of silver capsules. “These, right here. They connect up to the helm’s comm links.” 

“Can you remove one? I think I recognize it.” Prowl takes a step closer. 

Brainstorm takes out a soldering iron and flips the board. He heats up the two holes it slides into and pulls it out. “Here.” 

Prowl pinches it delicately and lowers a magnifying visor over his optics. “Knew it. They’re modified cerebro-shells, harvested from insecticons.” 

“Ha! That’s why I couldn’t identify them. I don’t deal with mind control or thought warfare. Not when my creations ensure that even the opponents’ brains don’t survive.” Brainstorm boasts. 

“We’ve known about the manufactured Seeker frames having a high degree of data collection but now we know the mechanism and application of that data. It could help with our case against Starscream.” Prowl declares. “Could I have your expertise, Hox? These components could only be…”

“Quiet!” Chiralis hisses as he becomes a wagging pointer hand. “We have reached a critical point.” 

Brainstorm approaches the two scientists. The gelatinous Spark slushes at the bottom of the flask. Chiralis turns up the heat on the bunsen burner beneath the flask. Slowly, the water boils. Steam rises through a fractionating column filled with tangled copper wire. It flows down into a condenser lined with cold water. Droplets drip down into a beaker. The process is slow, arduous, yet demands everyone’s attention. Chiralis carefully oversees it, keeping the temperature and rate of condensation steady. Hox keeps a close optic on the Spark, gradually it regains its pulse waves and static. Prowl stands close to the door, one hand grazing the handle of his acid pellet gun while the other taps at his comm link. Brainstorm tries not to fall into a stasis nap. Nothing’s catched fire, yet. 

“Rrahhah!” The Spark begins to screech. What’s freed from the water starts to rise. 

Chiralis’s fingers spread in alarm. “Hox! Now’s your chance!” 

Brainstorm puts himself between the apparatus and Chiralis, baiting himself. The blue femme beside him wavers. “I can’t! He’s not yet free. It would be harder to get him out of energon hydrate!” 

“Wait for the right chance. Chiralis, with me.” Prowl orders. The purple hand retreats to stand behind him. 

The Spark floats forward in the flask, almost staring at Prowl. The static and shrieks become more coherent, a shrill voice. “Prowl? Ha! You’re trying to imprison me? No…not now. I have things I need to do.” 

“Hox…” Prowl says. 

She presses the crystal generator against the edge of the glass. It drives the Spark to the opposite end of the flask, an ooze still connects him to the bottom. “I can’t yet.” 

“Good girl.” Starscream whispers. 

Brainstorm slamps his hand over the top of the apparatus. Now the Decepticon’s spark only has two routes of escape: entrapment or possession. I’m disabling my engines should he take this transtector over. At worst, we’ll be fetching his Spark from a giant hoop. 

As more droplets land in the beaker, more of the Spark’s form is restored. The glass begins to creak with alien heat as buzzing arms radiate off like solar winds. It is such a strange sight. I’ve only seen Sparks before they were extinguished, plating pulled apart, casing in bloom with petals of purple innermost. Hox’s lips curl in disgust and she holds the pen-like generator as though it were a rotary blaster. 

The last droplet falls out of the condenser. 

The flask bursts into shattered glass. 

Starscream laughs. “Yes! Freedom! Vengeance!” 

Hox jabs the pen into the hazy orange orb. Facets form between the ripples of his pulse waves. They crinkle and crackle as they expand into a crystal matrix that covers the Spark. It stops floating and falls onto the shattered glass. Prowl approaches and gives Brainstorm the matrix holder while Hox retreats to a safe distance with Chiralis. 

The crystalized Starscream rolls toward the still activated bunsen burner and the photonic crystal begins to melt apart. Brainstorm pounces at him with both halves of the holder and bashes them together. They interlock around the crystal. 

Before he can be pleased, Brainstorm sees the orange Spark dash away. Starscream doesn’t target his transtector, nor any bot’s body. He flees through a crack in the laboratory’s door. 

“What…” Chiralis gasps. 

“Maybe the polarization was off…” Hox guesses. 

Prowl drops down into his police car mode, revs up his engines, and sends his sirens blaring. Still, his voice cuts above his noise, “After him!” 

Brainstorm abandons one transtector for the other. By the time he’s in the hallway, he’s getting settled within the cockpit of his starfighter. The walls and roof swell out to accommodate the starship’s wingspan as it joins Prowl in chasing down the escaped Spark. Hox scrambles after them in her hedgehog beast mode, crystal generator held in her tiny jaws. She rolls up into a spiky ball to keep up. 

The Spark makes it outside, fluttering in the sunlight. Already, Prowl has a perimeter assembled. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shove their blaster muzzles at Starscream’s spark while a chopper-bot lowers an electro-shock net. Prowl and Brainstorm transform and offer their own firepower. What to use? What to use? Ugh! So many of them are dependent on the opponent having a body! Atleast a processor! Eventually, he brandishes a spark extractor. Atleast this is giving me ideas…

Starscream’s spark wavers before finally rushing over to Brainstorm. Quick as he can, he takes the docking ring out of subspace storage. Every bot takes a step back. Brainstorm flinches as he sees the inert grey ring turn crimson as Starscream possesses it. Now, with a body, Starscream makes a run for it. 

The Autobot brothers transform into car mode and chase after him. “Keep your distance!” Prowl orders as rifles emerge from their roofs. “Hox, how could we repolarize him?” 

The blue femme returns to robot mode and points at the extractor in Brainstorm’s hands. “With that. May I?” She asks. 

Brainstorm gives her the extractor. He looks on as the chase heads on into downtown Iacon. “Why wasn’t that part of the plan earlier?” 

“It was part of a preliminary ruling. Giving him a body is too great a privilege. If Starscream proved cooperative, he would be granted a temporary frame and then possibly a weaponless Seeker frame once formally tried and imprisoned.” Prowl explains. “But now it's our only chance.”

“You owe me a new docking ring, then.” Brainstorm says. 

“Noted.” Prowl looks down at Hox as she fiddles with the extractor’s settings and internals. 

“Finished! We almost never have to do this when bringing a bot online but sometimes a Spark gets squirrelly and won’t adhere to the casing so we have to repolarize it. It causes no harm, normally, but I bet Starscream won’t be pleased.” Hox offers Prowl the modified extractor. 

He hands it off to Brainstorm. “Putting myself in danger again?” Despite it, he smiles behind his mouthplate. 

“You are faster than either of us. By now, he should be cornered.” Prowl says. Brainstorm transforms and takes off. With the extractor attached to his starfighter’s nose, he follows the net-carrying helicopter. 

Below, the rogue transtector runs ungainly on the sidewalk while Sideswipe and Sunstreaker pursue him. One brother runs after him, blastering laserfire which does little to stop a frame that lacks pain receptors while the other keeps the road clear of civilians. The helicopter dives down and drops the net on the transtector, short-circuiting it temporarily. Brainstorm lands. On the opposite side, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker corner Starscream. 

He takes the extractor and waves it into the transtector’s chest. It phases through the nets and plating. On the otherside, it holds the orange Spark. Starscream’s spark throbs and screams something intelligible over police sirens as Prowl arrives. 

As Brainstorm goes to flick the switch and repolarize the Spark, buzzy arms lurch at the corners of the extractor that hold it in place. Starscream breaks free and dives for Brainstorm’s body. 

THOOM!

A groundbridge opens along Starscream’s path and traps the Decepticon’s Spark in some unknown location. That’s a solution.... Brainstorm looks at Prowl as he approaches, a rare look of confusion is on the black and white Autobot’s face. 

“Up there!” Sideswipe shouts and aims his rifle skyward as a black and purple sabrejet dives and transforms into another Seeker. Brainstorm takes out a magma frag launcher and aims it at Starscream’s accomplice. 

“Wait! Don’t shoot!” Sky Lynx lands and shields her behind his massive feathered wings. 

Prowl takes a step forward and raises his hand, signaling everyone to lower their weapons. “Sky Lynx, do you vouch for this Seeker? Skywarp I presume?” 

“I do. We were just getting back from Maccadems. She has disavowed her loyalty to Starscream and the Decepticons. I’ve been keeping a close optic on her since.” Sky Lynx vows. 

“Where did you send his Spark?” Prowl asks, his finger still close to the trigger of his rifle. 

Skywarp takes a step away from the shelter of the shuttler’s wings. “I always threatened  him that I’d send him to a black hole if he ever got on my bad side. I don’t have that sort of range though so I sent him to the next worse place. The Dead End around Polyhex.” 

“Despite our attempts to clean it up, there are still a lot of unrecycled bodies and Empties there he could possess.” Prowl frowns. 

“No. He’s not going to stay there. He’ll head for the Rust Sea’s coast, toward what remains of the research district and Nova Cronum.” Sky Lynx counters. “Let us intercept him. Skywarp and I both worked as his chauffeur and close confidant, we know how he thinks and who he’ll take vengeance on.” 

Prowl holds his hand out before Brainstorm. He gives the police both the Spark Extractor. “Use this. It will repolarize him and prevent him from swapping frames. I know you both have your personal vendettas against him but you aren’t the only ones deserving of justice. Bring him back online.” 

Chapter Text

Pits of Kaon, 7 MYA

“Quite an operation you have here, Megatron.” Orion observed as the former miner turned gladiator led him to his seat within a private booth overlooking one of the several underground arenas that made up the infamous Pits of Kaon. Beneath the cap of Kolkular, along the cliffs that descend into Primus’s flesh, wars were raged in miniature. Gladiatorial combat always had a place in Cybertronian culture, some say the original Thirteen competed amongst themselves to keep sharp should the Quintessons ever return. Alongside Cube and racing, it was Cybertron’s most impressive sport. However, the feats that played out within these arenas were not the one’s broadcasted for the spectacle of the Cybertronian public. 

“Indeed, in merely half a million stellar cycles, I have risen from Termagax’s champion to proprietor of this entire arena. I call it the Cradle.” Megatron proclaimed as he settled in his seat. He no longer wears the markings and tools of a miner. Instead, a large fusion cannon is welded to his arm. Every sufficient dent and scratch he received in combat has been inlaid with silver, shining embellishments of his survival.

“That's awfully saccharine.” Orion remarked. 

Megatron glared down at the archivist before bursting into hearty laughter. “I suppose it is, old friend. It is the Cradle of our revolution. Through it, I recruit new soldiers and allies who will fight for us should it come to that.” 

Orion approached the glass, looking out at the rest of the audience for any recognizable people. He found several matches for politicians, academics, entertainers and athletes, and entrepreneurs across Cybertron and her colonies. Even some alien diplomats and nobles joined in. “I also see the likes of Decimus, Termagax, and Starscream in the crowd.”

“Always good to keep your enemy’s close. And in such a venue, it's very easy to get away with assassination. Operation: Discretion.” A sonorous voice proposed. Orion looked over his shoulder in alarm as a large boxy, blue-plated femme with a mouthplate and an entourage of mini-cassettes. 

“This is Soundwave and her cassettes. She works for me as the announcer and organizer of events.” Megatron introduced. 

“I disagree with such an idea. I notice many of your friends have cameras. Perhaps they’d be better at snapping photographs of senators for use as blackmail for participating in events organized by bots they publicly condemn. Career assassination.” Orion posited. 

“Hey! Are you saying we can’t handle offlining some old bag-of-bolts?” A yellow and black condor-cassette dived at Orion, pestering him with beak-pecks and weak laserfire. 

“Buzzsaw, Operation: Discipline.” Soundwave commands as she opens up her chest window. The condor flew back to his mistress, transformed, and returns to her compartment. “Apologies. Megatron has spoken a lot about you. What he has said is accurate.” 

Orion gave a forced nod and touched a singed antennae. 

Soundwave outstretched her arm and the red and black Laserbeak grips tight to it. “Operation: Commentary.” She whispered to the bird as he flew out of the private booth. 

“Who else will be joining us?” Orion asked as he looked to the door. 

Soundwave sat down in the row behind the two mechs, now taken over by nearly all of her cassettes. “I wonder as well, I don’t see any of the usuals: Swindle, Shadow…” 

“Silence!” Megatron growled. “This time, it's more private. I have an old friend here, Soundwave. Orion and I have been out of touch for a while, we don’t want targets on our backs.”

“I see. Perhaps I’ll join Laserbeak then, to give the people something a bit more unscripted.” Soundwave headed for the door, taking most of her cassettes with her, except for Ravage. Orion heard the black jaguar’s kneading of the seat cushion. 

The historian narrowed his optics. “Who else then?”

“I’ve recently come into contact with someone. Someone powerful and once aligned with the Functionists. Normally, I’d send him to the Pits but he provided a logical appeal. I think his ideas would be of worth to you. I know you’ve taken up Terminus’s mantle and have continued to write.” Megatron explained. 

The door opened and a large purple mono-opticed mech walked inside. “You’re working with a Recaller! How could you! It’s what killed Terminus, Ariel, Dion, and who knows how many others!” Orion shouted. 

“We aren’t working together, yet at least. This is Shockwave. He was a Recaller until he started to question things. Tell him.” Megatron introduced with a small grin on his face. 

Shockwave approached him with an unnerving lack of animosity. “Our function is to determine, on behalf of the Functionist council, areas of inefficiency and obsolescence between a variety of demographics: age, origin, alternative mode, occupation, and see that it is eliminated.”

“I know what you do. I abhor it.” Orion glared. “It’s state-mandated genocide. You don’t even transplant their Sparks!”

“Such a traumatic episode would provoke resentment and further dissent even if the Spark was placed in an efficient frame.” Shockwave said. “Extinguishing is the only effective metric against repeat offenses.” 

Orion turned to Megatron. “You’re seriously okay with this? Still?” 

The gladiator shrugged. “When one Spark is extinguished, another is ignited, that’s what your new mentor, Alpha Trion, says, does he not?” 

I’m surprised he even read anything by Trion. “That was written in the 340th volume of the Covenant of Primus to describe the first Cybertronian death and birth after our liberation from the Quintessons. It was intended as a simple statement on our species reproduction rates, not a comment on the futility of life.” Orion criticized.

Shockwave scanned him with his barrel-tipped wrist. “Designation: Orion Pax. Age: 2 million stellar cycles. Origin: Nova Peak sparkfield. Alternative mode: pickup truck. Occupation: assigned: dockworker, current: historian. I am now familiar with you.” 

Orion bristled. “Yet this whole conversation remains enigmatic to me. Why did you leave? And why haven’t you been hunted down and deactivated?” 

“Despite being tasked by the Functionist Council, the Recallers authority is separate. Our decisions can be executed without Council or Senate oversight or revaluation. During our latest audit of the Cybertron’s census data, I came to the conclusion that the Functionist Council was obsolete. 75% of the Recallers came to the same conclusion. There was one outlier, in the statistical definition.” Shockwave said. 

“A sellout.” Megatron growled. Orion began to understand. 

“His designation is Shockblast. Chronologically, he is the newest member. I hypothesize his Spark was not properly chosen for the task of being Recaller. He expresses an abnormal amount of emotion and attachment towards authority.” Shockwave explains. “He informed the Council of my assessment and I was taken into custody.”

“Why are the Council disposable?” Orion asked. “I’ve read that they were once appointed by Adaptus Prime.”

“They are classified as ornamental, however members of the ornamental class are only tolerated if they are positively experienced while on display. Public opinion of the Council has been on a historical decline. A majority of the populace registers as apathetic or antagonistic towards them. Attempts to correct for negative opinions results in reduced efficiency.” Orion couldn’t help but agree to what Shockwave said. 

“Do you see why he’s of use? He brings logic to our cause.” Megatron chimed in. 

“I’m guessing then that you and other “champions” tugged at strings with your Senator friends. Got him a secret pardon?” Orion frowned. I couldn’t help but imagine who else he could get freed meanwhile on my side of things, the likes of Ultra Ambus and Prowl bent over backwards over my defense. 

“Yes. I was granted a pardon and expulsion from the Recallers after vocal objections from a select group of Senators and lobbyists. The Council revoked my privilege for reclassification. So I came here.” Shockwave finishes. 

“Why don’t you watch the arena? The first match is about to begin. I’m certain there will be crucial data for you to collect and analyze, Shockwave.” Megatron urges as he presses close to Orion. In a hushed whisper he says, “Don’t pretend like you don’t have friends in high places. You seek shelter from one of the original Thirteen Primes! Half of Iacon is smitten in the Spark by your stunts and words.”

Orion bristled. “What are you saying?” 

“We both have the same goal. Cybertron’s liberation. From the Functionists, of course. But…my time here in these Pits, fighting, has shown that we have even greater enemies than our own kind.” Megatron glared out the window. 

Soundwave stood on a floating platform with a microphone in hand. Her mini-cassettes were deployed across the arena: shuffling through seat rows, perched atop spires, and stomping down on the stage floor. “Welcome everybody to the Pits!” She shouted as the audience erupted in a thunderous mix of voicebox breaking screams and engine revving. “Normally, we like to showcase the best Cybertron has to offer but this time…” below, doors open up, letting out the first two competitors. “We’re going to see a battle between bot and beast from another star system!”

A stealth bomber and a battle tank are released from the doors. The plane flew knife edge before the crowd while the tank component slowly crawled to the center. The crowd watched with bated vents as the plane climbs near vertically to the edge of the arena’s force field and dives down. The tank’s turret aimed skyward and fired out a purple energy blast. The bomber spiraled down around until the two unified in transformation. 

A massive, heavily plated white and blue mech stood in the center of the arena. I swear the only bot’s I’ve seen bigger than him are Sky Lynx or someone mass shifting. Soundwave descended and circled above him. She took out a double-barreled laser cannon and tossed it down to the mech. It seemed redundant, he was riddled with gun barrels and missile launchers from ped to helm. “This is Overlord of the Duocon Clan. You won’t meet many bots like him on Cybertron. No, a robot gets this way by blasting asteroids, mining moons, flying through the corona of a red hypergiant, and fighting all manner of alien menace. Like his opponent.” 

The opposing door opened and several robots trudged out onto the purple washed stage with energon chains in hand. They drag out a massive alien from beneath the arena. It walked in a pained six-legged gait upon columnar limbs. Saltwater and white blood leak out from the tube feet along the alien’s underside while black spikes clatter along its back. It had a long neck held low, dragged down by the chains. It had a delphine head with scarred over eyespots and chained up barbed pedipalps and head tentacles. Orion recoiled at the sight of the starved and captured starfawn. “What have you done to him?” He gasped. 

“An impressive beast isn't it?” Megatron grinned. “Found it hibernating in a mine on Luna 2. Had it shipped back here. How can you tell it's a him?” 

Orion pulls up an encyclopedia of space-faring sophonts on his holopad. “He’s a starfawn. They range across the galaxy and are noted for their ability to tame and train space whales, smeltbeasts, and other interstellar gigafauna. While both biological females and males reproduce by broadcast spawning, they can be distinguished by the number of total legs, females have four, and the males have six. Most importantly, they are sophonts.” Orion leaned in close to Megatron’s audio receptors. “That’s a person you had captured, imprisoned, improperly cared for, and are now dragging out to be slaughtered by a Carcerian warrior.”

Megatron turned away, undisturbed by this new information. He listened to Soundwave’s commentary, a cocktail of embellishments about Overlord’s achievements and disinformation about starfawns and other alien species. Finally, he spoke again. “Overlord came to Cybertron not that long ago. He said he had beaten all matter of creature and kind across the stars and now he wants the beat the best of his homeworld. This is my way of easing him into things. He told me about how he’s slaughtered these starfawns. At First I thought he meant packs or colonies but now I know he meant villages. But it makes no difference to me.” 

“What! But this goes against everything we are fighting for! For freedom! For people to choose where they work, what they can turn into, who they can be!” Orion stood up and looked Megatron in the optic, exacerbated. 

“Freedom is the right of Cybertron. In time, I will make it so. For the rest of the Galaxy, that's negotiable…” Megatron kept his gaze low. His fusion cannon reverberated. 

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings!” Orion Pax declared as he stormed out of the booth. Ravage slinked between himself and the door, snarling and scratching. Megatron stood up from his seat and outstretched his cannon arm. 

“We can’t have such deviations in our movement, Pax.” Megatron growled. He fired. 

Orion flipped on his heel struts and took out his ion blaster. He pulled the trigger and the laser blasts neutralized each other. Hmm, either that's a weaker model of cannon or he only set it to stun. 

Megatron bursted into laughter. “Ha! How long have you kept a blaster on you? How long have you had a target on your back?” 

  Orion lowered his blaster and grimaced. “Since the parade. I go to a firing range in the foothills of the Manganese Mountains when my fingers seize up after writing. It helps me find the strength in them again. Perhaps, I always hoped that you would show up one day, its equidistant between Kaon and Iacon.” 

“That never happened.” Megatron walked back towards the glass to watch the beginning battle. Orion could never bring himself to watch it. “I’ll let you leave this one time. But, if you ever get in the way of my operation, Pax, you’ll be more worried about your life than your freedoms.” 

Chapter Text

Northern Pangea, Earth, 252 MYA

Once again a wisp wandering through Corvus’s datatrax, Orion is surprised by the startled bellows of herd animals. The herbivores look like a mix of an iguana, tortoise, and bison; large with armored backs, broad, beaked heads, and stout legs. They ran from their grazing grounds of a fern plain to deeper down the valley. Orion looks up as a shadow is cast over the Permian supercontinent, the Titan Gorgon descends into Earth’s lower atmosphere. 

Corvus Prime dove down through the cloud layer. Clutched in her talons was the red fuzor that had accompanied her to the Primal Bascilia. She soared down to the valley and flinged her talons forward, dropping her companion, Velvet. Once beneath the height of the conifers further down the valley, she dropped Velvet. He transformed midair and landed where the herd once browsed. He dropped to his knees and inspected the trackways left behind. “A herd of pareiasaurs came through here. We startled them.” The antlered mech reported as Corvus landed beside him. 

“The crow is known for her caw, not her silence. Such are the ways of the owl.” The mechanical corvid remarked as she transformed. She projected a holopad with the pilgrim manifest. “I will alert Osteotron and Cusp of this location for beastsighting.”

“A shame we will not be among them. This is nothing like the visions I saw through the Tryptich mask when my beast mode came to be.” Velvet bemoaned. 

“When you fail to find happiness for yourself, look for the ways you can help others find happiness.” Corvus mused as she rattled a talon along the fuzor’s shoulder. 

“It’s still not the same. It’s still not what you promised me.” Velvet whined before dipping his head respectfully. “I apologize, my Prime.” 

“You are still young, Velvet. There is still much you cannot see.” Corvus stroked the branches of a ginkgo tree and plucked off one of its fan-shaped leaves. She held it before Velvet. “The Tryptich mask, the very eyes of Onyx Prime, sees all possibilities all across time.” Her talon tips danced over the fragile leaf. “However, when our Sparks are ignited and when our beast mode is extant is often at different times.” She pointed to opposite ends of the leaf. Her claws then come together to the same point. “Some are fortunate, others might look for the fossils of their forms. And us, we must look to the future.” Her fingers graced the edge of the leaf. She let it fall into Velvet’s hands as she walked away, deeper into the forest. “Come along.” 

Velvet transformed into beast mode, a cervine body and legs with a long wormy neck and tail covered in stubs. His head had antlers, large ears, antenna, and claws around the mouth. He looked more like an alien creature than a combination of two earthly animals. 

Orion thought he was familiar with earth’s ecosystems just by driving through them along highways, backroads, and scenic drives. But a quarter billion year difference is more than enough to make the most familiar planet feel otherworldly. Griffinflies the size of eagles chased after gliding, warty amphibians and sparrow-sized winged silverfish between the scaled branches. The undergrowth, made up of sporing ferns, lush cycads, and fruiting, giant mosses, sprung up easily after the gentle step of the two Eukarians. 

Corvus weaved around the tree trunks like a delicate dancer, her wings and cloak-like panels close to her svelte frame. Her optics were glued to the ground, scanning through several different wavelengths of light and other sensory inputs like smell, CO2 emissions, and DNA metabarcoding. Velvet followed close behind on patient hoofsteps. The forested valley around them deepened and widened. 

Atlast, Corvus dropped down into a crouch before a tree stump and a burrow nestled among its dead, twisted roots. “Something has the indigenous animals on edge, took me awhile, but atlast, I found it.” 

“I try not to doubt you, my Prime.” Velvet prattled as he transformed and crept up beside her. 

She reached out with a talon and graced the rotting wood of the stump, allowing a worm to crawl up onto her finger. With her other hand, she reached into the burrow and pinched, taking out a small furry animal with sprawling legs. It panicked as she held it by the scruff. She dropped it into the hands of Velvet and scratched beneath its chin, calming it down while she explained. “There, a cynodont, ancestor of all mammals, including the elk, and a velvet worm. Components of your fused beast mode. Through time and the tree of life, we are all connected.” 

Velvet smiled as he observed the small animals. The cute moment was fleeting as the cynodont wrestled out of the bot’s hands and bolted for its burrow. Corvus looked up and transformed. Orion’s vision changes to follow her catapult up through the canopy. The mechanical corvid flapped her wings frantically as she spun in the air, searching for some section of sky free from the upcoming smoke and fire. 

Great death is upon her. 

Skys Above South America, Earth

Roadkill lounges in the passenger seat of Airachnid’s personal shuttle, enjoying the rare moment where he is the follower. Externally, the spacecraft is shrouded in shielding and holograms that give it the appearance of mist rising above the Amazon Rainforest. Airachnid pilots perplexingly; she didn’t rely on any HUD or the ship’s readouts, instead, a compound-eyed visor flips over her optics as she looked out the canopy. She keeps a firm, jerky grip on the yoke. Finally, she does something startling; she rolls down the window. 

A gust of wind blows in carrying with it the faint wiff of cyber-pheromones. That must be how she’s tracking down her “children''. Roadkill recognizes the scent from the few times he’s had to exterminate rogue insecticon hives. The term insecticon is a catchall for any transformer with an athropod alternate mode or appearance. Airachnid came from a rare strain of parasitic insecticons who reproduced not in association with a Titan like most other Transformers but by injecting their cyber-venom into a developing protoform to override its innate source code and turn it into another parasite. Roadkill and his Trackers previously took in one of her children, a fire truck named Inferno. What Roadkill found most peculiar about the young missing mech is that he bled blue, a trait of the Camiens, the most remote of Cybertron’s colonists. He turned to her and asked, “Why seek out a Camien Titan?” 

Airachnid bristles, pulled out of the trancelike state of tracking down her other offspring. Roadkill felt her telepathic screening of his mind, not of his memories but of his emotions. All she finds is inquiry and judgement. She smirks. “My kind has a unique opportunity amongst our larger species, one akin to sexual selection in the organic races. The Camiens, while not impressive, were forged by struggle, desperation, and scarcity. I wanted my children to know such feelings from their creation. That they will always hunger.” 

“I see.” Roadkill says flatly. Abject admissions of cruelty were common among the Decepticons but what she just explained still managed to unnerve the hardened hunter. “Do you know its location?” 

She shakes her head. “I found him beneath a glacier on a landmass the indigenous organics ironically designate as Greenland. I briefly engaged in a battle with the Cityspeaker. Then the Titan spacebridge jumped to another location and the stasis pods fell out.” 

The shuttle slowly lowers to just above the treeline. Airachnid retracts her visor and rises from the pilot’s seat. She walked over to the side doors and swung them open. She jumps. 

Roadkill is quick to follow. He dives down through the lively layers of the understory, limbs tight at his sides. Upon reaching the bottom, he curls into a ball and tumbles to a stop in a murky creek. A herd of capybara ran away in a panic. As Roadkill picks himself up, he hears the disgruntled growl of a panther in the bush. I can feel a kinship with it. 

The jungle is so dense and wild that he is unable to traverse it by tire. He resigns to a trudge by foot. The buzz of Airachnid’s wings or rotor blades beckon him forward. Insects and humid wind cling to his plating. Each step is a test not to stumble on root, bush, or vine. Roadkill grinded his denta and brandished a shortened scythe, ready to cut down whatever impedes his onward hike. The one thing he can’t strike down is the echoes of his dignity. I’m nothing more than an accessory to this mad mother. 

Atlast he can see Airachnid again. She lands in her spider wasp mode, abdomen expanding and contracting, wings shivering. Among the tangled roots of several interlocked trees are two stasis pods. The fully developed transformer’s inside are visible like a chrysalis about to unravel and reveal a butterfly. Warm honey-yellow metal ripples inside the smaller pod while the larger shined emerald green. Cyber-venom laced with activation codes dribble from Airachnid’s jaws. 

“Would you like some privacy?” Roadkill asks. 

“Hmm, yes. You know the coordinates. Meet us there in half a day. Bring Crumplezone and Deadlock.” Her voice is heavy. 

Roadkill curtly nods before departing through his groundbridge portal. He arrives on coral island that served as the Tracker base. Not too far out to sea, Tidal Wave is anchored. The mass-shifted modulator arrived recently with Lugnut and a small crew in the aftermath of Emperor Megatron’s failed assault of Earth. The Megatron loyalist sits upon the carrier’s deck while the tiny insect-like medic Scapel scuttles over her amputated arm, mapping out the endoskeleton measurements for her replacement. Her mono-optic cuts sharper than his needles. 

Roadkill keeps to the company of those Trackers who have served under him since Earth’s prehistory. However, they are scarce today, away on deployment throughout the Solar System. Humanity now knows of the Transformers war on their planet and the location of the Tracker base is one of the few secrets they still have. 

Beneath the shade of palm leaves and shuttle wings, Roadkill finds the mech he’s looking for. Crumplezone is parked, unalert while in stasis nap. Roadkill takes short, soft steps as he approaches the green Velocitroian. Crumplezone had once been partners with traitor turned Autobot co-leader Rattrap. As Ransack, the trash-talking motorcycle made use of Crumplezone’s brawn. Without the vermin, he’s aimless and emotionally vulnerable. Roadkill can see why Airachnid singles him out. 

“Oh! Uh, what is it, sir?” Crumplezone sputters awake upon Roadkill’s vent. 

“You are to accompany me and a few others in apprehending Knockout, Breakdown, Inferno, and Counterpunch.” Roadkill orders. “I advice you bring some anti-freeze.”

Roadkill quickly left him and searched for the last participant. On the other end of the small island Turmoil and Deadlock sit alone on the beach. The former warden and guard of Trypticon had a mission of their own. Since the Incident in which the Decepticon prison was assaulted by another Titan and his prisoners released, the two sought to hunt down and deactivate all the escapees. They came to Earth to find the final living one, Metalhawk, an Autobot pretender and second co-leader. 

“Have you seen them?” Turmoil demands as he dispels the holopads surrounding him. 

Roadkill shook his helm. Once a common nuisance flying overhead, he’s failed to see the Autobot pretender outside of their shell in months. “I wish to speak with Deadlock.” 

She sat aways off with her hands on her rifle, fiddling with the scope and settings. “Deadlock, listen to the mech.” Turmoil huffs. 

“What?” She looks up. 

Roadkill narrows his optics. These two have been working alongside each other since before the war. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s warforged. All she knows is his orders and the actions she takes. One could question her true loyalties. “Come with me.”

Chapter Text

Docks of Iacon, 6 MYA

“It is with a tremendous honor that I see the newly elected Senators Momus of Helex and Ratbat of Lesser Kaon off. They are the first of many Decepticon representatives. That I am certain of.” Megatron declared over the live holo-vid feed. Behind him stood the two politicians. Momus had changed parties from Ascenticon to Decepticon before this most recent election. Ratbat was one of Soundwave’s mini-cassettes, chosen out of the bunch for eloquence and evalatory skill to run as a puppet candidate after recent gerrymandering divided Kaon into two districts to appease the growing Decepticon movement while letting Decimus keep his seat. Orion found it nauseating. 

He sat slumped over on an abandoned pier, feet dangling above the water attracting the attention of energon leeches and servo-squids. He found it far away from where he used to work. One hand held up to project the holo-vid streamed over a hacked signal (by this point the Decepticons had taken to releasing things over a vetted pay-per-view.) His other hand loosely gripped the handle of his ion cannon, an unfortunate consequence of the reality at play as he immersed himself in political activism in opposition of both Decepticons and Functionists. I hadn’t yet thought of what I’d have to replace it with.

The camera changed to that of an overhead shot of a gladiatorial arena. Crowds were gathering in their seats. The arena’s floor was swept of dried energon, glass shards, and stray metal.  Megatron’s voice continued, “To mark this momentous occasion I offer up a tournament in the honor of the Decepticon movement and our new leaders who will give a proper voice on our behalf. Unlike past competitions I have given you, this won’t be a showcase of fresh faces or decorated champions. Rather a new breed of warrior trained under my hand. The generals of the future fight to come!” 

Orion turned it off. He couldn’t bear to listen to the former miner turned lanisata. It wasn’t just the diversion of opinions or the threats he received but how callously Megatron had disregarded him as soon as the words of Soundwave and Shockwave sounded better to his audio receptors. Orion thought he had a peer, a co-founder of a movement, maybe even a friend. But Megatron saw him as nothing but another tool for destabilization and reintegration under the Decepticon banner. 

The former dockworker stood up and stretched. At this point in his life much of it was spent infront of a monitor and keyboard researching, annotating, or transcribing on behalf of Alpha Trion or some other old robot in need of joint lubricant and corrosion inhibitor. In his sparetime, he kept up with the news, organized and attended protests. Sometimes (more times then he wants to admit freely), he’d end up in trouble. Through this, he gained quite a network of sympathetic acquaintances, but nothing like what Megatron had. 

He looked to the sky. In the aftermath of election results, the skies were quiet and clear. It was a rare but calming sight. 

“It won’t remain that way for long.” Alpha Trion chimed in as he suddenly appeared behind his apprentice. 

“What! Trion! Is something wrong?” Orion asked, spinning around in a startle. 

The old mech shook his head and doned an uncharacteristically somber appearance. “The best way to be a historian is to be paying attention to history as it happens.” 

On cue, a spacebridge opened up in Cybertron’s upper atmosphere, visible as a circular sliver of a dark asteroid field amid the blue and yellow sky. First through the bridge was a small starfighter. Its flight was darty, nervous, and panicked. As it dove down towards the Rust Sea, Orion recognizes that color scheme and the contours of its wings and flusalage, albeit a bit smaller. Metalhawk! They must be only decades old at this time. They swung up against a crashing wave and folded their wings down into makeshift hydrofoils. 

Further behind was a mixed formation of mechanical seabirds (and seabird-convergent animals), slower starships, and aircraft. They all heralded the approach of something bigger. A testudine Titan swam through the portal upon turquoise wing-like flippers. Her beaked head screamed out. Orion felt the city behind him shake in acknowledgement. He had never seen a free Titan before. Most on Cybertron were well integrated with the plentiful cityscape and scarcely ever transformed. But this one was lively. The heavy cruiser-sized turtle dove down for the water. Her entry was graceful and precise. Only a lick of water lapped over the pier Orion and Alpha Trion watched from. She breached out of the water. Her carapace began to unfurl, extending out into piers, awnings, and balconies. Her flippers dropped down and thickened into strong limbs. She came to a stop about half a kilometer out to sea. The fliers rejoin their brethren who remained inside the Titan’s shell. Their optics were wide with fear and wonder. 

Orion vented out heavily as he looked around, expecting some sort of response. If not a police car atleast some curious flier? Someone? Anyone? Aside from streaks of debri along the Titan’s carapace, none of the refugees appeared to be injured but they were obviously in distress. “Trion? Is there anything we can do for them?” Orion asked as he took a step back. 

The old mech’s attention had flickered between the sea and his datapad. “I am only an observer.” 

But I’m not. Orion ran away from the docks. As soon as he reached a street, he transformed and accelerated. The pickup speeded between warehouses and garages, purposefully drawing attention to himself. He cuts on the toes of workers, garnering hollers and curses and finally: police sirens. 

A hovercycle and a burly SUV pursued Orion. “Stop, citizen! You are speeding in an industrial area!” One of them ordered. 

He refused to heed and circled back towards the docks. By this point, the titan had walked closer to shore but her people remained unsure. The two officers stopped and transformed upon seeing her. Orion kept driving, sped past Alpha Trion, and fell into the sea. He thrashed around trying to tread water but his frame was too heavy. He sank beneath the waves. A few arms tried to reach down for him but he drifted down deeper into the depths. 

He felt a long beak pinch around his forearm and drag him upward. “AHH!” He finally screamed as he was pulled back up onto the pier by a robotic long-necked diving bird. The bird transformed into an iridescent purple and white femme with outstretched wings along her back and a casual stance. “Thanks…” Orion said haggardly as the water dripped off his panels. 

“No problem. You all could use swimming lessons. Seriously, what kinda lifeguards are you?” She scoffed as she crossed her arms and looked at the two motionless officers. 

“What? Lifeguards? We’re police officers! This ain’t some public pool, that’s the Rust Sea! And that mech is under arrest for speeding!” Gasped the bigger policebot.

“They need help! Don’t you two see that Titan out there? She just came through a spacebridge with all her people!” Orion shouted. He then turned to the avian transformer who saved him. “What’s your name and what happened to you?” 

“I’m Plunge, activities coordinator onboard Tortuga, which I guess makes me the leader or something. I don’t know.” She shrugged. She pointed over her shoulder at the wading cityformer. “Anyway, we’re from a little ocean moon a few dozen lightyears away called Archon. Nice vacation spot. An asteroid struck us and caused a moonwide tsunami. So we all evacuated  to right here. Cybertron, right? Heard alot about it, never bought into the hype.” 

Orion and the policebots looked on in astonishment at Plunge’s nonchalance. “So, do you all intend to return?” Asked the historian. 

Plunge shrugged and folded in her wings. “Yeah. We’ll just hang here for a few centuries if ya don’t mind.” 

“Ah actually, we really do mine! I can think of a hundred laws this vioates!” The hovercycle cop shakes his finger at the giant turtle in the sea. 

“Huh. Didn’t think of that.” Plunge looked away. 

“What! Isn’t there anything you two can do for them?” Orion cried out as he clutched his helm. 

“Hey! You aren't in the condition to be ordering us around and we aren't in the position to be helping a bunch of colonist charity cases from a resort moon!” Shouted the burly officer as he displayed a speeding ticket on his holopad and took out a pair of stasis cuffs. 

“Darn. Well, may the winds blow where they may, we will follow.” Plunge snapped her fingers in disappointment before leaping into the air and flying back to her people. 

Atlast Alpha Trion acted. He strode between the police officers and Orion, flourishing his starry cape as if it were a class-9 containment shield. “Surely my innate authority as a Prime is more then enough to punish this offender.”

The two policebots jolted at his declaration. The hovercycle’s optics dimmed with suspicion. “You don’t look like any Prime I’ve seen.” He took out a sensor and waved it at the old historian. “Nope, no residual Matrix energy. Beat it, you old gas guzzler!”

Alpha Trion chuckled softly. To Orion it's one of the most powerful sounds ever uttered. “The Matrix of Leadership, while it bears a shard of our Sparks, never resided within myself nor my siblings. The closest was as the hilt to Prima’s blade. Perhaps this is enough: the seal of Trion!” He projected a magenta sigil assembled out of several rhombuses. 

“Pfft. You’d need something better than some old badge.” The hovercycle rolled his optics. 

“Yeah. You got any relics on you? Something that only a Prime could wield. And not something like the Enigma of Combination or Tryptych mask or the Multi-cog.” The SUV added. 

Trion bowed his helm. “Very well. Behold, the Quill!” He held out a stylus fashioned after a feather. He danced it between his fingers before the polices’ optics. “Now, will you please hand the mech over before I decide to write it into reality myself?”

The two officers shuddered and nodded before driving away with little more than a tire screech. Orion let out a relaxed laugh. “Ah…I know the Quill can’t really do that but it’s still a good joke. Thank you, Trion.” 

Before Trion can respond, his knees buckle and he nearly falls over. Orion rushed to his side and held the old mech up. He directly ‘acted’ too much, now it's causing him pain. “Hmm, perhaps I should be thanking you, my apprentice. Even if the outcome was not how you wished, I applaud you on your intentions.” Alpha Trion smiled beneath his beard and pushed Orion away. “Perhaps you can aid me in returning to the Hall of Records?”

Orion didn’t even need to hear it. He transformed and lowered down his tailgate, allowing the caped historian to sit down on his bed. 

His surroundings changed: the mist from the docks swirled up and around him. Once it parts, he returns to the company of Corvus Prime. “This was shortly before you wrote your edict, correct? And founded the Autobots.” She slowly steps towards him, taking dramatic pounds of her staff and clinks of her claws. 

He turns away. “Yeah. Alpha Trion kept me inside for a while to keep appearances. House arrest or something. Gave me alot of time to think and write.” 

“I am aware.” Corvus bowed her masked helm. “You won’t be able to write for much longer.”

“I haven’t written consistently for millions of years. I gave that up when the War started.” Orion says. 

“That’s not what I meant.” Corvus corrects. 

Orion felt something in his hands. He can’t see it, but he can feel his fingers inserted into the Matrix’s handles, the sustained torque of his elbow joints as they were slightly bent at just the right angle to keep it opened half-way. There’s the faint hum of hospital equipment, the scrubbing of a janitor just outside the door, the pressure of his back against the recharge slab. He’s slowly waking up. “Let’s see the end of it.” 

Northern Pangea, 252 MYA

Any vestiges of real world stimulae are flushed out as Orion is plunged back into Corvus’s datatrax. His vents close up and he deploys a faceplate almost on instinct as impenetrable, black smoke crowds out his vision. Tufts of smoldering rock and droplets of acid rain fall through his ghostly form. He scours for any sign of Corvus, her wingbeats against the dark clouds, her caws, the cold light behind her optics. Nothing. Aside from the faint feeling of moving upward through the pyroclastic storm. 

Building charge. Static between buried ground and hellish sky. 

CRACK!

A dash of lightning parted the hadean horizon just enough for Corvus to come into view. Two bulky bots were gripped by the helm from her strained talons. Each wing flap was accompanied by a thick push back from the storm. Her gears and plating grind against each other, singed and warped by the heat and acid. She was flying upwards, trying to clear the cloud layer and find solace and Gorgon. 

Then darkness and falling ash and tephra. His specter followed for what felt like deca-cycles. Sometimes, he’d get a sense of Corvus’s labored ascent through her shadow on smog or the fearful shouts of her compatriots. 

The air grew thinner, colder, and clearer eventually, the relief of the night sky and cool glow of moonlight. Auroras danced in an almost congratulatory manner. Corvus Prime breached into the atmosphere’s edge. She folded her wings against her body as it achieved some manner of zero-gravity. Her movements grow weak and her optics dim as she enters stasis lock. 

Brevet of the ability to sense or interact with much of the outside world, the datatrax instead provides a generated facsimile. The two bots she carried climbed up her legs and onto her back. They shook hands infront of her optics, pried open her beak, anything to elicit a response. One began to panic and nearly fell away from the others before being yanked back by the other bot. They took charge and projected a holopad, showing them in communication with someone else onboard Gorgon. 

Eventually, the titan came into view. He was in his gigantic starship mode, slowly approaching above the curvature of the Earth. A far smaller Cybertronian frigate followed the beastly titan. He extended a tractor beam to cradle Corvus and those she rescued and bring them back under his safety. 

Orion’s visage shifts to the interior of Gorgon as Corvus awakens. She was placed within a foyer, given a brief space while haggard and dirty Eukarians crowd around. They look on desperately at their Prime. A striped robot who turned into a simiasaur approached her with a bucket filled with soapy water and a sponge in hand. He sat down and began to wash off the grime from her panels. She slowly stirred, the light returned to her optics. She shimmied closer and leaned into his touch. 

Suddenly, the crowd is parted by the boarding Cybertronian party. Pharma led. He’s wings were spread out proudly behind, the words ‘Search and Rescue’ printed along them. A clear declaration of his function but a mask for his intention. He pointed at the most heavily injured for the Eukarians, already seen to by the healers already on board. The directed medibots, diagnostic drones, and medics scrambled to assist. However, most of his accompaniment was Senate Guard who didn’t betray any of their prejudice as they parted and prodded at the assembled beastformers. 

“This is your idea of premium medicare? An ape-lizard running a carwash?” Pharma chortled as he stopped before Corvus. 

She finally lifted her head and stared at him. “This is too quick of a response and since when have you bothered with your ‘function’.” 

The dark blue jet rolled his optics. “We have probes in this system’s asteroid belts. One detected increased atmospheric emissions and seismic activity on a planetwide scale. We had to react. You know what's at stake.” 

Corvus fanned out her injured wings and gestured to the people around her. “Not them. Not to you.” 

The Senate Guard closed in around her. Pharma smiled sickly. “You are wise.”

The crowd roared, hissed, snarled, screamed, squealed, and squawked their outrage. The least-injured stood up and brandished tooth, claw, tail whip, and weaponry. 

Corvus transformed in a laborious manner, her armor grinding and catching against itself. She left her wing-cloak open as it was in tatters. Her posture made up for her damage: tall, proud, and judgmental. “Silence! Do not give reason for these Cybertronian goons to disrespect us more!”

Pharma smiled even wider. “See? We can do this civilly. Just surrender the Matrix for a moment, Corvus Prime. Allow me to run a diagnostics check and treat you.”

“You may doubt the medicinal practices of my people, but I have good reason not to. Why do you think I was selected to become a Prime?” She asked. 

Pharma mumbled something under his breath and looked away.

“Hmm, what was that?” Corvus asked again, a teasing note to her voice. 

“Eukaris had an epidemic of Cosmic Rust one million stellar cycles ago. To prevent it spreading to other planets, trade was closed down, including the transport of its only cure, Corrostop. So, you developed an organic based alternative and personally delivered it to all its victims across the planet.” Pharma bemoaningly recited. He then looked closer at Corvus and laughed. “It’s amazing how you’re still standing. You should be in stasis lock with your condition.” He took out a few sensors and scanned her energy signature and optics which flittered between pale colors as opposed to their normal white. “Your Spark is 40% smaller than it should be due to the stress it just endured. That is just beneath critical. So, you are using the Matrix itself as a backup.” He frowned at the revelation. “Clever.” 

“If I were to surrender it anytime soon, my Spark would have an 87% chance of sudden extinguishing.” Corvus added. 

Pharma pouted. He came close to her face and whispered to the Matrix itself. “Surely you me…I mean someone else and not her. I can bring glory to Cybertron. Glory to Primus himself.” 

“Primus’s glory shines across and beyond the Galaxy! It doesn’t belong to Cybertron alone!” Corvus shouted with a voice not entirely her own. 

Pharma scurried back. “Fine. But be ready for a follow up appointment.” 

Chapter Text

Sky Lynx always soared high above the waves of the Rust Sea ever since his fateful fall. Since the Rogue Titan’s absence, its old kings have retaken their crown: massive Driller worms undulate through open water. These many-tentacled, worm-like beasts mostly burrowed beneath the plated plains or within the deep canyons of Cybertron. But they easily took to swimming through the Rust’s waters or the plasma storms of the Argon sea. His air brakes shudder. One of the last things I can remember in my prior body was falling beneath those waves and being surrounded by tentacles. Almost devoured by that toothed, twisting turbine of a mouth it had.

A portal opens up a wingspan away from him and Skywarp pops out. She keeps at half the max-speed of her earthly alt-mode and makes use of her teleporting abilities to catch up with the Autobot shuttle. Sky Lynx flies just under the sound barrier. Within the Neutral Territories, sonic booms could easily draw the attention of Decepticon patrols. Especially with Vos so close by. 

“Have you gotten a callback? From that friend of yours.” Skywarp asks before she falls too far behind. 

Sky Lynx turns his attention to his HUD, he flips through a few menus and subsystems until he finds communications. Up top are 7 consecutive declined calls sent to Metalhawk. “Nope…wait! I am getting a call!” Once it connects, his voice dips into an overly sweet greeting. “Hey, ‘Hawk! Are you spacebound yet? I didn’t want to leave you out on giving Starscream an aft whooping!”

There’s a brief pause before the pretender replies. “What? Is that why you called me 7 times! I was in the shower! Did he escape again? Ugh…doesn’t matter. I can’t join you Sky Lynx. Apprehending him caused me to lose an arm then regrow it in flesh and bone and then break it.” Their voice sounded different; small, incredibly tired, and terribly human. 

“Oh!” Sky Lynx realizes as it comes back to him. “Right. Silly me! I forgot. I’ve been so absorbed in making sure Orion’s okay. Saw some movement from him so hopefully he’ll be back up and priming! How are things?” 

Mel let out a deep sigh on the other end. “Well, we’ve had no luck in locating where Unicron might exit from, so no rush. The humans know about us now so that’s a whole other bucket of worms. And the Decepticons are getting tetchy again. But me? Me personally?” 

“Spill!” Sky Lynx encourages. “Congrats on getting Cloudburst back as well.” 

“Yeah. It’s nice…he just left, again, to go intercept some Decepticons in Antarctica. But he made me a clam chowder bread bowl before he left. In fact, I’m going to pull it out right now. Give me a moment.” Mel briefly left. 

And Skywarp thinks me eating a sample platter is disgusting. Yet there are bots like them who practically live off of organic foods. I can’t imagine it. “Take your time.” Sky Lynx says. 

After a few moments, he hears a scream. “AHH! WHY?” 

Sky Lynx’s panels spring open as he almost transforms. “What! What happened?” 

“He put bacon into the clam chowder!” Mel exclaims, close to tears. 

Sky Lynx nearly stalls at the non-dilemma. What on Primus’s platinum plains is bacon? “So?” 

“A good clam chowder can stand alone. But instead this has bacon bits in it.” Mel sternly explains. 

“But Cloudburst made it for you. You should be grateful.” Sky Lynx reminds them. 

“I know and I hate that I’m complaining…Ugh! I should have given him a recipe in the first place.” Mel takes a deep breath. “At Least he didn’t make Manhattan clam chowder, that one has tomatoes. It is the furthest strayed from greatness. I’ll just pick out the bacon bits.” 

“See? This is a non issue.” Sky Lynx says. 

“I guess. Sorry. I’ve been under alot of pressure from all sides. Being trapped in this meat suit isn’t doing me any favors. Everything feels so sensitive. It’s why I can’t emerge from the shell. There’s overgrown nerves in my left hand and it's overwhelmingly painful if I try to transform. This whole thing is like remote control taxidermy. It looks human enough from the outside but on the inside my original nature is apparent and I can’t even express it. Sorry. I know that’s a lot to dump on you, Sky Lynx. I know you’re a modulator so transforming between different morphologies is probably second nature for you but…” Mel trails off. 

“I understand. Not everyone takes to something as easily as me. Tell you what. I’m close to Polyhex, I can stop by your apartment and fetch you something.” Sky Lynx offers. 

“Sure. I’d have to give you an access code. In the closet, I have a Mark 56-R LiDAR sensor. It’s an older model but I want to reinstall it…once I can transform again.” They say. 

“LiDAR sensor. Got it. Okay, bye!” Sky Lynx ends the call abruptly before he can receive another rambling lecture. 

Below, they make landfall over Polyhex. Once it had been a city of three sectors: the research district along the coast, the Plaza that rose high above to serve its wealthy customers looking for an alternative to the politics of Iacon, evangelists of Tetrahex, and debates between Lower and Upper Petrohex. Beneath it was Dead End, a deep crevice that served as home to anyone who couldn’t afford the Plaza or wasn’t smart enough to study in the Research District. With ease, the Decepticons organized the empties into an army with nothing to lose that rose up to level the Plaza, filling in the cracks and leveling Polyhex during the Siege. The only habitable portion of the city-state is a sliver of beachfront apartments and warehouses that cling tight to the flood walls. 

Beyond, a wasteland littered with automated harvester units, turbofox packs, and downed fighter crafts reconverted into shelters for what empties remain. A corroded tetrajet sputters only a few meters off the ground. Without a tailfin and covered in bubbling paint and oxidized growths, it spirals and nosedives only to force itself back in the air. It crashes into the rubble of a demolished skyscraper, disturbing a flock of pigenoids. Starscream’s orange spark emerges from the rusty Seeker frame and processes the bird’s body, overpowering its weak spark and overriding its instinctual programs. Now in a body at least capable of flying clumsily in a straight line, Starscream continues heading in a vague direction towards Vos. 

Sky Lynx stalls and remains at his high altitude. He tracks Starscream as the Air Commander blends in with another flock of pigenoids. Skywarp joins up with him. “I have Starscream in my targets, however, he’s possessed something very small. Even my precise laserfire would fail to incapacitate his frame and instead deactivate it, forcing him out before we can use the repolarizer.” 

“I could get you close.” Skywarp offers. “My frame is more preferable to him then yours and you are clearly more powerful then I. Besides, only an insignia bearing Autobot can be trusted with such a delicate operation.” 

Sky Lynx grinds his teeth as his nose-cone parts into a long set of jaws. He transforms and flaps his wings through the thin air. “Oh, very well.” 

Skywarp projects a portal for him. Sky Lynx dives through. His wings seize up at the sudden change of pressure. He’s right on top of the pigenoid flock. He strikes a talon down and grabs, crushing several of the robo-birds. Starscream’s spark is forced out and wriggles out of Sky Lynx’s toes. The autobot’s neck cranes around to keep track of the spark as it buzzes about angrily. He can’t make out Starscream’s garbled, quiet speech, but his actions become clear as he lunges for Sky Lynx’s chest. 

The feline-crawler component of Sky Lynx falls on top of Starscream’s spark upon exiting subspace. Sky Lynx’s own spark splits in two, still connected by a subspace connection like a tethering rope, to occupy his other half while Starscream goes to infect it. A half-spark and an immortal spark vie for control. The pulses of each spark interface with opposing hemisphere’s of the lynx frame’s processors. At the end, they connect in the head to form the brain module. 

Occupying an animalistic ground-kisser is hardly my first choice. Still, I’ve never given Devisiun engineering its due. Perhaps it will all be worth it if I can gain control of its flighted half. Starscream schemes. 

How dare you! Sky Lynx proclaims. Being more familiar with the lynx frame and fueled by indignation, he gains control quicker. You aren’t worthy of being anywhere close to this body! Remember how I self-destructed just in your very presence!

Starscream takes over the accelerometer. Oh Primus we’re falling! Why doesn’t this body have landing thrusters? 

Sky Lynx took control over all four legs, originally intending to inflict damage on the frame until Starscream left. Now he lets the limbs go lax and springy, preparing the shock absorbers for impact. Starscream didn’t interfere, if there was one thing he valued more than the presentation of himself, it is the preservation of himself. Something that as Sky Lynx grew older, he related to more and more. 

 The lynx frame reaches the ground. He digs his claws in and shakes off the stun in his servos. Sky Lynx’s spark succeeds in taking over the frame and expels Starscream’s spark. His avian component dives down and unifies. “Atlas! Sky Lynx rejoined!” The Autobot announces. 

Starscream’s spark buzzes near his audio receptors like an annoying insect. “I’ll have the last laugh! I interfaced with your datatrax! I know countless secrets the Autobots have trusted you with! But before I return to the Decepticons, I now know the location of that petulant scientist’s apartment. Now I can search for more secrets, blackmail them.” He declares. 

Sky Lynx tries to bite or snatch at the Seeker’s spark but Starscream is too quick. He gets away and takes over the body of a turbofox. Befitting his victim’s name, it runs quickly out of the wasteland and towards the distant shore. 

“I lost him.” Sky Lynx reluctantly reports to Skywarp. 

“What? But you’re the wondrous, magnificent Sky Lynx. He who can do no wrong and can only do right!” Skywarp chimes. 

“No! No zingers. I may have endangered Autobot intelligence and the trust of a friend.” Sky Lynx interrupts. He gallops after the possessed turbofox and spreads out his wings, ready to take flight. 

“Oh, scrap.” Skywarp realizes over the comm. “Need me to make a groundbridge?” 

Sky Lynx shakes his head as he lifts off the ground. He transforms and blasts his rockets. “No. Just follow me. I can still make things right!’ 

Metalhawk and Cloudburst’s apartment

After dealing with the easily-panicked landlord and small halls that forced him to split apart, Sky Lynx’s avian half taps in the access code to get into the pretenders apartment. Skywarp follows behind him with his feline half bringing up the rear. They enter. 

He fails to make out what damage Starscream could have caused to the apartment’s layout. The sides of the living room floor are covered in thousands of tiny boxes, baskets, and containers filled to the brim with human made products, artifacts, and oddities. “Be careful not to step on the…” Sky Lynx fails to describe it.

“The junk?” Skywarp asks as she tiptoes in. “Is this friend of yours a hoarder?” 

“No. More like a perpetual tourist.” Sky Lynx keeps his head down, looking at the floor for any streak marks that could indicate moved furniture. 

“Souvenirs then.” Skywarp stood back and crossed her arms. “The closet door is cracked open.” 

Sky Lynx pretends to have noticed it beforehand. Two lights shine through cracks, illuminating the deactivated body of the turbofox. “Hmm, you are wise, Skywarp. I always appreciated that about you.” Starscream purrs as he emerges, controlling a black sudan. 

“The only thing you liked about me was when I’d make a portal between Vos and Kaon.” Skywarp shuts him down. 

“How low you have fallen, Starscream. Once the summoner of crowds and now unable to convince a longtime follower. You’ve even taken control of a monomorphic car manufactured by a race only vorns post industrial-revolution.” Sky Lynx teases as he approaches. He takes out the repolarizing extractor and pinches it between his wing claws. 

Starscream drives forward, tires squealing and engine roaring. He aims the vehicle at Sky Lynx’s toe claws. Halfway, it gives out and comes to a sputtering stop. “No! The gas tank is empty!” 

Sky Lynx smirks. He charges at the car as Starscream’s spark rises out of it. 

“Wait! Lord Starscream! I’ve reconsidered. Go through the portal, it will take you back to Avion’s factory where a new body is waiting for you!” Skywarp shouts as she opens a ground bridge directly above his spark.

No! Sky Lynx activates the repolarizer and tosses it at the spark. Its claws splay out and grapple around Starscream’s orange spark. To fight back, he sends out tentacles of static that warp and push back on the claws, prying himself free. He then darts through the portal as it closes. 

“What in the Inferno was that!” Sky Lynx shouts in tandem as both his halves face Skywarp with bared teeth and twitching claws. 

The black and purple Seeker remains surprisingly calm. She frowns slightly. “Just because I’m no longer a Decepticon doesn’t mean I won’t do some trickery. You and Screamer are more alike than you want to admit: impossibly arrogant and stupidly gullible when desperate.” 

“Prosperous! Where did you send him?” Sky Lynx growled. 

Skywarp rolls her optics. “He’s still in the room. I teleported him into one of these boxes.” His lynx half turns around and scans the souvenir boxes for signs of a movement. With a delicate claw, he taps at the lid of one, taking it off. Out of box leaps a life-sized robotic cat covered in ginger tabby faux fur. Behind its glass eyes shines Starscream’s orange spark. Sky Lynx carefully pinches it in his claws. It struggles and lets out a pre-recorded speel of hisses and meows. “Ha! He can’t even talk!”

“That will be Prowl’s problem. Now, let’s return him.” Sky Lynx says as he returns to the closet to collect the LiDAR sensor.

Chapter Text

Eukaris, 250 MYA

As Optimus Prime, he had been to Eukaris before to seek the aid of Grimlock and his Dinobot Knights who had united the five biome-divided tribes under one kingdom. This happened right after the Decepticon armada razed the planet’s surface. The planet’s surface was deserts of ash, stormy seas, and forests of carbonized tree trunks and pale green saplings. It was a world in ruin rebuilding itself, by itself. That was something that could never happen on Cybertron. The battlefields turned wastelands would remain that way until one side decided to rebuild there. It wouldn’t erode away, at most turn to rust but still be present as corroded red skeletons. Like Earth, Eukaris evolved and changed: its tectonic plates shifted, reshaping the ocean currents, coastlines, and continents that sit above. Its native flora and fauna competed in the trials of evolution, a new cast of characters would emerge every several millions of years while the old guard perished in extinction or faded to the shadows. Peering into Corvus’s datatrax for a final time, made this evidently true. 

Dense forests blanketed rolling hills far inland on Eukaris’s northern continent. In place of trees, there were giant purple ferns with leaves interlocking with those of its neighbors, forming walls. A few came together in a hemi-sphere structure pulled down in the middle. A village. The forest floor here had been trampled underfoot by Transformers into familiar paths between each hut. However, there was no one out and about. Unless this village had been recently abandoned, there was no sign of eviction. 

WOOSH! 

A dark blue jet led a mixed squadron of Seeker tetrajets, triple-changing Senate Guard, and vermillion and electric blue helicopter carrying an orange chest meant for the Matrix of Leadership while between carriers. Pharma came to collect. 

Orion’s vistage follows in the direction of the Cybertronian fliers, towards the hilltop. Their presence startled eagle-sized beetles on three pairs of wings from their roosts among the fern-tree’s connection points. A flecktarn gunship pointed his mini-cannon at the bugs and shot them into tattered wings and pockmarked chitin. 

A small green Eukarian who turned into a hummingbird came up above the tree line to investigate. She ducked and weaved effortlessly away from the Cybertronians firepower until Pharma gave a delayed stop order upon transforming. The squadron broke apart and circled as the hummingbird and Pharma hovered in the center. “Whatareyoudoinghere?” She asked quicker than anyone but Blurr, probing her long, thin beak near his mouth and vents. 

Pharma poked her beak away and gave a relaxed smile. “I’m making a house call. Where is Corvus Prime?”

“Thatseemslikealotmoreforcethenisnecessary.” She observed. 

“All to ensure a smooth transition of power. I even have a Priest of the Matrix Flame in my company. Now lead us.” Pharma hissed. 

The hummingbird flew backward and tilted her head. She transformed into a short yet bulbous femme with wings on her back. She brought her forearm to her face and opened up a comm channel. She whispered something quietly and quickly, verifying Pharma’s demands. She gave him a brief nod and continued to fly in the direction of the hilltops. She transformed and warily led the squadron to a longhouse made out of the same purple fern-trees. 

Only Pharma and the Matrix Flame Priest were allowed to land while the rest of the squadron circled overhead. The hummingbird Eukarian led them into the longhouse. Two stone tables ran the length of it with several other avian transformers taking their seat. They drank unfiltered liquid energon from clay cups scratched up by tightly gripped talons. Heads turned and wings flared out of displeasure at the sight of two highranking Cybertronians arriving at their small bird village. 

At the end of the longhouse, Corvus Prime sat upon her throne. It was an immaculately carved piece of living metal, kept a shining pale-blue tinted silver by its lack of a Spark, meant to imitate a long segmented worm doubling back over itself to form the shape of a functional seat. She was slouching, one hand in her lap, the other hanging onto her spear which had fallen into disuse. It’s tip was dull and chipped while the bottom was purposefully rounded off with a soft cap. It had been turned into a cane. Her mask was offkilter, showing the edge of her downturned, chipped lips and only one of her flickering optics. Her panels and armor were pristine and full but that did little to hide how deep her injuries ran. 

Pharma stride up to her, a delighted grin on his face born out of sadistic glee rather than any joy in meeting with her again. “Were your home remedies successful, my Prime?” He asked rhetorically. 

Corvus rolled back her shoulders and sat up straight. “Some things can’t be repaired.” She admits as she undoes her winged cloak, revealing her chest. Her vents are corroded to the endoskeleton and stuffed with tuff, a stone made of solidified volcanic ash. She opens up her chest cavity to reveal the Matrix of Leadership and her spark chamber. The Matrix remained free to remove, the tuff diligently drilled out of the way. The same could not be said for her Spark casing, surrounded by fractured hunks of porous stone that would scratch and break important pulse conduits and nervo-circuits if removed. 

Pharma’s face softened. He crept closer and deployed a magnifying visor over his optics. “This is…” 

“The ash touched nearly every internal surface. I dremeled, scratched, and picked at what I could. I even procured a laser scalpel. But I cannot get to anything that covers my pulse conduits and nervo-circuits. It has added additional weight to my frame. I cannot fly for long periods of time nor transform swiftly.” Corvus explained as her talons scratched at the stone infecting her internals. 

“What about a Spark transplant?” Pharma asked in a detached manner. “A spark extractor should be able to phase…” 

He was interrupted by Velvet galloping into the longhouse. The fuzor’s long wormy neck and tail double over itself in shock, antennae and ears twitching. His presence riles up the avian audience just as much as the two Cybertronians did.
“What’s the half-beast doing here?” Questioned a golden-plated eagle.

“Not even he knows. He’s been confused since forging.” A pale pink swan speculates. 

“Filty two-triber!” Proclaims a cassowary. 

Corvus narrowed her optics and hammered her spear against the floor. “Enough! I expect such inwardly directed bigotry from the Cybertronians.” Pharma lost whatever fascination he had for her condition. “Not from my own people.” 

There was the awkward shuffling of metal feathers and apologetic whispers. Velvet transformed and gave an appreciative nod to Corvus Prime. He then frowned. “Wait, are you giving up the Matrix?” 

She readjusted her mask, hiding away her expressions. “I put it off for as long as I could. As did the Priest.” She turned her attention to them. “Explain what made you finally come here?”

“I watch over the Matrix Flame as it burns within the Primal Basilica on Cybertron. The Matrix Flame is connected to the Spark of the current Matrix bearer. For the past two million stellar cycle, it has steadily declined. Now it is but embers. It is time for Corvus Prime to pass it on.” They explained. The Priest pushed Pharma away, held out the case, and opened it. 

“There’s something you didn’t tell me, my Prime. Isn’t there?” Velvet pleaded. 

Corvus dipped her head. “The ash also infected my Innermost Energon. Even after recovering from the stress, it has remained small and unable to replenish itself. I’ve been using the Matrix as a back up. It was selfish of me.” She then fixed her gaze at Pharma. “I am not doing this at the request of the Cybertronians but for the persistence of our species and our collective wisdom.” 

She removed her mask first and offered it to Velvet. The plating around her optics and mouth had torn away in places, revealing the hardened tephra layer. She then inserts her talons into the handles of the Matrix and pulls it out. A beam of blue light pulses from the crystal and towards her body until she lays it to rest in the Priest’s case. Pharma watched on with a satisfied grin and hungry optics, his fingers fidgeted as if imagining himself holding the Matrix. She visibly shrunk by a third and slumped even further as her Spark now bore the full weight of her infection and injuries. Velvet pushed himself to her side. He closed her chest cavity and held the beaked mask up to her face, a preservation of her dignity.  

The Matrix Flame Priest closed the case and bowed before her. “Thank you for bearing the Matrix of Leadership, Rook, formerly Corvus Prime.”

Realm of Primes

“What happened next?” Orion asks as the Matrix’s mindscape returns to a more neutral environment: shiny black glass floors and sparkling fog that hide the watching optics of the hundreds of other souls that make up this realm of preserved mental relics. 

After exposing her weakest moments, Corvus Prime took the opportunity to pace and posture, pressing her claws against the glass and sweeping her cloak with each gesture. “I passed away only a few lunar cycles later. Barely enough time to get my affairs in order. Velvet begged me to make him my choice as champion for the next Contest of Leadership. However, he was willfully unprepared and the Senate rigged it in Pharma’s favor. He became Adaptus Prime. And Functionism became the dominant political ideology until you and Megatron came about. I was remembered as a failure.” 

Orion gave a nod of respect towards Corvus. “I’m sorry about your unfortunate fate and I appreciate a history lesson in all its forms. But I can’t help but question the motives behind this. If I return to Earth with the Matrix as Optimus Prime, I die? I already know this. I am prepared to sacrifice my life and Spark if that means preventing the Universe from being devoured by Unicron.” 

“No. It’s not that. That is merely a coincidence.” She shakes her head and steps closer to him. “Rather are you willing to sacrifice what you omitted? The Matrix of Leadership?” 

Shortly before returning to Cybertron, Orion was informed of Unicron’s reawakening by Metalhawk, the astrophyicist who had first discovered the Chaosbringer’s probable location, lurking within the planet Earth. Unicron’s revival would be in response to his brother Primus’s energy source or one similar to it: either a Titan or the Matrix of Leadership. At the time, Orion assumed that just being a former Matrix bearer would be enough and so agreed to reclaim the Matrix. He had opened up the Matrix and inflicted its energy a few times during the War’s most heated moments: as a last moment energy wave to counteract Megatron’s attack or to revive the gravely injured. He couldn’t see how unleashing it upon Unicron’s core would be any different. “Yes. I would sacrifice the Matrix as well.” He decides. 

“You’re failing to make your point, Corvus. You always did.” Sneers a voice familiar from Corvus’s datatrax. Adaptus Prime steps out of the fog. He was relatively unchanged from his prior identity as Pharma, the changes as Prime more a marker as his change in function from medic turned social engineer to the grand architect of Functionism. His clockwork armor is reminiscent of the Functionist Council’s. 

Orion backs away and narrows his optics. “Corvus, what’s the meaning of this? I thought you hated Adaptus.” Where’s Alpha Trion?

“Oh all wounds within life can be healed in the afterlife.” Adaptus chortled as Corvus turned away in shame. “Anyway, the point she was trying to make is she gave up the Matrix for the good of our entire species, and those blasted beasts and disposables, and its collective wisdom. AKA, us!” 

“I don’t understand. Even if, and we are basing this on an if, using the Matrix’s power to defeat Unicron drained it of its power, Transformers would still have sources of collective knowledge. The Hall of Records. The Covenant of Primus. Vector Sigma. The Oracle. Even Autopedia!” Orion protests. 

“This won’t work.” Corvus softly says, not directly to Adaptus but to the massing crowd of spirits drifting in the fog. It didn’t matter, this was Adaptus’s game now. 

“Ha. You don’t understand the Matrix’s true function.” He says. 

“Don’t argue about function with him, Adaptus. He tore down your whole system! As I said, they couldn’t hear the grass swishing and then burning as they roared like tigers!” Corvus shouts. 

Adaptus scrunches his faceplate in anger. “From what I heard of him, Starscream understood the Matrix’s purpose perfectly. That it is the only true afterlife in the Universe. The only way to extend one’s true, uninterrupted consciousness after death.”

“What?” Orion gasps. It was readily agreed by cyberologists, scientists who studied the inner workings of Cybertron, its mechanisms, systems, history, and peoples that the Spark of a Transformer persisted in some form after being extinguished. Just not in this Universe. Where it went and what was done with it was a matter of great theological debate and the foundation of most Transformer religions and spiritual beliefs and practices. The most commonly agreed hypothesis and the one supported by the direct words of Prima herself through a recorded conversation between herself and Alpha Trion was that the knowledge and life experience accumulated within the Spark over the course of a Transformer’s life was reconstituted within Primus himself, sustaining him. This was his method of not decaying, of staying alive and maintaining an inner order while his brother Unicron gave into this Universe’s entropy and increasing disorder and thus death. Whether or not the Spark maintained its individuality and conscious thought, or was melded in with Primus, or siphoned away and spat back out in a process of reincarnation or some other method was again a matter of great theological debate. I do not have time for this. “Then this is all about self-preservation, isn’t it?” 

“Exactly. You wouldn’t just be sacrificing your life but possibly all of us.” Adaptus warns. 

Orion turned around and walks about in thought. He can make out more faces in the fog. Zeta Prime. Nova Prime. Nominus Prime. Shotimus Prime. Bendy-Bus Prime. Septimus Prime. Primon. Guardian Prime. Smokimus Prime. Strangely enough, none of the original Thirteen. Perhaps after billions of stellar cycles of continued existence, they were all ready for a rest. 

“And then what? You expect me to let a Titan burn instead?” Orion challenges. 

“Why not? One life for the Universe. Just how you like it!” Adaptus jeers. 

“No! They don’t just carry their own Spark but the Sparks of thousands of Transformers just waiting to come online!” Orion proclaims. A few of the gathering spectres murmur in agreement. 

“So you’d just throw away the grandest of our kind’s past rather then the future’s ramblerousel?” Adaptus snarls as he deploys a pair of over the shoulder cannons. 

Orion sighs. “I have sought out the wisdom of many of you here. You all helped me become the leader the Autobots needed until I felt this was no longer needed and I feared what the Decepticons might do with it. I know that choice might have been unpopular among you all. But I do not regret it. I give thanks to all of those who have shared their wisdom with me. That extends to Corvus Prime as well. But it is the likes of Adaptus Prime who remind me that not all here should be exemplary of our kind. I won’t name names but to you, Adaptus, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in the Pit!” 

Autobot Repair Center, Iacon

Orion wakes up. 

He is all alone with only echoes of those who visited him. The floor is weighed down with Sky Lynx’s heavy footsteps. His arms are strained upright with the Matrix of Leadership held half-open between them. He pushes it close and slowly lowers it to his chest. A compartment opens up and he presses it inside. 

Arise Optimus Prime. One final time. 

Chapter Text

Antarctic Coast, Earth

Between the sparkly ice sheet and dark sky above, Roadkill could be mistaken for being stationed on any manner of cold, snowball worlds. The scrapping, delayed sway of the icebreaker boat and pathetic whimpers of its dying crew strewn about the deck brings him squarely back to Earth. He swings his bloodstained scythe into the stomach of a tall man crawling towards the stern of the boat. The tip punctures through the vibrant yellow waterproofing, thick insulating layer, skin, bone, and finally warm organs. He hears a peep of alarm and looks toward the bow, towards the only two people he left unharmed upon coming aboard: the captain and a crane operator. “Are we in position yet?” He asks. 

The captain pushed her hollow face against the frosted over and bloodied windscreen and gave an over dramatic nod. The crane operator presses buttons on his console. It spins across the murderscene of a deck and drops its magnet into an exposed bit of water carved out from the boat’s u-shaped deck. 

Roadkill nods in approval. “Good. I have ways of making sure you see your families again. So long as you continue to cooperate.” He stomps his boot down on the dying man he stabbed. Blood seeps against the sole plating. It was a good feeling. A reminder of his prowess and human fragility. That feeling thankfully hadn’t gone away since humanity became aware of the Transformer presence on Earth. Since then, every mission or excursion would quickly spawn a reaction from the Autobots, their human allies in Sector Seven, or any number of anti-alien militia that had taken up arms since the failed invasion of Sterling City. Roadkill grew to respect the quiet moments before it all went up in flames. 

He had intercepted this ship hours ago. Dropped onto its deck through a groundbridge portal and started slaughtering the crew one by one until they cooperated. The ship veered off course, pulling within sight of shore and carving up a narrow sheet of sea ice. If he looks starboard, he sees a narrow strip of gravel beach bared black and white with tern and penguin colonies clutching close to the iceless patch. A narrow peninsula sticks out above the ice sheet, a bonfire roars atop it with Deadlock and Crumplezone waiting beside it. 

He startles to alertness as something hits the sea ice several meters portside. It penetrates and splashes up ice-cold water. The shockwaves ripple beneath the boat, knocking down the captain in the cabin and the operator from his seat. Roadkill drops into a crouch and takes out his laser rifle. Expecting either human or Autobot retribution, he peers through his scope. An emerald green UAV helicopter darts through the night sky, its tail banded with yellow and black stripes while its rotors buzzed in a purplish swirl. He wasn’t expecting the assailant to be branded with a Decepticon insignia. Before the helicopter could fire another missile, a force field surrounds the boat and Airachnid’s shuttle drops its camouflage as it flies overhead. 

Airachnid swings open the doors and pokes her head out. Her purple optics target the green helicopter with a disappointing look. “Waspinator! Look with your sensors, not with your crosshairs!” She shouts. 

The green insecticon transforms and hovers. Her sleek altmode belayed a clumsy and stout robot mode that inherited none of Airachnid’s slender grace. “Yes, bossbot. Waszzpinator will go see.” She twitches away from the boat to fly out and scout. 

Another femme took her place behind Airachnid, a short yellow con with curvy plating and two small horns upon her helm above brilliant blue eyes. She jumps down from the spacecraft and onto the deck. Roadkill glances at her, “Greetings.” She doesn’t respond and walks over to the ship’s cabin. Her left hand morphs into a large stinger she plunges into the back windscreen, driving at the captain. “What are you doing?” Roadkill drags her away from the shattered glass. She spins on her wheeled heels, waves her paralyzing stinger, and lets out a series of angry beeps. “Cyber-venom has no effect on an organic!” He hisses. 

“He corrected my baby Bumblebee. Listen to Roadkill and assist on this mission. I’ll watch on from above.” Airachnid orders. Her next words then ring through Roadkill’s processors. Sadly, both Bumblebee and Waspinator have malfunctioning voice boxes. Bee can’t even vocalize. 

Why not radio communication then? He asks. And what is this?

An application of remote memosurgery, telepathy. So long as I can see you, I can speak to you. It's far more secure and intimate than radio. Bee’s inability to vocalize even extends to her internal readouts and radio transmitter. She can understand language perfectly but has few methods of communicating it. I’ll teach her Cybertronian sign language or chirolinguistics when I get the chance. Airachnid explains before retiring to her ship. 

Roadkill glances at Bumblebee. “Stand on the starboard side. We need to balance our weight unboard the ship.” She gives a quick nod and moves into position. There’s a reason I never wanted to play babysitter. Though he would never give voice to such opinions as they might be considered treasonous, Roadkill has to disagree with the Decepticons use of what might be referred to by other species as child soldiers. Newly onlined Transformers, regardless of method of creation, are highly precocial. Most frames came pre-installed with basic software informing them of linguistics, mathematics, and the environment they came online in. “Childhood” was spent either in primary education and/or under the care of a mentor figure. Roadkill could still sometimes remember being held close behind the dark wings of his caregiver. Yet for Airachnid to proclaim her relationship with Waspinator and Bumblebee as that of mother and daughters is downright hypocritical. For the Decepticons, each Spark is a new soldier to be put out onto the battlefield or held onto for future deployment. It didn't matter if they were sent to be a Seeker, Tracker, K-class, Miner, Insecticlone, or even a lowly Vehicon, a Spark was expected to rise up if they wanted any part in Decepticon glory. Roadkill didn’t want any role in this energon-thirsty, backstabbing process that prioritized personal gain and hierarchical climb. He got enough of such distracting, self-sabotaging antics everytime Lady Shadow Striker sent him a new recruit.   

Waspinator makes a rapid movement towards two oncoming aircraft. It drags Roadkill out of his sight. He magnifies his optics, a propeller plane and an attack helicopter. “Deadlock. Crumplezone. On the ice and aim for the sky.” He orders over his radio comms. Bumblebee takes out two tiny blasters, he motions for her to stay out of action. “Shift your weight to the center.” He walks past the crane operator. “Have we made contact? How much time is left?” 

The man looks up through his goggles and brim of his fluffy hood, fear clearly visible. “Uh, yeah, but the object exceeds the weight limit of the crane and cable…” 

Roadkill plunges his hand into the cabin. He feels around for the captain and pulls her out, holding onto her leg and letting her dangle. He crushes her femur. “AHHH!” She screams. Not as satisfying when the blood and bone stay in the body. “Like this?”

Distant explosions interrupt his threat as Waspinator and Whirl meet in combat. Cloudburst flies past. His doors swing open and Deep Blue dives down at the boat’s deck, forearm blasters blazing. Roadkill squats down and holds the injured woman close to his chest plate, covering her pained face. Bumblebee primes her stinger and charges at the smaller Autobot as she lands. The sudden shift in movement and weight sends the deck shaking, the boat’s hull scraps against the ice. Deep Blue shoots the yellow youth in the shoulder, causing Bumblebee to slip backwards and fall into the water. She lands in a roll, retracts one blaster, and positions her body between the crane operator and Roadkill. 

He drops the captain as he rises to his full height, over twice that of the dark blue Autobot. She is far lighter, able to amble across the deck without triggering tripage. The bow is now lower than the stern. He rakes his scythe about, ready to cut her down only to receive glancing machine gunfire. Above, Cloudburst circles back with twin miniguns descended from his wings. It rips apart the cabin and sensor array but leaves the two humans unharmed. In the chaos, Deep Blue grabs the crane operator and captain. 

“AH! Don’t hurt us!” He cries as the Autobot leaps off the deck and onto the ice sheet. 

“I won’t! I’m an Autobot. See the red insignia? I’m one of the good one’s.” She reassures as she transforms. The two humans straddle into her seat and cling to her handlebars as she drives out onto the ice sheet. 

Roadkill rushes over to the crane and clamps his arms around the crane and cable, keeping it from slipping back into the depths. His servos start to strain. Then, he feels weightless as he’s enveloped in a tractor beam cast by Airachnid’s ship. Bumblebee emerges from the cold water, shivering and with shut vents. The beam drops her back on the deck carelessly. She shakes the water from the cracks of her plating and lets out a disheveled squeal.  “Thank you.” Roadkill admits as he hops off the ship. Cleats shoot down from his boots, giving him purchase. 

Why did you arrive early? Trying to impress me? Airachnid whispers in the back of his mind. 

He looks over his shoulder at the abandoned icebreaker. As Bumblebee exits, it causes the boat to wobble. A few bodies slip into the water, spilling it red. That’s why. For millennia, this planet was my hunting grounds. I inspired the mythologies of nearly every culture to arise and fall. I am a demon, the monster beneath the bed, in the closet, up in the attic. A boogeyman. I was the original. Even when they industrialized, I kept hunting them. If anything it became easier. But now, as humanity is taking their first steps to the stars, He looks up for a patch of endless night not smothered by smoke and dying explosions triggered by Whirl and Waspinator, I need to remind myself of my own relevance in all this. 

He then reboots his processors and triples his firewalls, flushing Airachnid’s light influence. He looks out to the ensuing battle, trying to find his place in it. 

Deadlock shoots her rocket launcher at Cloudburst as he goes after Deep Blue. His landing gear makes easy targets. 

Crumplezone races onto the ice sheet after Deep Blue. It’s a rare chance for the large green Velocitrionian to show off his saving grace: his unnatural speed. Even when confined to an earthly alt mode, his skill on a low friction surface and momentum-adding weight allows him to intercept Deep Blue. 

“Hold the line!” Roadkill orders before Bumblebee and Deadlock join him. “Our concern is not with the Autobots, rather in punishing our traitors. Come help me push the boat out of the way.” 

“I’m not a laborer.” Deadlock grumbles as she stands opposite of Roadkill. Together, they push the icebreaker back along its path while Bumblebee scrambles onboard to retract its anchor. “Why not get the tractor beam to move it?” 

“Tractor beams can only target one object at a time a certain, vast distance away from them. Being directly beneath doesn’t count.” Roadkill mumbles as he pushes the boat. Out of the corner of his optics, he sees Cloudburst finally lands and picks up Deep Blue and the humans. The red and gray pretender takes off again as Crumplezone lets out a volley of gunfire. He pursues the plane as Cloudburst double backs towards Whirl. 

The contest between the two helicopters stretched on longer than one would expect a newly onlined Decepticon to last against an ex-Wrecker. Whirl transforms back and forth to an unhealthy degree. Cutting her swords against the insecticon’s body, clashing with newly hardened plating and separating tender joints. Waspinator would hover limply, limbs hanging on by wires and wrenched out of sockets. Whirl transforms to regain altitude and fire a missile at the injured ‘con. Waspinator falls toward the ice in pieces. 

SNAP!

Like magnets in midair, Waspinator’s limbs snap back into place. She flies back to Whirl with an angry buzz and heat seeking missiles. The ability reminds Roadkill of how Megatron and other bots who went immersant  would awaken with the power to heal and repair themselves by using the living metal around them. This feels further refined however and she’s only a day old. Roadkill looks over at Bumblebee’s reaction, a jealous frown etched into her round face. I don’t understand the process or biology behind it but Airachnid must have some influence over the traits her “children” inherit. It seems Waspinator got special treatment. Already playing favorites before they came online. She couldn’t have accounted for everything considering Bumblebee’s lack of a voice box and Waspinator’s unintelligence. 

Whirl outwits the young insecticon’s simple strategies by diving down just shy of Airachnid’s ship. The missiles connect, sending ripples across its shields and destabilizing integrity. 

Roadkill takes out his rifle and aims at Whirl. “Focus your firepower on the Autobots. We need to ensure tractor beam stability.” He orders. 

Crumplezone keeps up with Cloudburst, shooting at the plane with his missile launchers. Weighed down with precious, injured human cargo, there’s little more he can do but steadily climb higher. Still, Crumplezone isn’t known for his aim. 

Roadkill drops to a kneel, propping up his rifle with his elbow resting on his knee. The stock and butt of the gun combine into a springlike structure embedded within his shoulder and armpit, reinforcement for the recoil. He flicks the rifle’s settings with a dial beneath its barrel, he selects its most powerful ion blast. He gets Cloutburst’s prop insights then jerks the gun up and ahead, preparing for a slight delay before firing the trigger. 

“Hey Roadkill! Why don’t you launch me at ‘em using your Groundbridges?” Crumplezone rams into him. Upon transforming, he realizes his error. “Oh, were you in the middle of something…?” 

Roadkill slowly turns his gaze and the aim of his rifle towards Crumplezone. “Actually, that’s the best sounding plan so far. Can’t let the choppers have all the fun.” Deadlock says from behind. Bumblebee chirps in agreement. 

He detaches his rifle and slowly stands up, his optics burn so bright they might just melt the ice sheet. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have so many useless modifications. Nothing but flashy gimmicks. “And what about when you return to the ground? Do you expect me to keep teleporting you all in midair like an overcomplicated trampoline?” 

Crumplezone stares at his pedes, not wanting to further implicate himself in his stupidity. Bumblebee charges up her stinger, tapping it against her fingers to no effect. “We got enough firepower to bring em down. Plus, I want to extract some info from that cropduster.” Deadlock counters. 

Roadkill knows why. “One round. Roll out.” They all transform and rev up their engines. Deadlock had selected a small sports car as her vehicle mode while Bumblebee anachronistically took the form of a Volkswagen Beetle. Hundreds of meters away, he projects a portal that takes the three Decepticons into the sky, far overhead Waspinator and Whirl’s reignited bout. 

Deadlock fires her rocket launcher at Cloudburst. The propeller plane plunges his nose down, coming into a dive to avoid the rocket’s trajectory. Crumplezone and Bumblebee direct their assault on the ex-Wrecker. Bumblebee uses her lighter weight and spread-eagle posture to anticipate Whirl’s frantic movements, her stinger primed. The green Velocitronian remains in car mode as he plummets toward the ice. 

Roadkill takes his optics off it as the water bubbles and ripples. The escaped shuttle breaches the surface. Airachnid’s ship moves around, lifting the shuttle out of the water and towards dry land. 

Suddenly, the DJD agent’s ship teeters and deactivates the tractor beam as Crumplezone and Waspinator crash into it. NO! Airachnid’s voice cries in his head, bringing him to his knees. 

The shuttle skids across the ice sheet. Roadkill drops down into a transformation and charges after it. His tires and heavy frame don’t do him any favors, sending him sliding. The air buzzes with a familiar static as a groundbridge materializes ahead of the shuttle and him. He narrows in, trying to stay straight. Roadkill considers making his own bridge ahead of the Autobot’s but that could have disastrous consequences. The shuttle slides through the bridge. Before Roadkill can close the gap, Cloudburst and Whirl sloop down through the portal and it closes. 

Roadkill transforms and slams his cleated boots into the ice, stopping himself and generating a worrying warp beneath. He walks slowly towards Airachnid’s ship landing spot. The rest of the Decepticons gather there as well. Bumblebee runs up to the doors as Airachnid emerges. She pays her “daughter” no mind, stalking past her upon six insectoid limbs in a half-transformed manner. The parasitoid insecticon returns to her slender robot mode as she looks coldly upon Waspinator and Crumplezone, the hefty Tracker broke his fall on Waspinator, scattering her separated parts across the crater and ice sheet. 

Crumplezone rolls away and onto his back. “Oh…that was a fumble.” 

“It was more than a fumble. It was a failure. And I don’t tolerate failure. I foresaw no failure.” Airachnid says. Roadkill can barely hear a frightened beep from Bumblebee. 

“I’m ah sorry…guess you were onto something, boss.” Crumplezone apologizes as he looks past onto Roadkill. The black and red Tracker takes a step back. 

Airachnid follows his gaze. She makes eye contact, with it she can establish a deeper pry into his mind. But she holds back. “There is a reason I asked him to bring you along. It wasn’t just for your lack of awareness, strategy, and incompetent. No, it is because you are adrift. Your mind wanders. You worry. Worry about your old partner, now an Autobot.” 

“What? I ah just take a look at him sometimes. But I haven’t joined him. I love being a Decepticon!” Crumplezone protests. 

“That is what they often say. Many don’t realize that it is in the small ways they are the most disloyal.” She grips his chin, pulling it up. A needle jabs up from her fingers and plugs into his lower jaw. Roadkill always strived for honesty in his reports he sent to Lady Shadow Striker. Perhaps too honest. He always held a soft spot for Crumplezone, even after Rattrap (formerly Ransack) defected to the Autobots. Still, he couldn’t exclude suspicious confidences from being noted in his reports. Reports the DJD and Airachnid now have access to. She even has access to Crumplezone’s mind herself. “The small ways like allowing Engex, weaponry, and datasticks to be stolen by your former partner from outposts you guarded. I see it. How many times did it happen? 9 occurrences of willful negligence of theft. And if I look in your conflict circuits…oh…so much directed at yourself. No wonder you don’t have your head in the game!” 

“AH! GET OUT! GET OUT!” Crumplezone’s cries are delayed until after Airachnid slips her needles out and retracts them. “I…I…I’m sorry! I’m guilty! I’ll do better.” 

“I know how you can. You can ensure this mission isn’t a failure. Right here, right now.” Airachnid offers sweetly. 

Crumplezone stands up, grinning. “Oh yeah! Ahh? Anyone got some red energon on them? With that I can drive so fast I go over water! I’ll catch up with the Autobots. Get the shuttle back.” 

“No. I have a different idea.” Airachnid taps her cheek and shifts her weight. 

“Oh?” Crumplezone asks just before the spider wasp plunges her fangs into his chest plate, paralyzing him in a standing posture. She pushes him down and transforms into her beast mode. She clamps her mandibles around his stomach, pumping him full of cyber-venom before ripping off plating. Deadlock shields her optics, disturbed by the drawn out manner while Bumblebee and the reassembled Waspinator watch on with pride, hopeful that one day they can do the same. Roadkill stands there, forcing his mind to be blank, canceling out circuit relays between processors. The cyber-venom reaches Crumplezone’s spark casing quickly. It blooms and releases its Spark. Airachnid pulls her head away, having carved an easy path for the Spark to escape before extinguishing into the chilly night. 

Chapter Text

Iacon

Upon reentering the protection of Iacon’s shields, Sky Lynx is taken aback by the lack of activity in the air. Even the spaceport is quiet. He transforms and flaps a bit further before directing his thrusters down to keep himself hovering. Perhaps my outstanding form and triumphant return will garner some well deserved attention. He tilts his long neck and pointed helm around in a graceful, swan like manner while prancing in midair. 

Skywarp teleports just outside the shields and taps against it. “Hey! Let me in!” 

The giant Autobot flaps over. “You can let her in.” He appeals to the Titans controlling the shielding. A slim section of force fielding deactivates, allowing the Seeker to fly through. Since the Autobots retook and rebuilt Iacon 3.5 million stellar cycles ago, the Titans returned with them. Dozens of them from across not just Cybertron but the Galaxy. They accelerated the rebuilding process by allowing Autobots and neutrals to take up residence and kept the former capital safe by melding their force fields into one giant, selective barrier protecting everyone from Decepticon bombings and orbital strikes. This wasn’t just done out of the kindness of their Sparks or to protect their smaller kin rather a sign of strength against the Decepticons who sought to convert them into war machines and factories. The former Seeker can’t help but feel guilty for the Titan’s plight. After all, it was himself who brought together the minds needed to convert Avion, Vos’s Titan which produced the Seeker guild, into Starscream’s personal army maker. Deprived of cooperative cityformers, the Decepticons had taken to courting Transformers skilled at massshifting: combiners, triple changers, and shuttlers. They were forcefully mass-displaced to their maximum size and lobotomized through mnemosurgery to reduce stress, increase loyalty and obedience. 

“Huh, did I scare everyone off?” Skywarp jokes as she looks around. 

“No…this is something else. Something is keeping everyone inside.” Sky Lynx determines. If this was an external attack or natural emergency, sirens would be going off, the cityformers would take on defensive positions, either in their robot modes or shifting into bunkers, and autocannons on alert. Sky Lynx checks his newfeed for any sporting events, Council meetings, performances, or presentations that would garner enough attention to keep everyone glued to their holovids and flatscreens. No luck. He does hear whispers on various message boards, soundbites of a return, blurry images of a large red and blue mech behind glass. Sky Lynx smiles and flies ahead with astonishing speed. 

Skywarp portal jumps after the Autobot. Soon, a view of the Spire dominates the skyline. A growing number of fliers swarm around the council chamber at the tower’s top like insecticons to a headlight. “Skywarp, could you be a dear and groundbridge us inside? Prowl should be there as well.” 

The black and purple Seeker blinks and tilts her helm. “Wait, you want me to go inside the Autobot HQ? Ha! I’ve heard countless boasts from Screamer about how he’d personally slice it down with his wings.” She points at Sky Lynx’s chest compartment where Starscream, trapped within the body of a robotic toy cat, curses out their names. Sky Lynx disables his internal sensors to give his passengers a sense of privacy, now he is especially thankful for it. “They’d never let me in.” 

“That’s not like you, Skywarp, I’ve never known you to care about the impression you have on others.” Sky Lynx remarks. He reaches out a claw to rest on her shoulder, an act of comfort. She shrugs it off. 

“Even with you vouching, I doubt they’d like having an ex-con’s audio receptors in on a secret Autobot meeting!” Skywarp hisses. 

The gigantic bird-cat flies a circle around the Seeker, chuckling to himself. “You’re also too old to worry about self-preservation. You’re not like Starscream.” 

Her optics narrows and she crosses her arms. “Are you calling me old?” 

“Yes. Now, portaljump me in and go hide in a supply closet or something.” Sky Lynx confirms. The old femme groans as she projects a groundbridge. The shuttler flies through and lands within the crowded council chamber. He flares a wing out ahead of Skywarp being spotted by two guards who approach before nodding in recognition of the giant bird-cat. Not all of the High Council were present; Star Saber had returned to the Galactic Core to protect it from invading forces lead by Decepticon General Deathsaurus, Impactor, Springer, and Perceptor were similarly on deployment to Orgenon Cluster, and Cerbros monitors Titan activity. In their place are some academic and close friends of the only mech Sky Lynx respects enough to upstage him. 

The physical differences between Orion Pax and Oprimus Prime are minute compared to the way he carries himself. While larger thanks to the Matrix’s power, Optimus Prime retains a rangy frame. He stands up straight, just shy of Ultra Magnus’s fully armored height as they are locked in deep conversation despite the crowd. His optics shine a brilliant liberty blue above his silver faceplate conjuring a hopeful yet reserved expression. Long blade-like side antennas replace Orion’s permanently crooked rods. 

Sky Lynx’s neck cranes down as Prowl approaches him. “Do you have him?” 

The shuttle nods and reaches a paw into his chest cavity. He pulls out Starscream, his Spark bonded into a robotic cat toy. With clunky, simple servos beneath red tabby faux fur, the only part of Air Commander that stood out is a faint orange glow behind glass eyes and plastic seams. “RELEASE ME FROM THIS PUNY BODY! I’ll swear loyalty to you…yes. Oh please Sky Lynx! We can be…” Starscream’s cries are silenced as Prowl attaches a muting pin to the toy cat, disabling his ability to sense the world around him or speak. 

“We will hear from you again, Starscream. I look forward to it.” Prowl offers a rare small smile as he takes the toy and examines it. “Hmm, no obvious weaponry, cheaply manufactured and definitely not of Cybertron. What does this tag say?” He taps it with his fingertips and narrows his optics, translating the language. “A FurReal Friends, made in China, manufactured and licensed by a Hasbro.” 

“It’s of Earthly origin. Harmless and humiliating for Starscream.” Sky Lynx explains.

“Indeed, even a diagnostic drone would be more dignified.” Prowl agrees. 

Sky Lynx shakes his head. “Tssk! No need to worry about his dignity…” Prowl raises a hand, forcing the shuttle to stop. 

“Barring the need of your testimony, it would be best for you to remove yourself from Starscream’s interrogation and trials. We have him thanks to you but you are too emotionally interlinked to be a part of this operation.” Prowl explains. 

Before Sky Lynx can protest, Optimus Prime approaches him through the crowd, arms outstretched as the Autobot founder embraces the shuttler. “Good to have you here, Sky Lynx, old friend.” 

Sky Lynx keeps down his chuckle as he nuzzles Optimus back. “How many times have you said that?” He asks. 

“46 times!” Ratchet shouts over the crowd. Sky Lynx folds his wings as Skywarp creeps away, mildly disgusted at the display of friendly affection. Optimus and several other Autobots took notice of the Seeker and glared in her direction. 

Sky Lynx pulls away and positions himself between the refocused and wary crowd and the black and purple femme. “She assisted me in capturing Starscream’s Spark. Even when tempted by his silver tongue, she stood loyally by my side.” Prowl nods in agreement, winning over the doubters. 

Optimus Prime approaches the Seeker and rests his hand on her shoulder. Skywarp looks down at him awkwardly. “Thank you for your change of Spark.” 

She shrugs his hand off. “Yeah, yeah. Not to pop your tires, but I’m not about to put your stickers on my nosecone anytime soon.” 

“Yeah, red isn’t your color.” Sky Lynx jokes. 

Ultra Magnus taps his hammer’s handle against the floor, garnering everyone’s attention. “Now that Sky Lynx has returned, you best be on your way to Earth, Prime, for the good of the Cybertron and the Universe.” 

“I am in agreement, Ultra Magnus.” Optimus Prime nods. 

“Wait! What about an interview?” Andromeda scrambles between the two large mechs, microphone in hand, her three camera drones buzz about, getting flattering angles of Optimus Prime. 

“I will have to decline, Andromeda. While a truthful exchange between the High Council and the people it serves is imperative, I cannot further endanger us or the Earth by drawing the attention of Megatron.” Optimus explains, looking away from the reporter’s stunned expression. 

“I’m afraid, according to our cybersecurity analysts, knowledge of your return has already left Iacon.” Prowl reports. 

“Perhaps you should have gone with a stealth armored motorcade, Optimus. With me at the lead.” Announces Sentinel Major as he steps out of an elevator. Jazz follows close behind, a worried grin on her face. The atmosphere in the council chamber deflates. Sky Lynx ruffles his wings and bares his teeth. 

“Process your words before you vocalize them, Sentinel Major, lest you foster unwanted derision.” Optimus warns. 

“Like you do? You sound like an answering machine on a two breem delay!” Sentinel insults. Several Autobots shake their heads in disapproval. “Yeah, yeah. I bet you already gave a big speech about how the people need to have faith in you. But I think you need to have more faith in the people. People like myself and King Grimlock.” 

“Sentinel, are you admitting to a conspiracy designed to undermine an executive decision made orbital cycles ago?” Ultra Magnus asks. 

“No! I wouldn’t dare openly disrespect you like that, Magnus. This operation I speak of is being supported by King Grimlock and the donations of several other factions and alien races. See? I understand this isn’t just about Cybertron’s safety.” Sentinel counters. Ultra Magnus shakes his head then glances at Prowl. Jazz cringes. Word that the Elite Guard Commander and Dinobot King had collaborated in designing a weapon theoretically capable of destroying Unicron have percolated since the last Council meeting. This was the first time the likes of Ultra Magnus had addressed it.

“Regardless, a two-pronged strategy is appreciated. Hopefully, your project won’t be needed, Sentinel.” Optimus dismisses. 

“There is one last thing I must inform you, my Prime.” Pyra Magna approaches. “We have come to suspect there might be a Camien Titan hidden on Earth.” 

The Prime’s eyes widen and he takes a slack step back. His fingers curl then relax at his sides. “That is a hopeful development, is it not?” 

Pyra looks conflicted. “Cybertron is not the only planet divided by mass deception. Yet some truths are too much for the mind who seeks them. My crew and I arrived on Cybertron with no knowledge of why we came there in the first place. Only faint impressions. That was five million stellar cycles ago. We estimate this new exodus arrived on Earth a hundred-thousand stellar cycles ago, give or take a few millenia. Regardless if they left Caminus for the same reason as I did or under differing circumstances, I wish to make contact.” 

“I understand. I’ve learned alot about your people through what is written in the Hall of Records and conversations with Proxima. You are a devout and compassionate people who covets the Matrix and its bearers, past and present. Do you believe my arrival on Earth would receive such a response?” Optimus asks. 

“I don’t want to get my hopes up. I have been separated from my homeworld for a long time.” Pyra Magna admits as she turns to her conjunx for comfort. 

Optimus nods before turning towards Sky Lynx. Before they can go to depart, Jazz bolts between the Prime and the shuttle. “Let me come with you!” She asks. 

“What! Jazz! You need my authorization!” Exclaims Sentinel. 

“You’ve been telling me slag for months about what you're doing behind the scenes! My job is to keep Cybertron cool as a cat and I can’t do it with your back handedness. Despite what you’ve said, Earth is a hip place.” She then looks at Ultra Magnus. “My seat for recreation can go to whoever’s playing Aghartan electro-bass down at Maccadams right now.” 

“You are welcome to come with us, Jazz.” Optimus says. He then turns his attention towards Skywarp, the former Decepticon who had kept herself close to the wall. “Skywarp…your stealth and ability to teleport would be of aid to us.” 

“That’s not my name anymore.” The seeker dismisses as she crosses her arms. 

Sky Lynx tilts his head and spreads a wing around her. “Oh?”

“Don’t get curious! I’m not doing anything drastic! Not about to have a full body makeover like you did. But, I want to be called Spacewarp. Mostly so I don’t have to share prefixes with him and that bot.” She points at Sky Lynx and Sky Garry. 

Sky Lynx smiles and lets out a mechanical purr. “Very well then, Spacewarp. Optimus Prime, Jazz, ready to depart?” 

Tracker Base, the South Pacific

Roadkill returns to the Decepticon’s island base with only Deadlock. The subzero Antarctica air dissipates on contact with tropical humidity. Tidal Wave still looms, anchored just offshore. Lugnut is out of sight, either below the carrier’s deck or out on a patrol. Since arriving on Earth, she had scanned an old WW2 bomber as her alternate mode. He could respect her in that regard, a mutual appreciation for what the humans considered “classic”. Roadkill himself had retained a Ford Galaxie for the past 6 decades. Most of his troop updated theirs every decade or so to stay current and inconspicuous. But never doubt the information that can be absorbed from a classic car show. 

Before Deadlock can slink off beneath the shade, he puts his hand on her shoulder. “Hey! What do you want? The mission’s done!” 

“You and Turmoil want answers.” Roadkill starts. I want you off my planet. He leads her toward his personal shuttle. “Wait right there.” 

He climbs up the ramp and into the cockpit. He takes a seat and plugs a finger into a port. The Lead Tracker uploads and analyzes his location history against pirated and hijacked human GPS and GIS software. He narrows it down to a town in the Western Cascades of Washington State. The town where he has had the most consistent sightings of the Autobot Pretenders while in their human shells. He could easily find their address with just an hour of driving and surveillance hacking. I’m not doing any more work on behalf of them or her. He downloads the data point and some related reports onto a data stick and offers it to Deadlock. 

“What’s this?” She pinches it. 

“Something that will please Turmoil.” Roadkill answers as he draws up the ramp to his shuttle. He dims the windscreen and sinks to the floor. His claws massage at his antlers and forehead, it's a painfully human gesture picked upon after years of observation and stalking. He isn’t doing it out of exasperation or pain rather to let himself know that Airachnid isn’t lingering. Nearly all Transformers hated unsolicited mnemosurgery or even the casual probe of a telepathic outlier. Some were even traumatized by it. Roadkill thinks of himself as different. He once knew someone who he would gladly welcome into his mind. His hand drops and peels up a floorboard, revealing some stuff in storage. He blindly rummages through until he happens upon a long beaked mask. It’s made out of a silver-plated, specially dense Energon that blocks radiowaves and other signals completely. It’s an impressive artifact, belonging in a museum if its wearer were fondly remembered in the modern day. He holds it over his face, something once considered childish or even blasphemes. But that doesn’t matter any more. Nothing really does when you live for over a quarter of a billion years. Only the feeling of bloodsplatter against his tires, sometimes he remembers he once had hooves and stub feet, registers against his faint Spark. 

Chapter Text

Sterling City, Washington

Today’s a rare kind of day in Sterling City. A day not drenched in rain. A day nice enough to make Kelly choose to sit outside the cafe she and Marrissa decided upon for their lunch date. A day where you could almost forget that a tyrannical robotic alien warlord did try to invade Earth three months ago. As the secretary looks out at the empty street, she’s reminded that not everyone has returned after the hasty evacuations. Most of the city’s damage came from bombings deployed by the Nemesis or heatwarping by its immense engines. In the aftermath, several Autobots assisted in reconstructing the street level damage. The skyline is crowned with cranes and crooked antennas shining in the sunlight. The Blackrock Building had been among the first completely repaired, its damage was to the ground floor and lobby after a Conehead Seeker tried to crawl his way inside. I still remember seeing his metal melt from the inside out… Kelly’s employer, Garrison Blackrock, had personally financed his building’s repair. An act of bravery and return to normalcy he said. But Mr. Blackrock was wise enough to know that most of his workforce was willing to return so he allowed work from home options and put a freeze on development of new product lines. Kelly’s apartment was more damaged by her lifelong bad-luck slapstick sleek then any alien invasion and so came into work as needed to stay by his side. 

Swoosh!

From above, the rope keeping up the awning snaps and falls atop Kelly and her table. A scruffy waiter rushes out to her side, holding up and reattaching the awning to its post. “Are you alright, ma’am? I am so sorry this happened!” 

Kelly pushes the fabric up so it’s taunt as he reties it. “Happens all the time.” She says with a shrug before looking back out at the street. Marissa’s heavy-duty black pickup drives by, unnecessarily large to the point of inconvenient on a narrow city street but there’s hardly anyone to complain as she easily parallel parks it in front of a closed antique store across the street. “Mind waiting here a moment? My plus one’s here then we’ll order.” 

The waiter gives a curt nod as he stands in the corner. 

Marissa exits her truck and walks through the patio gate. Unlike Kelly, the Sector 7 agent has seen an increased workload and stress since the Invasion. Emergency and Executive Orders were given declaring a temporary alliance and deference to the Autobots in matters concerning Unicron (assured to nearly all the globe’s population as an alien geoweapon rather than the Chaosbringer of Transformer mythology) and alien relations. Having known of and been collaborating with the Autobot Pretenders for decades, Sector 7, no matter how underfunded, was the only choice for such an operation in alien-human relations. To bolster their numbers when facing off not only Decepticons but violent anti-alien sentiments, several National Guardsmen, newly enlisted privates, and volunteers were brought on. Marissa experienced a sudden promotion in role and responsibilities, not in title or salary. 

As she sits down across from Kelly, sudden relief to not be on her feet flushes her face, her eyes loose that glazed over look from staring at screens. At the waiter’s first step towards their table, Marissa announces her order, “Black coffee. And a breakfast sandwish, no tomato.” 

He nods as he hastily scratches down her order on a note pad before smiling at Kelly, “And you, miss?”

Kelly’s hands trace over the small menu given to her upon arrival, although she hadn’t looked through it yet. She glances at it and stammers through her decision making. “I’ll have an iced mocha and a crossiant.” 

“They’ll be out in a few minutes.” He says as he walks away with their order. 

“Ugh…I forgot to eat breakfast this morning.” Marissa admits as she slacks down in her chair, rubbing her face. 

“Oh, that’s no good!” Kelly exclaims. 

“I took on a double shift today, 16 hours only interrupted by you. Half of it is overtime pay.” Marissa explains as she smiles at the green-haired woman. “Most of it is training: exercises and lectures. The new recruits need alot of context explained to them. How about you?” 

“Opposite situation. There’s not enough going on.” Kelly pauses as the waiter returns with their drinks and her croissant.

“The sandwich will be a moment. Thank you for your patiance.” He says as he slips away. 

Marissa nods as she takes her mug and several sugar and creamer packets, dumping and swirling them in until the dark drink turns a rich tan. “Yeah? Sounds nice.” 

Kelly shakes her head profusely. “I can’t get anything meaningful done. Over half the staff is on stay-at-home and without anything to do since we put a freeze on new product development. I’ve been waiting for Arkeville to come in so we can confront him about the thing he made. I tried asking his daughter…” My ex, Minerva. “About it. But she hasn’t been in contact with him in months. So I think it’s a recent development with him being in cahoots with Shockwave.”

“Stop!” Marissa puts up her hand, bows her head, and closes her eyes. Her hand drifts to her forehead to rub it. Between spread fingers, she glares tiredly at Kelly. 

Kelly frowns. Her skin prickles with goosebumps but there is no breeze. “Hehe, what’s wrong?” 

The agent lets out a tired groan as the waiter slips her breakfast sandwich in front of her before slinking away from the tense moment. Marissa looks down at her plate, sizzling bacon and cheese slathered over a griddle-fried egg pressed between a toasted bagel. Her eyes glaze over again. She pulls away from it and shakes her head. “Firstly, Sector 7 is investigating this situation.” 

Kelly raises her eyebrow. “I thought only the four of us knew. If anyone was going to snitch, I’d thought it’d be Rattrap.” Early in Blackrock Enterprise’s authorization to use Energon in the manufacture of earthly goods, Mr. Blackrock encouraged his inventors to find several applications for the material. Including anti-Transformer weaponry. That project spurred him, Kelly, and the scrappy Autobot, Rattrap, to return to the Building in the midst of the Invasion for something to help ward off the Decepticon armada. What they found was a spark disruptor identified by Rattrap as something only Shockwave, proclaimed ‘mad accountant’, could have instructed Dr. Arkeville into creating. 

“I haven’t told anyone what we found just to be on alert for potential links between Blackrock Enterprises and suspected Decepticon shell corps. Not as though it hasn’t happened in the past.” Marissa explains quickly. She snatches up her sandwich and takes a hearty bite. 

Kelly’s head drops, remembering how the director of the KSI division, Joshua Joyce, tried to make a deal with some Seekers to get more Energon supplied. “Have you made any progress?”

“No, we are not changing the subject.” Marissa recasts her glare. “Besides, it isn’t our most pressing issue. But the main point I am trying to make is that this isn’t our job. It's the ‘bots. I agreed to this date because I wanted a break from all that insanity I have been buried under for months.” 

Kelly clamps her mouth shut as Marissa returns to her sandwich. The two started dating after bonding over being let in on the Autobot’s inner circle. They even went to Cybertron together. Still, their reasons for finding companionship in each other were different. “I wanted a break from normalcy.” Kelly admits. 

Marissa’s frown deepens once she brushes away the grease and crumbs from her lips. “Kelly, you should be grateful that your job doesn’t put your life at risk ‘for the good of others’.” 

Kelly looks away, ashamed. “I know. But…” 

“I don’t like it when you are endangered. You’re already a magnet for Murphy’s law and slapstick shenanigans just by walking down the seat.” Marissa shakes her head and reaches out to hold her hand. “I don’t need that confounded by you being in the middle of a Transformer skirmish.” 

It was Kelly’s turn to scowl. “I don’t go looking for trouble. I’m looking for excitement, not life endangerment. But I am quite prepared for such events. You don’t need to shield me. We’ve gotten through all this shit: the old headquarters, going to Cybertron, the Invasion: together. And we’ll get through the impending big guy.” 

Marissa gives a faint nod and pulls her hand away, going back to her sandwich. Kelly realizes her croissant went cold, it’s chocolate center stiff and pasty between the buttery flakes of airy bread. She gobbles it up in between sips of latte. Her seat wobbles before cracking along the legs. She stands before it falls. Kelly shifts over to the next seat, now sitting beside Marissa, rather than across. 

The Autobot Base, Central Cascades

Reawakening from stasis lock feels like time travel. For the sleeper, the perception of time fell still as even the Spark is compressed and pseudo-crystalized. The Spark was kept stable whilst receiving the lowest level of power, no longer emitting an energy signature. Something external to the sleeper induces start up. Perhaps a command code or medical equipment or even words of reassurance. In Punch’s case, it was the slip of Red Alert’s needle-tipped tendril’s beneath their helm that did the case. As a double agent, the threat of mnemosurgery is especially important. 

Before they can even process their surroundings, their left hand morphs into a laser pistol. Red Alert reaches out, her fingers tap against specific nervocircuits, the first sensors to come back online. In rudimentary chirolinguistics, she says, “You are at the base. The Decepticons with you are safe.” 

Punch retracts the pistol, using their hand to push themselves up onto their knees. A cold, concrete floor is beneath them. Cool fog rolls off their plating while hot air blows out of an open door. Their audio receptors pick up on Red Alert’s muttering notes as she presses medical equipment against them. Light footsteps clink nearby. Their optics are the last thing to come back online. 

The Decepticon shuttle they used to escape sits crumpled on the tarmac beneath a camouflage net hanging over the base, suspended on 60m high wooden poles. At the near end are two hangers with open doors, Punch can make out the movement of curious others inside. A small station sits at the far end, manned by human guards. Breakdown, Knockout, and Inferno lay in a line on circuit slabs. Rattrap approaches them, a broad bucktoothed grin on his face plate. “Hey, hey, hey! Look who’s joined us in the land of the living! How ya been punch bowl?” 

Punch sits up and cradle’s their helm in their hands. “How long have I been out?” 

“I estimate three months. We had to give you some time to defrost.” Red Alert reports as she moves on to revitalizing Knockout. 

“What’s your mission, Punch?” Deep Blue asks as she exits a hanger. “We found you all in Antarctica. A DJD agent was after you. That’s why those three aren’t in stasis cuffs.” 

“Pfft, I told you. They’re a double agent! Helped me and a few other ex-cons get out over the millennia.” The tiny mech scoffs. 

Deep Blue kneels down in front of them, tilting her head curiously. “I want to hear it from them. I’ve been stationed to this star system the longest out of all of us and yet I never knew you were here.” 

“Well, of course you wouldn’t. My cover needed to be maintained.” Punch reminds her. “I was part of the Elite Guard when the war broke out, diplomatic relations programing holomatter avatars. Being in a multi-factional organization made it more convincing when I “switched” sides. My mission is information gathering and recruiting: finding weak links and breaking them out.” They point to Rattrap and the three stasis locked mechs. “When the Pretender mission was deployed, H.C. wanted me transferred to Earth to be a bot on the inside, that’s how I got here.” 

Deep Blue nods along. “Is the firetruck the Camian?” 

A syringe tipped tendril comes loose from Red Alert’s helm. She prodes it at Inferno, finding a secondary fuel tank beneath his plating. Bright blue energon sucks in. “We found him a few monthes ago committing arson in Ecuador. He was infected with the Deceptiwall. I was trying to deprogram him when Knockout and Breakdown walked in on me. They both wanted out.” Punch further explains. 

“Do the Decepticons know the location of the Titan he came from?” 

“No. Roadkill suspects it but he’s not the type to commandeer a Titan for his own gain.” 

“That makes two Titans on Earth we have no hope of locating.” Deep Blue groans. 

“Two?” Punch asks. 

“Quiet. I don’t need you two discussing classified information while I wake these two.” Red Alert orders as she begins to wake up Knockout. She turns her pointer finger into a laser scalpel and presses it down onto a piece of immaculately polished red paneling, primed to ruin it.

“Uh…that doesn’t seem like a good idea!” Punch cautions as the medic scratches Knockout’s paintjob. 

“AHH! WHAT IN PRIMUS’S NAME HAVE YOU DONE TO MY PAINTJOB!” The sleek red mech screeches as he claws at Red Alert.

Punch leaps between them. “Knockout! We nearly got offlined by some DJD goon and you’re screaming about your paintjob? Primus, I love you. You never change.” Breakdown remarks as he sits up, offering his conjunx a reassuring grip of the shoulder. 

Everyone stares at him. “You were in a self-induced stasis lock.” Red Alert realizes. 

Breakdown nods as he takes out a buffing wheel and begins to mend Knockout’s scratched bumper. “See? She only nicked you with a 700 Precise Point, that’s got nothing on your built in 1900 Boltslash.” His gaze turns to Punch. “When I noticed you were aiming for that big hunk of ice, I set myself to wake back up once I got above freezing. Figured either a change of climate or a blastfire about to hit my face.” 

“How forward thinking of you…” Deep Blue remarks. 

“Yeah, you’re lucky Knockout, you got one with brains with you.” Rattrap adds, his optics going dim. 

“I know.” Knockout purrs. 

Red Alert moves onto Inferno. She crounches down, lights up her finger by turning it a welding torch, and flickers it over the youngling’s faceplate. The feeling of flame heat and smoke furl reawakens Inferno. He clambers onto his feet and stares out at the mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces. “Uh…why am I here? Who are you?” His fingers clench up and his brow is knitted. 

Deep Blue and Rattrap approach him. “It’s okay. You are under the care of the Autobots. I’m Deep Blue and this is Rattrap. We’re coleaders on our joint mission to Earth.” Deep Blue introduces herself. 

“Do you mind if I give you a thorough check up?” Asks Red Alert.  

“Hey buddy.” Breakdown waves his free hand. 

Punch notices Inferno’s darting blue optics, tight fists, and locked knees. They recognize it. This isn’t the first time they’ve reawakened with someone freshly freed of the Deceptiwall. The overriding virus rebooted quicker than all other subroutines and personality progs, even once deleted. Every nanoklik counts as Inferno could either be overwhelmed or set off into a rampage. They decide to do nothing, best not to add to the conflicting stimuli. 

They regret it immediately as Inferno fires up his flamethrower and begins to stomp the ground. Punch is dragged in with Knockout and Red Alert as they all try to hold him back. Deep Blue shouts out assurances while Rattrap yanks out two grenades. “Inferno! What’s wrong?” They shout against the roar of fire and his churning engines. He doesn’t respond with anything more coherent than an anguished scream. 

“Maybe I should interface with him.” Red Alert suggests. “I could find out what’s upsetting him and maybe the Titan’s location.” 

“And risk getting your face melted!” Knock Out screams. 

“What he needs is to deal with a big bot!” Breakdown charges at him with fists turned to war hammers. 

“What! No! He’s just confused!” Punch calls out as he’s pushed away by Inferno. The firetruck transforms and drives away from Breakdown’s hammering down. Breakdown charges after him, being faster and a more skillful driver. Before he can catch up, a white and gold blurr streaks past them and positions between the two. 

“Enough! We do not fight amongst ourselves!” Roars Leobreaker as stomps infront of Breakdown while biting Inferno’s rear tire and dragging him back to the circuit slabs. His nose twitches as he sniffs Inferno then Deep Blue. “I recognize a scent on you two. Where’s the nasty nursery raider?” 

“Hmm, when we were rescuing you four, there were two cons we didn’t recognize. A green helicopter and a little yellow bug. Their combat style was unpredictable and lacking in experience. And there was the scent of insecticon pheromones in the air, I recognize it from the time I went spelunking in an underground hive buried in a comet.” She recalls. 

“He’s a parasitoid then.” Punch realizes. “Part Camian, part Insecticon, raised by Decepticons. It’s rare that one of our own has such a complex heritage, especially for one so young. I’m sorry, Inferno.”
“Hmm, that’s a uniquely human perspective.” Muses a large talking hawk that flies out of the forest and into the base’s limited airspace. One quick look at their plumage clued in their identity before shifting into their human shell: Metalhawk beneath the flesh. Punch had never met them before. Before his passing, the spy kept in contact with Landmine, a fellow former Elite Guardsman who was stationed on Earth as a Pretender. Then they resorted to covert messaging back to Cybertron or even leaking information to human authorities so they could save themselves from malevolent Decepticon influence. 

“HAHA, HA!” Knockout bursts into laughter. “You’ve spent so much time among the humans you’ve…” 

“Stop or I will spit on your boot.” The pretender threatens as they lean over Knockout’s toe.  

The medic rears up onto his other heel, preening like a frightened flamingo at such an idea. “You wouldn’t dare…” He hisses. 

“A medic such as yourself wouldn’t dare insult a bot currently nursing an injury! I broke my arm three times. Then the shell regrew human bone tissue to replace the vacancy. Then I got hit by a truck. I’m still in the process of shedding calcium and replacing it with metal beneath the grafts. Until its fully replaced, I can’t transform.” They explain, gaze and voice sharp as their trailing edge. 

“Why are you all taking orders from a fleshy?” Inferno asks, atlast speaking. 

The pretender walks over to the young Camian. “Humans. The sapient beings on this planet are called humans and it will be your job now to protect them with all your Spark. But I am not one of them, I just look like one. My real name is Metalhawk but when I’m like this, call me Mel.” 

“Okay, hi Mel!” Inferno greets. The pretender smiles and nods before walking over to Rattrap, Deep Blue, and Punch. 

“Where’s Cloudburst?” They ask. 

“Wait…Cloudburst is alive?” Punch gasps. “How?”

“Not unlike you guys. A song of ice and fire.” Rattrap blurts. Punch doubts he knows the full context of half of what he references. 

“Roadkill revitalized him. Plugged in a psychic patch to find out about Unicron.” Mel explains bitterly. Punch couldn’t help but feel directed by it. 

“There were human casualties. Roadkill commandeered a boat and killed all but two onboard. Cloudburst is flying them home.” Deep Blue says. 

Mel’s face softened with sadness and they nod. Punch kneels down, produces three data sticks, passes them out to the co-leaders. “There’s still alot of useful information I found out.” 

“It’s three months out of date.” Mel states bluntly as they pocket it away. 

Rattrap’s optics widen. “Ha! Normally it’s me with the cuting remarks.” 

Deep Blue shakes her helm before bowing her head. “I have to agree with Mel. Our main priority, Punch, is the location of the Camian Titan and hibernation of Unicron. Until then, the Trackers are a secondary focus.” 

Punch falls silent for a moment. It makes sense for their intel to be shelved for the time being. The Universe is at stake! But what about after that? There were still Decepticons. Even with Transformers being known to the humans, Decepticon infiltration protocol wouldn’t deviate, it would just advance. And Roadkill wouldn’t go anywhere. Punch knew him for too long. The murderous mech would stay on Earth even as it was shaped into something he despised. No, these three couldn’t just throw away their work so quickly! Push them. Make them see what you see. “Surely you could give it to someone to look over? Knockout and Breakdown have insight and it would be a good test of loyalty to…” Punch pleads. 

“I do bodywork, not paperwork!” Knockout interrupts. 

“The non-combatants and intellectuals among us are currently concerned with locating Unicron’s exit point and the Camian Titan.” Mel reiterates. They fiddle with the data stick, now mass-shifted to fit in human hands. Taking out their phone, they plug it in and take a cursory glance through the data. “This is all from before the Decepticons became aware of Unicron and has no speculation about the Titan beyond their possible existence. I cannot in good conscience deviate.” 

Punch rises to their full height, towering two to three times taller than the three co-leaders, atleast in one’s current state. No. “You can’t ignore this. Decepticon Infiltration Protocol is most effective when it isn’t being watched.” 

Deep Blue takes a step forward. “Just because it's a secondary focus doesn’t mean it’s out of…” 

“I’ll get to it when I can!” Mel interrupts, shouting and turning their back on the rest. 

“Hehe, as if you’ve gotten anything done these past few months.” Rattrap snickers, baring a buck-toothed smile. 

The pretender goes rigid, keeping themself from lunging at the tiny bronze mech. If it weren’t for his built in weaponry, a human would stand a chance in taking out Rattrap. Punch froze up as well, uncertain as to where they stood. In defense of Rattrap? While they always kept an optic out for the ex-Decepticon, Punch would never consider the vulgar, rodent-like robot a close friend. He’s right…Mel won’t take this seriously until they can work on it all on their own. Do they have no trust in others? In those ex-cons you rescued? In you? 

Punch tries to push away the growing intrusive thoughts. They know the sources, not unlike the pretenders, they too had been modified. In their case, to harbor two robot modes and a distinct Decepticon persona: Counterpunch. Counterpunch is still loyal to the Autobots. Of course. The Elite Guard is sure of it. When are they ever wrong? But in order to fully integrate within the Decepticon ranks, Counterpunch needed to be as convincing as possible. The perfect, unquestioning and brutal pawn peddling the Decepticon cause. With their mission complete and the spy presumed deactivated, Counterpunch is seemingly useless. Unless you…we…I were to return… 

“I need to get going.” Mel says after a tense moment of silence. “I am in agreement with Deep Blue. Rattrap, go find something else to do.” They shift back into a bird and fly out of view. 

Punch is greatful to not have to say a word. It lets them not think about who would end up speaking. 

Chapter Text

Cascade All-Stars Driving School

They land at the edge of the small parking lot, a thick evergreen veil to their back. Within milliseconds, between the blinks of any onlookers, every cell of their synthetic skin and nebulous bone grafts shifts from an avian template to human. Any extraneous bits like feathers and talons are shed off. They quickly redress into a blue flannel shirt, vest, and jeans. They run a hand through their long dark brown hair, attempting to style it. It won’t matter. Not any more than anything else does. 

For the past three months, Mel might as well be useless. They are locked in their pretender suit by a fully organic hand that is slowly and painfully being replaced by their natural metal. They hold their flesh hand with the other, pinching at the finger joints, trying to feel some compositional change. A ting of metal rather than the give of collagen and marrow. A sign that things are getting better. Healing. I’ve been guzzling down gallons of Energon everyday and eating aluminum foil. Alas, no sign of visible improvement. The pretender sighs and crosses the parking lot. Unable to contribute much, they have resigned themselves to finally learning how to drive. 

Despite living on Earth and amongst humankind since the Late Pleistocene, Mel had never felt pressured or particularly interested in learning how to drive. Since the invention of the human iteration on an automobile, the pretender resided in cities and relied on public transit. It didn’t really matter as the main method changed from carriages, to trains, to trolleys, to buses. But now living in a small mountain town, a vehicle seemed like a necessity. 

Mel walks into the driving school. Entering the sparse, dimly lit lobby, they ring the bell at the front counter. A plump woman emerges from the back door. With caked-on makeup and ashy blonde dye in her hair, she felt counterproductive in aging gracefully. “Mel Hawk?” She grumbles.

They nod and take out their learners permit for her examination. “Ah, yes. I have my fifth driving test today, highway driving. Uh, normally I do it with Jackson…”

“He moved. Got too scared of the Unicorn thing and relocated his whole family to Iceland. You’re stuck with me. Name’s Patty.” She interrupts them as she marches out from behind the counter. 

“Oh…I see.” Mel reluctantly follows her outside and around the back of the building. That is probably one of the worst places he could have moved to evade Unicron’s emergence. Right above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. A divergent plate boundary is a probable exit point. 

Patty holds a file filled with Mel’s previous scores and notes in her hand. She flips through it as she gestures to the student car, a depressing sudan that wears all the bumps and dents that hundreds of unsteady and nervous students had put it through. “I shouldn’t have to remind you but walk around the car, make sure everything is good. No leaking. No flat tires.” She lists as she tosses the keys at them. 

Mel clutches them in their hands as they stoop around the car. Bending over and jumping back up in dramatic motions to let the examiner know that they were taking this seriously. “Looks good.” 

The woman nods and settles herself into the car. Mel follows after her, taking up the driver seat and adjusting its leg room and angle. “Put the key into the ignition. Adjust the side and rear view mirrors. And pull into reverse, aim the trunk of the car to the left.” Patty narrates Mel’s actions. 

Upon tapping the gas pedal, the car lurches back. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. Mel places a hand atop the steering wheel while they turn their body to look out the back window. The car fails to budge. “Parking brake.” Patty reminds them. 

“Uh, right.” Mel presses the brake down and shifts their foot to the gas pedal. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. The car refuses to budge.

On Patty’s side is another set of brake pedals that override the driver’s side. She tuts her tongue and shakes her head. “You aren’t looking where you’re steering.”

Mel turns around to their prior position, stifling down a growl of annoyance. When Patty finally lets up on her brake pedal, the car swings backward to the left. Mel shifts it into drive and retaps the gas pedal. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. “Turn right.” Patty orders as the car crawls to the curb. Mel flicks on the turn signal and waits for the oncoming traffic to cease. The moments tick by. Patty takes out a pen and begins scribbling something on her checklist. Mel turns right, following a semi-rig as it heaves down the street. Patty looks up from her list, “Keep going down this road until you see the I-90 entrance ramp.”

For a few short miles, the drive went smoothly. Mel keeps a good distance between the car and the eighteen-wheeler ahead. Patty’s eyes dart between the steering wheel, the mirrors, and her checklist. The woman’s surveillance is as dutiful and silent as a skyspy over Kaon. Mel’s two minute good track record comes to an end as they approach a three way intersection with stop signs at each end. Mel gently applies the breaks as a biker on a red chopper approaches perpendicular to them. The car comes to a definitive stop while the biker spreads his legs out, toes touching the street, before making a rolling turn. Mel taps the gas pedal at the same time. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. Patty clamps down on her separate brake pedal. She shakes her head, “Just cause he’s a dumbass doesn’t mean you can do something dangerous. Keep going.”

“Right…” Mel mumbles. Cutting someone off didn’t hold the same chance of accident or death back on Cybertron. At most, you’d transform, tell the other bot off and be on with your day. But Patty wouldn’t let them forget that on Earth the tiniest wriggle of the steering wheel, lapse in braking, mishap of speeding could mean life or death not just for the driver but for pedestrians and bicyclists. “Sounds as if we need to put laws in place that prioritize pedestrian safety and encourage town design to be more walkable.” 

Patty’s eyes dart away from the road and at them. She shakes her head. “No, no, no, we don’t need this town turning into Sterling City, you know how that turned out.” She taps against the windscreen, pointing at the green road sign. “You’re about to get on the ramp. Pay attention and speed up.” 

Mel clamps down on the gas pedal. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. The car’s engine revs up, reaching a sound level Mel would almost consider acceptable if it were their own. Sound becomes irrelevant when you fly several times the speed of sound (and light). Conversations are maintained through radios and subspace transmissions. But they could always feel the reassuring engine vibrations. The road begins to steepen and twist, snaking away from the town and towards the highway. The car loses speed. A pickup truck follows behind and quickly closes the difference. Patty huffs and twists around, looking between the pretender and out the rearview mirror. “Keep pressing! Normally I’m telling students to ease up but you…WOAH!”

The pedal snaps against the floor. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. Mel leans forward in their seat and yanks the steering wheel into the turn. Patty swings from one side to the next in her seat. To Mel, it’s a pitiful imitation of g-force. They look out to the right lane as the car parallels it. A tractor-trailer careens right past and onward, Mel merges behind them. 

Patty resettles and scribbles something on her checklist. “Let yourself slow down and reach a stable speed. It’s important to have consistent and even pressure on the gas pedal when driving. You seem oblivious to that.” 

Mel looks away, eyes darting between the side mirrors and speedometer. Their foot keeps tapping against the gas pedal. The movement felt so alien, so against their own fundamentals of movement. Planes didn’t have gas pedals. They had a throttle. Push or pull it to apply power to engines. There was no repetitive, consistent tapping of a pedal! Of course, such movements were merely a formality rather than an input for Transformers. I’m also the one driving. I don’t drive though. I taxi, take off, then land. They had never been a bot to rely on a skydart or a hover bay. Nor did they see the reasons for a non-flighted bot to rely on an external vehicle. Our kind have alternate modes for a reason. If not to use for ourselves then to use for others. Mel bites their lip to stop this line of thinking. They knew Cloudburst (human alias Kevin) wouldn’t approve. He would say it strayed too close to rationalizations for Functionism. Mel wouldn’t disagree but would defend their statement as an observation between the different perspectives of ones alternative mode between a colonist and a Cybertronian. Metalhawk was forged into a small, resort community on a watery moon. They were taught how to fly by a seagull and a photon sailboat. I can’t remember their names anymore but no one got offended if you called someone by their alternate modes. We didn’t even call them alternate modes, these forms aren’t lesser or secondary to our robot modes. They are just a part of us. A part of us that we should be able to change or reject if we wish, we should always have a choice. But I never grew up with any hatred of it.

I am my wings, my engines, my glass, my metal. And now I can’t have access to it. Planes don’t have gas pedals. I have a throttle. I have pedals for my rudders. I don’t have a gas pedal. They tap against the gas pedal again. Planes don’t have gas pedals. This car is worse than a crutch or a facsimile. It's just a tool. Utterly lifeless without any intent beyond that of the one behind the wheel. And the one behind the wheel now…is me. 

“Good. Now, look for an opportunity to enter the left lane to pass. Remember to check all the mirrors and your blindspots.” Patty instructs, dragging Mel out of the depths of their thoughts. I also don’t normally have blindspots. 

They nod. Up ahead, a steady stream of cars and trucks pass a giant semi-rig hauling logs. Mel’s eyes flirt between the rear and side view mirrors. Their mind lapses for a moment. “Should I signal then check or check then signal?” They ask. 

Patty’s face softens briefly. She scribbles something on her checklist before nodding. “Check for an opening then signal your intent.” 

Mel scans around with more focus. A black pickup charges in the left lane, blitzing pass and jumping back into the right. So fast I can’t sense it, I can’t sense anything trapped in here. They flick the turn signal left and…go!

The car yanks left and settles in its new lane. They flick the turn signal off and scan ahead. “Go faster, the point is to pass the truck, not keep pace with it.” Patty nags. Mel slams on the gas pedal, causing them both to lean back and forth in their seats. The car sputters past the truck's nose. Mel’s head turns over their shoulder while one eye scans the windscreen, looking between the glass for a good opening to cross back in. They try to avoid Patty’s gaze. After four seconds, they flick the signaller to the right and cross back over. 

“Turn right onto the next offboard ramp, let’s head back into town.” Patty orders. “We got stuff to discuss…” Her words hang in the air. “And you need to schedule your next lesson.” 

Chapter Text

Blackrock Building

“Since the cancellation of the GO product line’s development we’ve seen a sharp decline in public interest and stock price.”
“Internal morale has also been on the decline, both within the Kinetic Solution Innovations division and throughout Blackrock Enterprises as a whole.”

“Even social initiatives fail to recoup on interest…”

It is by this point Mr. Blackrock finally pushes against the board of directors, all assembled in a video conferences. Took him long enough. Kelly remarks silently as she watches him rise from his chair. “And how would you know that? Are you here in Sterling City, aiding in the rebuilding, Ms. Wilson? Are you seeing the improvements we are making?” 

The computer speakers go silent. A few board members turn off their microphones. Ms. Wilson, a stone-faced executive who’s fashion harkened back to the last time she was relevant, the 80s, crinkles her eyes. “No, Garrison, I am not. I do not want to encounter another undiffused Deceptitron bomb in my gardens.” 

“Decepticon.” Mr. Blackrock corrects. “Specifically, a caste built as living bombs, fully sentient but with no choice in their construction, occupation, or demise. Even worse than child soldiers.” 

Ms. Wilson stares back through the computer screen, completely unmoved. “Such…insight exposes just how distracted you are, sir. I will not speak for everyone here, but I wish that focus went towards something productive for the company. Your father and grandmother always spoke highly of you. I fail to see what they saw.” 

“I think we should bring Director Joyce back into the fold. He’d have ideas of how we should move forward with regards to product design and manufacture.” Another board member pipes up, red-haired and slack-jawed. 

Kelly stirs in her seat. She sits in front of Mr. Blackrock, clued in with a laptop at his desk. Normally during such monotonous meetings, she’d be typing away. This time she is procrastinating. The meeting is being recorded. I’ll transcribe it later. I might even have the chance to infuse my input into the minutes. Mr. Blackrock glares at her and coughs. “May I remind the board that Director Joyce’s house arrest is scheduled to remain in effect until June?” 

Back in December, Joshua Joyce, director of KSI, was found to be in contact with a rogue group of Decepticon Seekers. Upset over the lack of Energon (what he dubbed as transformium) Blackrock Enterprises had access to, he sought out an alternative supplier. He was unaware that the Seeker leader, Jetstorm, was being tracked by the Autobots and combat ensued. The Blackrock Building was struck by an electromagnetic pulse fired out by Jetstorm while fighting Metalhawk, plunging everyone inside into blackout. In the aftermath, seemingly ashamed or sulky, Metalhawk resigned as Blackrock’s scientific advisor and Joyce went on house arrest in his lakeside mansion. 

“Perhaps that decision should be revised and made multilaterally.” Ms. Wilson proposes. “This does bring us to another point of discussion, what is the nature of the relationship between Blackrock Enterprises and Sector Seven?”

“Girlfriend.” Kelly whispers to herself. Mr. Backrock glances at her but gives a soft smile. 

“An exchange in information, manpower, and common values, Ms. Wilson.” Mr. Blackrock answers. 

The elderly businesswoman's eyes narrow. “Let me rephrase the question: what are we to Sector Seven? This is a most unusual government contract. Not just the government, with a military agency. An underfunded one at that. We make nothing for them and they give us no money. What is the point beyond your fixation of robotic invaders from beyond the stars?” 

“I am in agreement with Ms. Wilson. Sir, what is there to gain from this contract with Sector Seven.” Asks the ginger businessman. 

Mr. Blackrock rises from his chair and leans over his desk. “If it appeases you all, consider Blackrock Enterprises taking stake into not just a speculative market but speculation for humanity's future. We are not alone in this Universe and there are some people out there who wish for us to join them. I am one of those willing to heed the call and bring back the benefits to all of mankind. Blackrock Enterprises will be a liaison between the common man on Earth and the aliens in the stars.” 

A few board members nod along. Kelly claps her hands quietly. “Uh…not to be an alarmist but what about Unicorn? The whole of Earth is supposed to be destroyed or something because of the Autobots.” The ginger board member says. 

Kelly and Blackrock bristle at the man’s question. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Here’s an idea for the cyberspace division, combating misinformation, to offer our services in mitigation and moderation in exchange for AdSense. Additionally, I implore everyone to have some optimism for the future. No one’s jobs are at risk and things will return to some amount of normalcy.” 

Ms. Wilson tilts her head. “We are not the rabble-rouser, Garrison. We expect growth. For months, our profits have barely broken-even and our investments are in the red. We cannot continue like this.” 

“Again, I’m in agreement with her. My girlfriends…girlfriend! Is getting really naggy about the lack of money coming in and I don’t know what to tell her…I fear she may burn down my third mansion.” The redhead rambles on.

Kelly almost wanted to smash in her computer screen. Blackrock looks ready to do it on her behalf. “Ms. Wilson, before this meeting divulges further into personal attacks and debate, I implore you all to rethink your values. And Henry, seriously consider converting your second and third mansions into emergency shelters.” 

Kelly turns off the meeting. “And enough of that…” 

Mr. Blackrock collapses into his seat. He takes deep breaths and readjusts his glasses. “I cannot blame them.” 

“You should.” Kelly huffs. 

He shakes his head. “No…but if they were to know how much of they’re salary was coming out of my pocket, they would sing a much different tune.” 

“How much of my salary is coming out of your pocket?” The secretary asks as she extracts the audio recording. 

Blackrock shakes his head. “None. Profits go back into paying the actual workers like you. The board might as well be superfluous.”

“Why not make this company private then? You’ve always prided it on being a family run business.” Kelly asks. 

“I consider this company to be a collaborative process, albeit one that needs a unified direction. And if I were to take it private at this time, I’d be opening myself up to lawsuits. We don’t need…what’s wrong?” Mr. Blackrock takes notice of Kelly’s exasperated frown. 

“The audio file got corrupted.” Kelly grumbles as she slams her laptop shut. 

Her boss takes a thumbdrive out of his hardrive and offers it to her. “Luckily I was recording the meeting as well. And I will email it to you as well. Fortunately, I doubt either of us will be forgetting this conversation.” 

Kelly double checks she still has pockets before putting the drive away. “No…I guess not. Thank you, sir.” 

Mr. Blackrock powers down his computer and pushes his chair in. He looks over his shoulder at the silent skyline out the window. “Perhaps it’s time to call it a day.” 

Kelly looks up at him and grins. “Again, thank you sir.” 

Before she can make it out the door, Mr. Blackrock coughs. “Actually, Kelly, I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to visit with Mel, Kevin, and Gale. It’s been awhile since I’ve had time to see them.” 

Kelly pauses, “Who’s Kevin again?” 

“Cloudburst. I met him in Italy, he was presumed dead after Pompeii. Him and Mel are close…I believe they are both in the process of becoming Conjunx Endura, life mates or something.” Mr. Blackrock explains. 

“Oh, they’re fiancés.” Kelly realizes.

The man looks hesitant. “I wouldn’t be so hasty to compare human concepts of relationships to those of the Transformers.”

“Sir, I’ve been to Cybertron, you haven’t. Besides, those two have been on Earth since the Paleolithic.” Kelly shrugs. “And, I’ll go along with you. I’ve mostly just been in contact with Marissa and that’s been great but they’re my friends too.” 

The Cabin in the Cascades

They ended up taking Kelly’s car at Blackrock’s insistence, he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention. Her new car. Due to her chronic bad luck, her transport history was a cycle of being banned from public transit, damaging rentals, and a few months of freedom with a new vehicle. This year’s model is a sleek red hybrid. 

The air hovers just above freezing point. In the shadows where the afternoon sun has yet to touch, the tires slip on thin sheets of black ice. Dense, tall forests close in on either side of the road. Mr. Blackrock leans forward and points to the left. “There. There’s the driveway.” 

Kelly nods as she slows down and spins the steering wheel. She is familiar with this area, suburbia tucked within mountains before you got to Snoqualmie Pass and ski resorts. But roads acted as narrow corridors in an ancient library, so easy to get lost or be invited into shotgun fire by some overly defensive property owner. 

The driveway drags on seemingly forever. It has changed since the last time she visited the trio of pretenders. Trees had been cut back, the pavement was reapplied and painted with fluorescent number 18. At the end, she sees a small hanger in place of a garage. Gale’s old magenta sports car is parked in front of it. The roofs of both the home and hangar are decked out in solar panels. 

Kelly parks right beside Gale’s car and pulls out the key. Blackrock and her exit the car and walk up to the door. “Hmm, quaint.” Mr. Blackrock says as he looks at the lawn, made up of rocks and native plants. 

“It’s a house. I’m surprised the roof isn’t changing height or the gutters aren’t turning into antennas.” Kelly replies. 

“Right, that is how you described the buildings on Cybertron. The architecture is adaptive to the needs of the citizenry. Imagine how that could be applied to Earth. Accessibility standards would be universal and reactive to someone’s needs. Tenants could individualize their homes without upsetting the landlord. Imagine the applications for event spaces, schools, entire cities.” Blackrock speculates with a smile on his face. 

Kelly rolls her eyes half-heartedly and knocks on the door. 

“Come in!” Gale’s voice hollers. 

The living room is a whirlwind, home gym mixed with a history museum. An actively-used fireplace dominates the left wall, fire raging bright, light dancing along old iron-age pots and pans. The couch is a bright green kidney bean straight out of the mid-century. The leather recliner is Victorian. The coffee table is gold plated and decorated with griffins and dragons. The television is decidedly more Cybertronian in origin, built into the orange-yellow cubic casing that defines Autobot’s reclaimed technologies. Two hallways split off from the living room, one presumably towards the bedrooms, and the other toward the kitchen. Directly ahead of the doorway, Gale uses an elliptical, she grins over at them. 

“Hmm, eclectic.” Mr. Blackrock remarks. 

“Pfft…I had no say in the decorating. If it were up to me everything would exclusively be Viking Age and Roman Empire…maybe with a room dedicated to playing Pok-Ta-Pok.” She muses. “Anyway, I’ve been good, thanks for not asking. I’m guessing you two are just here to see Mel.” 

Mr. Blackrock winces at her cutting assertion. Kelly nods. “Yep.” 

“Yes, don’t mind me. Kitchen.” Gale points down the hall and plugs in her headphones. 

The kitchen and dining room are conjoined. Modern steel appliances and slick quartz countertops contrast against the ancient pots, pans, and utensils. The dinner table and chairs appear to be made out of reclaimed woods. Mel looks up from where they sit, a bread bowl filled with clam chowder and a glass of liquid energon in front of them. “Oh, hi.” 

Blackrock pulls out a chair and settles into it. “Hello, Doctor Hawk, long time no see.” 

“Please, Garrison, call me Mel.” The pretender asks as they fish out bacon bits from their chowder. 

His chipper attitude is further slain. “Your arm still has you down.” Kelly comments. 

“I see it is no longer in a sling like it was the last time I saw you.” Mr. Blackrock observes. 

Mel nods. “The suit’s skin heals more quickly than true human flesh. Getting hit by a truck is nothing compared to almost falling into a black hole.” 

“Wait…did we almost get sucked into a black hole on the way back?” Kelly asks, frowning. Marissa and Kelly accompanied the Autobots back to Cybertron as unofficial ambassadors for Earth. On the return trip, Metalhawk flew them, a proverbial sprint compared to Sky Lynx’s 16 hour long arrival. She remembers not being able to see anything outside the starfighter’s red-tinted windshield. Just darkness, the best the human mind can comprehend as nothing. Well, not nothing but no perception. They moved many times faster than the speed of sound, light, and perception itself. 

Mel puts a hand up. “Yes…but… I had to risk it. Even moving through the Warren…hyperspace basically, objects and phenomena in normal space still have an effect even if a ship is moving at hyperspeed. Gravitational waves, neutron stars, supernovae, quasars, nebula, white, worm, and black holes. I can feel all of those. Sometimes they like rain droplets or lapping waves. But sometimes they breach into the Warren and can influence the ships traveling within it as they would in normal space. Thankfully, I can move fast enough to escape the event horizon of a black hole. But my wing got sucked in before I realized that. My wings are attached to my arms and yeah…” 

I swear if my unluckiness can influence space on a galactic scale as well… Kelly ponders. 

“Well, I must thank you again for prioritizing the safety and return of Kelly and Marissa.” Mr. Blackrock begins.

“You need to get out of this house.” Kelly interrupts, she leans over the table and stares intently into their eyes. 

Mel flinches and takes a sip of energon. “I have been getting out of the house. I’m trying to get my driver’s licence.” 

“That’s great, it only took you a century. No, you are going to do something fun with your…” Ex-coworkers? Friends? We’re all friendly but Blackrock’s still my boss and Mel…is really a giant alien robot plane who will probably outlive the human race. Those are some pretty big boundaries to actual equal friendship. “Us.” Kelly proposes. 

“That’s a wonderful idea, Kelly. Yes, what would you like to do, Mel?” Mr. Blackrock cheers. “Don’t worry, I’ll finance everything.” 

Mel blinks, their spoon wobbles. “Uh…”

“Hardware store. Let’s go to the hardware store. I remember on Cybertron you told me that it’s like going to a beauty salon.” Kelly declares. 

“Fascinating.” Mr. Blackrock exclaims. 

“Yes! Go to the hardware store! I want to eat more nails!” Gale shouts from the living room. 

“I prefer eating aluminum foil.” Mel grumbles. 

“Can you pretend to be human for like five minutes? There was a time when I was actually convinced you were.” Kelly says. “Do you want to go to the hardware store or not?”

Mel’s face hardens, Kelly recognizes the expression and shakes her head. “Fine, I’ll go with you two after I’m done with eating my chowder.” 

Backroads

Kelly’s hands cling to the sides of her seat as she endures Mel’s driving. She knows their flying is competent and smooth but driving…They somehow go both too fast and too slow. It’s not helped by the curving, bumpy roads that adhere to every contour of the hillside. Through the rearview mirror, she see’s Blackrock’s pensive yet encouraging smile waver. “I hope they have paint samples. I love paint samples.” Mel says. “See? I can pretend to be a human. I am actually really good at it.” 

“Not to eat, right?” Mr. Blackrock asks. 

“What? No! I hate the taste of dyes and ink. Gnashteeth once tried to get me to eat a printer, and I hated it. Ink gets everywhere and I don’t need my mouth being the end of Office Space .” Mel rejects.

“And the gig is up.” Kelly says as she leans against the window. She notices a white sports car and a giant armored truck drive up behind them. Mel tenses up in their seat. “They don’t have drivers…” Kelly realizes, looking through the vehicle's glass. 

Recognizing their discovery, the car and truck flash Decepticon insignias on their hoods. “They’re after me.” Mel gasps. The sports car rushes into the opposing lane and weaves closer and closer to her car. Mel swerves to the left, plunging tires into the steep shoulder. The Decepticon takes the opportunity to push up against Kelly’s car, opening up its doors so they can scratch against the red paint. There goes any hope of this car lasting more then a few weeks. 

More pressing than the car trying to ram them, is the armored truck who transforms into a large, dark grey mech. His face is hidden by a cracked visor and stained faceplate. Most frightening of all is his right arm which ends in a giant, throbbing cannon. “The hunt is at it’s end, Prisoner #618. Get out of there and I’ll let you have your last words.” 

Mel lets the car come to a stop. The grey mech’s accomplice transforms as well and rests a foot on the car’s roof. She leans down, smirking through the window and tapping it with her fingers. “Who is he?” Mr. Blackrock gasps. 

“The former warden of Trypticon Prison, Turmoil. And Deadlock. They held me prisoner for 3.5 million years.” Mel’s voice grows angrier. They storm out of the car and glare up at the Decepticons. Peeling back the skin on their ‘good’ hand, unveiling the synthetic sinew and blue metal beneath, Mel confirms their identity. “I’m guessing Roadkill ratted me out?” 

“He merely speeded up the process. I would have found you regardless.” Turmoil groans. “Now, get out of that disgusting disguise.” 

“You’ve never believed in a fair fight. You didn’t even believe in fighting. You were a warden, not a soldier.” The pretender spats. 

The black and white ‘con takes out a pistol and aims. “Then I’ll shoot you myself, smartaft.” 

Turmoil bonks her in the head with his cannon, pulling her back. “I can act for myself, Deadlock.” 

Mel throws their arms out. “Then blast me to ashes and slag. Then go do something worthwhile. Half a million years you spend doing what? Wallowing in your own failures?” 

Kelly and Blackrock yank them back. “Are you trying to get us killed?” Kelly whispers in their ear. 

“I am in agreement. You are in no state to take them both on.” Blackrock hushes. 

Mel shakes off their grip. “Stand back.” They look over their shoulders. “I didn’t let you fall into a black hole, I won’t let you get burned by a KNOCKOFF FUSION CANNON!” 

SHOOM!

Turmoil fires.

All Kelly can see is bright yellow light enveloping everything. She slams her eyelids shut. She can still see the light. Feel the heat on her cheeks, hair, everything. She smells burning grass, metal, and flesh. Something pushes against her, she can’t tell if it’s Blackrock, Mel, a tree, or her own car. Something. Then she hears something rustling the trees. An engine perhaps?

TSCHE-CHU-CHU-CHU-TSCHE!

Chapter Text

Backroads

Mel expects pain. A searing pain that starts at the surface of their skin before burning down to their bones. The pain would only stop when there was no more flesh, blood, and nerve, just metal. It’s a pain Mel can only know while in their shell and suit. Humans have to endure their pain for even rejecting it has consequences. If a Transformer finds something too painful, they just disengage their pain circuits. In the four million years of war, some embraced perverted ideals of pain: you were considered dishonorable if you let yourself go numb. It is so hard to kill a Transformer. Even the most grievous disassembly and destruction may leave the Spark unharmed. Many became artists in inflicting and enduring pain, both Autobot and Decepticon alike. Mel hates it. There’s a strength in saying enough is enough and letting yourself sleep. That is what they chose all so long ago and that is what Turmoil refuses to accept. 

It’s a stupid plan: needlessly self-sacrificial and selfish. They just put their friends' lives in danger all on the assumption that a fusion cannon would cause flesh to ignite rather than disintegrate on contact. And then what? Being shot point blank by a fusion cannon could blast a hole through their chest plate, opening up their spark casing, and deactivation. Actually, I think my spark is located in my left toe. They could deploy their shields, used normally to block radiation while traversing space but when under the pressure of an atmosphere it snaps. These stratagems never come to mind, not wholeheartedly because the pain never comes to begin with. 

The heat of the blast causes sweat to boil off the skin. Hairs singe in the goosebumps. The light is blinding, hot yet cold like his optics. Then a shadow sweeps overhead. Mel hears the chopping of a propeller and the whirl of a transformation cog. They look up as Cloudburst dives. His wings detach and fuse together to make a blast shield. 

At such a short distance, the pulse of the fusion cannon diverges arounds his shield. Without distance, the fire lacks its deadly focus. At most the red and gray mech strengthens his stance. The final discharges of Turmoil’s canon form a halo, making Cloudburst look like an angel. I need to recognize that more often. 

Deadlock is quick to counterattack, rapid-shooting her pistols at the ground. Each shot hits closer and closer to their feet. Behind them, Kelly and Mr. Blackrock retreat along the shoulder of the road. Tree trunks start to splinter, burnt to ashes by the blast. 

Cloudburst spins on his heel struts and drops down to scoop up the three of them. Before Mel can utter a protest, he transforms and the three are strapped down into his cockpit. His propeller whirls to life and he taxis precariously down the street. 

“Oh my…thank you, Kev...Cloudburst.” Blackrock gasps as he brushes the dust and soot from his suit. 

“What he said.” Kelly parrots as she sinks in the seat. “I knew there must have been a plan! You don’t just stare down the barrel of a gun and expect it to go well.” 

Cloudburst’s voice comes out of his center council. His interior is decorated with lacquered wood panels and tan leather seats. “There wasn’t a plan. I was flying back home. Mel, what’s going on?”

They don’t reply at first, staring out the window as the Decepticons transform to take chase. A rocket launcher pops out of Deadlock’s hood while Turmoil brushes up against Cloudburst’s tail. His wings bear scorch marks and are ratty along the trailing edge. Most worrying is the slow spin of his propeller and the quietness of his engine. “You’re running on fumes.” Mel comments. 

“I know. My engine isn’t electric but I have enough to get me off the ground.” Cloudburst protests. 

Mel unbuckles their seatbelt and slides into the pilot’s seat. “You aren’t going fast enough to take off and the street is doing you no help.” 

Kelly looks up from her phone she had been furiously tapping at. “What? Were you intentionally trying to get us all killed? We just need to get far enough away from those ‘cons until Sector 7 or some battle-ready Autobot shows up.” 

Cloudburst snaps a seatbelt over Mel’s lap, keeping them in place. “She’s right. Just sit tight, I’ll get airborne.” A rocket roars by, narrowly missing his windscreen.

Mel unbuckles again and starts to pry at the door latch. Just as they unlock it, Cloudburst slams it shut. “Wait, you can’t possibly be serious! I know you have history with those Decepticons but you’re still injured! As Kelly said, let others handle it.” Mr. Blackrock implores, reaching over to touch their shoulder. 

Mel brushes it off and uses all their strength to push against the door. Deep in their bones, there’s a vibration, motors and engines begging to ignite oxygen and feed on fuel. They’re trying to transform. Yet every attempt made since their injury ends the same, in near-debilitating pain and pressure along their fleshy forearm. There is a slight amount of give, the bone grafts buckle but start to sprinter, muscles relax but don’t release, and the skin stretches but never snaps. Their nerve endings resist the action, neurological warfare in the same being. The only way to remedy this is by removing the overburdening flesh. 

The door wavers open, slightly. Cloudburst slams it shut. “Stop it, Mel! You’re being unreasonable!” 

The road curves right. Cloudburst loses speed as he turns precariously. One landing gear slips into the dirt while his wing rattles against tree branches. Turmoil transforms and sprints alongside the prop plane. His cannon arm charges up again and his hungry optics gleam through his visor. “Autobot…if your partner is so ready to die, why don’t you let them?”

“Okay, for the record that’s not what I want but I do want to be let out!” Mel lets the door close ever so slightly as Cloudburst regains his speed. 

“Is this because of the past few months?” Cloudburst asks. 

“No. It’s because you added bacon to the clam chowder. Clam chowder is already great, you don’t need to ruin it by needlessly adding bacon.” Mel snips. Not a pressing issue in the slightest but it does feel good to get that off my chest. “No, really it's because of the last four million years. I spent over half of my life asleep and starving in a jail cell! And for what reason? Because by happenstance, fate, or coincidence I was the only one who knew where He is. But there were people in Trypticon who were in for far less and what do you think happened to them? I haven’t seen any of them since Tortuga ripped her beak through that lizard’s belly. I remember each and every inmate who broke out. I remember the ones who screamed, those who stayed silent like me, and those who fought till their Sparks gave out. I remember the looks in a mech’s optics as he passed out smuggled in cogs and blueprints. He was an Action Master, Turmoil was too careless to suspect anything of it. It was because of him I got my wings back.” 

They close their eyes and pause to gather their thoughts before continuing. Before…Cloudburst opens up his door and swings to the side, forcing Mel to tumble out of him and onto the street. 

Turmoil and Deadlock take their chances, firing out fusion cannon and rocket launcher alike at the Pretender. 

Mel makes no attempt to avoid injury. Upon falling out, they roll across the asphalt, gaining bruises and bashes. The rocket narrowly clips Cloudburst’s elevator before exploding in the forest. The skies above darken with pregnant rain clouds. Hopefully the fires are extinguished. 

Turmoil shoots with better aim. While the blast of a fusion cannon became more focused at longer ranges, it still was preferential for a large target. Mel has to reach up to get hit. 

Their fingers grace the yellow beam, burning, boiling, and buckling before vanishing quicker than the pain could be conceived. The skin of the hand bulges and blisters. Boiling blood ruptures in its vessels, tiny hemorrhages occurring all at once. Muscles and tendons curl and carbonize upon exposure. The bones blacken and fleck off until…

TSCHE-CHU-CHU-CHU-TSCHE!

Sensations both faintly forgotten yet familiar are experienced as Metalhawk returns to their vehicle mode. The give of a landing gear, even having a landing gear. Sagging of wings. The intake of air by their engines is like breathing. How loud their jet engines actually are once their turbines get started. The simultaneous reactivation of their secondary computers and applications. 

Turmoil takes a step forward, staring intently as he finally has a credible challenge for his final hunt. Deadlock continues to chase after Cloudburst, priming her rocket launcher for another shot. Metalhawk speeds after them, only flinging a few warning shots with their rotary cannon at Turmoil.

Once clear of any backfire, Metalhawk tails Cloudburst. They angle their nose down and spread out their air brakes, doing everything they can to generate drag ahead of activating their afterburners. Even with such efforts, even with a broken wing, they still struggle to stop lift from generating. They nestle their leading-edge extensions right against Cloudburst’s elevator, pushing him far and fast enough that he can produce lift. He takes flight.

“Thank you.” Cloudburst says over the radio-comms. 

“Thank you for letting me handle this.” Metalhawk corrects as they swing around to face Turmoil and Deadlock.

The black and white Decepticon had followed after the planes. She transforms and readies her rocket launcher, aiming it at their cockpit. Metalhawk is moving too slow to avoid it, keeping at subsonic speeds and their landing gear only a few meters off the ground. Rather than dodge it, they need to prevent her from ever pulling the trigger. 

As they pass her, as Deadlock drops down to one knee, lines up her scope, and wraps her pointer finger against the trigger, Metalhawk transforms. The action feels stilted, labored due to disuse. Their balance is further off, their missing a hand and a wing tip, still hadn’t grown back. They came out of their shell too early. But it doesn’t matter. If I let Cloudburst fly me away, these two would just come after me again, and again. I hate to have Kelly and Mr. Blackrock endangered like this but next time it could have been in a more densely populated area, more people could have been harmed. Or they could have come to our cabin. I have to end this here. 

Metalhawk launches themselves at Deadlock; thrusters on full blast, wing edges sharpened, and sword drawn. The Decepticon hastily reaims her rocket at the Autobot and fires. It explodes to their left, knocking them partially off balance. Metalhawk’s process churns as it assesses Deadlock’s frame, looking for any weak points. 

SLICE! 

The golden sword streaks against Deadlock’s chest plate until it comes to stab into her side, puncturing a secondary fuel tank. Gallons of green Synth-En and shiny gasoline spill onto the street. Her yellow optics flicker at the sudden loss of reserves. She clutches her side. Metalhawk holds her by her shoulder as they readjust the blade, pushing it deeper so it ruptures the other side of her plating and pins her to asphalt. “I wouldn’t be so quick to struggle.” Metalhawk warns as they turn to face the former warden of Trypticon Prison. 

“Help me, Turmoil!” Deadlock cries out. “I can still fight! They do me a disservice by not cutting me down.” 

The mech shakes his head as he rubs his cannon arm. “Nah, you’ve done good, Deadlock. You’ve deprived Prisoner #618 of their only weapon. All you got now is a Primus damned rotary cannon and some stabby wings! No wonder you ended up in Tryp’s belly, you are a poor excuse for a starfighter, never

mind a war machine.” 

Metalhawk puts their bad arm behind their back and playfully bows. “I try.” 

“Then why not flee now? You’ve rebuilt yourself, I see. You could so easily fly to the far corners of the Galaxy. Perhaps even farther.” The Decepticon wonders. 

“And allow your pursuit of me become one of intergalactic proportions? Never. But that’s what you’d like, wouldn’t it? To have a story grander in scale then Megatron’s. I see how you fashion yourself, a near splitting image of him. Or a knockoff to use a less kinder term of phrase. You should be lucky my friend isn’t here, yet.”

“Which friend? The one who just flew away, like you should.”

“No. The one who nearly killed Megatron. Gnashteeth.” Metalhawk looks beyond him, to the road and the treeline, hopeful that Gnashteeth would come running. No sight or sound of her. At most, they think they can hear the chopping of a propeller. Either Cloudburst is still circling or a helicopter is near. 

Turmoil looks back with disgust, rolling his shoulders and squirming his heavy feet. “You’d rather let someone else kill me then face me yourself? Willingly letting others do your dirty work. And you consider me despicable. You are nothing but a coward and an opportunist.” He points to Deadlock as an example.

“I never thought about it that way. In a way, I should thank you. Because I spent much of this War rotting in a cage, never seeing active battle and only the repercussions, I’ve never developed the perverted appeal for it found in a mech like you. Even more so, I can quite literally pretend to have never been a part of it.” Metalhawk explains. 

They then notice Turmoil’s cannon, the metal casing is red hot. A charge builds but has yet to be released. Instead, it can only blow. That’s why he kept me talking, to charge it up. He’ll take us all out!

Turmoil’s visor glitters in the growing glow as he holds his arm out. 

Metalhawk rushes to his side. They raise their arm. With one swift swipe, they sever his cannon arm at the elbow. They stomp their boot onto it. 

CHOOM!

The blast dissipates with a flash of yellow light. Shockwaves reverberate through their legs. Radiation tingles at their sensors. When the light dies down, all that’s left is Turmoil’s snarl as he slams his helm down at Metalhawk, denting their chestplate. 

“Is this what you want? A one-handed brawl? Because I will give that to you!” He cries as he pushes against Metalhawk. 

While taller, they are far lighter then the heavily armored mech. Turmoil easily pushes them around, sending the Autobot stumbling back and needing to activate their thrusters to regain an edge. They sidestep and dance around Turmoil’s punches and high stomps. Every attempt to counterattack is hindered by their lack of inbuilt weaponry. Aside from sharpening their wings and slicing against Turmoil’s thick armor, Metalhawk fails to deter Turmoil. 

The tree tops around the backroad begin to shake like the ruckus crowd of gladiatorial combat. The wind picks up. Metalhawk powers down their thrusters and holds their forearms against their chest, wings poked out to block Turmoil’s fleeting fist. Confident now that it’s a helicopter causing the disturbance, they go to look up but then freeze. 

They feel a familiar, targeted hum and instinctively back away. A black helicopter flies overhead, mounted to its undercarriage, in place of a machine gun, is the pointed nozzle of a spark disruptor, a weapon first designed by the Functionists to be used by their enforcers, further popularized by turncoat and Decepiticon strategizer, Shockwave. It works by disrupting the flow of pulses and electricity from a Transformer’s Spark to their frame and back. By severing the Spark from the Innermost Energon around the casing, it can’t perform the reactions necessary to replenish itself after each pulse. It goes into meltdown and starts to burn up. The broader effects on the frame varied based on a Transformer’s method of creation. I was forged, I nearly melted away when Shockwave shot at me. For Turmoil, it seems to have a similar effect. The helicopter hovers above, targeting the Decepticon. His heavy armor is shed like snakeskin. The endoskeleton holds up better, in general, the outer frame is more malleable to changes like scanning a new alternate mode or installing a surface-level modification. The disruptor hovers over his chest, to the left before finding center and his spark casing. 

Metalhawk closes their optics. They can hear Turmoil’s anguished screams as his metal peels apart, wires rip, and casing bloom. The former warden’s body falls onto its knees and then the street. Panels open, the disruptor is retracted and depowered. There’s a brief static and then nothing but the helicopter’s chopping. And a voice over a megaphone, “You can open your eyes, big blue.” Metalhawk obeys and looks up. Standing just outside the helicopter’s doors is a hardened man with facial scars wearing a uniform and light armor. “Now, what to do with you?”

“I come in peace.” Metalhawk says slowly, recognizing the irony. They had rarely ever been sighted, let alone accosted by humans while in robot mode. Centuries ago when such a phenomena would be attributed to the Gods or spirits, Metalhawk ran with it but never embraced it like Gnashteeth had on occasion. In modern times, they’d just transform into vehicle mode or wait for Sector 7 to address it post haste. But now when not just Transformers, but the existence of other extraterrestrial species is known, it garnered a new reaction. 

Upon the helicopter’s sides and the man’s breast pocket is an abbreviation, TRF, for the Transformers Reaction Force. Since the Invasion, people all over the Earth have provided a response. Some, like Mr. Blackrock, welcomed Transformers, seeking out a place among the stars and new opportunities. Others didn’t care about the distinction between Autobot and Decepticon and actively fought both if spotted. A car driving by the street is suspect. Conspiracy, disinformation, and fear run unchecked. The TRF provides a more professional front for the latter. An international paramilitary backed by multiple governments, private organizations and corporations, and volunteers with one mission: to defend humanity from the Decepticons on their own terms, without assistance from the Autobots. 

“Funny.” The man replies. “Codename: Silas. Now state your name and affiliation.” 

Metalhawk activates their thrusters and flies up to eye level with Silas. “Metalhawk, at this point: Autobot. Look at my wings under an infrared camera if you need to be certain.”

Another person from inside the helicopter hands him an infrared camera. He uses it to assess Metalhawk. “Hmm, a Super Hornet, but without hardpoints. Haven’t seen you yet, Metalhawk? Were you just sent here?” 

The Autobot crosses their arms. “I first visited this planet five and a half million years ago. I have the ichnites to prove it. And I’m the co-leader of the Autobots stationed here.” 

“I see, I expected there to be someone with a better presentation than that rat bike. Pleasure to meet you. Now, who was that ‘con? Why were you fighting?” He asks. 

Metalhawk looks down at Turmoil’s corpse. Aside from his creaked, dim visor, it is hard to even tell that he had died. Hunks of rehardened metal litter his agonized frame. His chest plate looked as though it had imploded, the metal twisted and dripping out to form a cavity from which the bloomed casing rose. “No, it's my turn to ask questions. Where in the universe did you get a Spark Disruptor?” 

Silas’s eyes widen and he ponders the question for a moment. “So that’s what it's called.” He looks beyond them as Cloudburst lands. Kelly and Mr. Blackrock exit, both looking rattled yet unharmed. Silas points to the businessman. “It was that man over there who ordered the creation of such a remarkable weapon.” 

Metalhawk looks over their shoulder, trying to keep a neutral expression so Silas couldn’t clue into the personal hurt they felt. A second thing that company hid from me while I was working there. A second thing the Decepticons snuck in. Time and time again, I try to do a little good, steer the humans down the right path, and the Decepiticons play to their worst and most banal impulses. Blackrock visibly bristles and gasps silently. Kelly walks forward and shouts over the sound of the helicopter blades and Metalhawk’s thrusters. “We didn’t know that it was so powerful!” 

They don’t talk, just glaring down at her. 

“Don’t give me that look! It was Arkeville who ‘developed’ it! Rattrap was with us!” She shouts back. 

Metalhawk rubs their face. Through their fingers they can see Cloudburst transform and slowly approach, offering a reassuring yet sad smile. They’ve both been in this position before, disappointed in the humans. It isn’t the same type of disappointment a parent might feel towards a child, as if the humans didn’t know what they did was wrong. No, the guilty conscience is clear from Blackrock’s face. They’re both Metalhawk’s friends and former coworkers. Expectations were not met and secrets were kept. From Rattrap, that's to be expected. I’ll talk to him later. 

“He provided us with the blueprints.” Silas confirms. 

“But how? We haven’t heard from him in months!” Mr. Blackrock finally asks. 

“I’ll assure you, sir, that it was as a volunteer, no collusion. And I am quite fond of your work in general.” Silas replies. 

“I do not share that sentiment. I seek my own way rather than budding in where I’m unneeded.”

“We have a right to defend ourselves. You approved this technology after all. And I think the TRF has proven its worth today.”

Metalhawk slowly lands, tuning out the conversation. Their attention is grabbed by something else. Or rather the absence of something. “I wouldn’t be so quick to pat yourself on the back, Silas. I was fighting two Decepticons and now there’s only one.” 

Deadlock is gone. All she left behind are uneven tire marks and spilt fuel. The helicopter begins to move forward, Silas goes to head inside. Metalhawk reaches up and grabs the aircraft by the tail boom, keeping it in place. “We are more than capable of finishing the job, Autobot. Unlike you.” 

Metalhawk tugs the helicopter back, straining its motor before letting go. “No, whether or not you see it as such, you just committed murder to a mech who hadn’t first been granted mercy. You all need to stay here until Sector 7 arrives. Cloudburst, make sure nothing is done to Turmoil’s corpse until I return.” 

They begin to walk away, following the trail Deadlock left. They tune out any shouts of protest. Until Deadlock is dealt with, Metalhawk can’t be certain that they’d finally have rest. Time to end the cycle. 

Chapter Text

Punch knew just how hard it is to find self-manufactured moments of peace during war. Even when they weren’t on mission. With a DJD agent still at large, it was decided that Punch and Decepticon defectors; Knockout, Breakdown, and Inferno, would remain out of action and should stay at the Autobot Base. Emphasis on should. Luckily, I have some business to attend too. As they took the time to go out on an afternoon drive, any chance to do some people-watching vanished as they accept the reality of what the backroads close to the Base were like. Vacant, twisting, and only lead to the highway or onto private driveways lined with ‘No Trespassing” signs. It makes Punch strangely yearn for the freedom of movement they had while immersed with the Trackers. Roadkill was always willing to dispatch a solo patrol on the grounds of covert surveillance of humans. It was a good excuse so Punch could do research for their side business: developing holomatter avatars. 

They are about to pull a U-turn when something catches their interest ahead on the road. Sickly green fluid and gasoline stains the pavement. Tire marks streak over the stains and puddles, all angling in the same direction: into the woods. After checking to make sure they are alone, Punch transforms and leans over to examine the nature of the stains and streaks. The green fluid is Synth-En or synthetic energon. The formula was commonly used by the Decepticons to fuel their lower ranks of soldiers. It has a zesty yet hollow flavor, the illusion of a buzz and high that could only be felt if you were unlucky enough to drink a batch made with an incomplete formula. The blue and orange Autobot presses a finger into the green puddle. I almost want to taste it again. They flick the droplets away, shifting their attention to the tire marks. The width apart and pattern of wear on the tires implies a car. Something low to the ground considering additional streaks of a bumper and something fast. The right set of tracks are darker while the left seems to have carried more weight. Whoever was driving was doing so on only three tires. Punch can’t see any sign of vertical streaks that would indicate the dragging of a wheel rim. 

They follow the trail of gasoline and synth-en into the forest. Whoever came through before them made a forceful path, trampling the underbrush and bashing into trees on three wheels before switching to two weary legs. The puddles stop. The injured Decepticon had stopped bleeding out and started shedding off their kibble. Punch notices broken glass and a white car door laying on the forest floor. This new trail continues: chucks of burned rubber, metal shards, ripped fuel tank. A whimper, a crying engine. Hollow yellow optics are visible before the rest of the ‘con’s spiky, injured form. 

The initial injury was a stab wound to the ‘con’s secondary fuel tank. The still embedded sword had traveled deeper and higher along the robot’s body, hindering transformation and severing off outer plating from the shoulders, hips, and back. “Ugh…is another Autobot going to fail at killing me?” The Decepticon groans. 

Punch kneels down beside the ‘con and takes out a med-kit. “Sorry to disappoint. My job is closer to that of a recruitment officer than an executioner.” At Least one of my jobs. 

Before they can get to work, the trees rumble. A shadow slices overhead, blocking out the sun. Something flies in, low and labored. Punch dulls their audio receptors against the rumbles of a jet engine as Metalhawk transforms and lands. The pretender is missing a hand and a wing tip. Burning blue optics fixate on the decepticon and the sword embedded. 

“Come to finish the job?” The decepticon croaks, leaning forward and pushing Punch away. 

Metalhawk shakes their golden helm. Punch notices the dents and scrapes along their armor. What happened between these two? “I told you not to move, Deadlock. You brought this on yourself.” 

Punch searches for the designation, backchecking various Decepticon dossiers they had downloaded to their databanks. Deadlock, a guard at Trypticon Prison until the Incident. “What happened to Turmoil?” They ask. 

Metalhawk looks their way. Punch feels so small under their gaze, not helped by the jet being nearly twice as tall as them. Deadlock is quicker to answer, “You let him melt away.” 

“It was a Spark disruptor.” Metalhawk clarifies. 

Punch sighs. “The Decepticons are quick to kill their own for whatever reason.” 

The pretender shakes their helm. “It was the humans. Transformer Reaction Force.” 

“What?” Punch gawks, jaw nearly dropping through their faceplate. Disruptors were only used by the Decepticons. They never knew Roadkill’s Trackers to manufacture and distribute them to the humans. “Since when?” 

“Since three months ago, apparently. Rattrap knows. Apparently.” Metalhawk’s voice is barely more than a bitter growl. 

“I heard everything you and Turmoil talked about! He was right! You let other “people” do your dirty work for you!” Deadlock’s optics flitter over to Punch. 

Metalhawk’s gaze follows. They take a step closer and crouch down. “In this instance, you are correct.” 

“NO!” Deadlock screams as Metalhawk reaches out for their sword. They pull it out. Punch freezes up. 

SNAP! Metalhawk breaks the blade against their knee, shattering it into two equal pieces that fade to gray. They let it tumble to the forest floor. Metalhawk looks at Punch, smiling softly. “It's time for you to do your job.” 

Punch blinks then nods. They shuffle on their knees closer to Deadlock’s side. The black and white ‘con recoils, scowl turning to a fearful frown. “What could be worse than death? What else do you two have planned for me?” 

“You just screamed for your life. I know you don’t want to die, regardless of what you just bargained. Your Spark is still flaring.” Punch assesses as they begin to patch up the initial stab wound. 

“It feels like it's splitting in two.” Deadlock bemoans. 

“I know how you feel. Is that why you hid your I.D.?” Punch asks. 

Deadlock looks sharply at them. “How do you know that?”

“I’m also a diplomat, I can read both Autobot and Decepticon I.D.s.” Punch explains. It’s a half-truth that Deadlock easily sees through. 

“You…you were the double agent? Weren’t you?” Deadlock accuses. “Heard about you while at the island base. It’s only a matter of time before that creepy bug the D.J.D. sent comes after you and…me.” 

“You’re right.” Punch confirms before the Decepticon screams.

“Why did I say that?” Deadlock vents heavily, servos reeling. “Why did I say that? I was constructed as a Decepticon for Primus’s sake! Turmoil…he promised that we’d have greatness again after we killed you all.” Deadlock points at Metalhawk. 

“I know you were a guard at Trypticon when the War began until the Incident. And even then you continued to serve under him.” Metalhawk explains. “What did you two do before the War?” 

Deadlock looks back at them with contempt but finally answers. “He never told me, at most he’d say that “anything that came before or after the Decepticons would be sent to the Inferno”. And we sought to make that so. He was a field commander and I was his second-in-command. He wanted to conquer a planet but failed. It's how the Decepticons got blacklisted by the Galactic Council in the first place. Because of that “loss of opportunity”, the Lieges decided to demote him. I followed.” 

Punch has heard stories just like Deadlock’s before. So many times before. “The Decepticons make promises they never intend to keep.” 

“But…I can’t just leave…the D.J.D. they’ll be after me.” Deadlock panics. 

“Then you’ll be in the same boat as me and five other defectors.” Punch assures. 

“Four. The neutrals Devcon protected fled Earth after Megatron’s failed invasion. Lapse didn’t want to take the risk.” Metalhawk corrects. 

Punch nods their helm and vents. “I see. But, you would be safe with us if you defect. The D.J.D. is most effective when they catch a defector out on their own. How many former Decepticons do you think live in Iacon? Hmm? None have been touched by the D.J.D.”

“Yeah, because they’re just waiting for Megatron to level it to the ground.” Deadlock replies. “Besides, I don’t think they’d let me join.” 

Metalhawk visibly bristles and crosses their arms.  Punch turns to look at the pretender as well, optics narrowed. Over radio comms they ask, [“Why are you still here? You should get to the CR chamber.”]

[“I know but I want to ask you something. Were the Trackers even in direct communication with Shockwave?”] Metalhawk asks.

Punch shakes their helm. [“No. Roadkill only communicated with Shadowkstriker, she would forward things to Shockwave if it was relevant.”]

[“Hmm, maybe it was through the Storm Seekers. Jetstorm mingles with human companies all too often…”] The pretender thinks. 

[“You’re stalling, Metalhawk. You’re better suited for spying on them then me if that's what you’re going to ask next.”] Punch snaps. 

[It wasn’t but seeing as you can no longer continue as a double agent within the Trackers, I wouldn’t be against your help.”] Metalhawk proposes. 

Punch stops for a moment. [“I’ll consider it.”] 

Metalhawk nods in appreciation. “I’ll be leaving now. Do you want me to send Knockout and Breakdown over?” 

Deadlock panics at the mention of the two former-cons. “What! You’re going to send more people over to give me a beatdown?”

Metalhawk stares sternly. “Those are the names of a medic and his conjunx. The bot kneeled beside you is named Punch. Your name has the word ‘dead’ in it.”

“Not anymore! I won’t be the skid plate of your joke.” The decepticon hisses. 

“It was an observation.” Metalhawk mutters as they turn away. 

“It would be helpful to have Knockout here.” Punch admits as the pretender walks away. The trees shake as Metalhawk takes off and transforms. “There’s a term for what you are feeling, by the way. A designation change, a sudden shift in identity. I’ve seen it before in ex-cons.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore. With Turmoil dead, I have nothing to hold on to. No one to serve.” The Decepticon’s head shakes, optics flicker, hands scratch at emblem then out at Punch until they strike at the back of the neck, causing the Decepticon to enter stasis lock. 

“Knockout will appreciate that.” Punch says before passing into a monologue. “I would never leave the Autobots, I know too much to ever truly leave but due to the nature of my work, I have become well aware of the failures of both factions. If you can still hear me, I understand your plight. Granted mine feels like a division of the mind rather than a change of Spark. But to give you solace I am reminded of Optimus Prime’s most famous saying: ‘Freedom is the right of all sentient beings’. I agree with the sentiment but I feel as though High Command forgets what you seem to be feeling: freedom is daunting. And I’m sorry but, after Knockout fabricates you some new armor, I think the best course of action will be to let you adrift and find your own way.” 

Chapter Text

Hello, 

I have decided to put Unearthed on indefinite hiatus for the time being. There are a few reasons why: 

1. I’ve started a new job. While I was at school, my schedule was a lot more flexible, I could devote more time into writing for fun. Now, that inspiration is far more fleeting and directed to other projects. 
2. Speaking of which I’ve moved onto working on another project. For the past few months I’ve been devoting my time to a worldbuilding/speculative evolution project on my Deviantart account. It’s called Cavern City/ Drecel and is about sentient dragons living within a giant city found inside a massive cave system. Here’s a link to it if anyone’s interested: https://www.deviantart.com/riverraptor12/gallery/89493334/cavern-city 
3. I feel as though I’ve written myself into a corner with Unearthed. I do have stuff drafted and outlined up for it but none of it feels satisfying for me to write or post or read back. There are many characters, plot threads, and points that I have introduced and am struggling to come up with an ending for. That is because both SOE and Unearthed have a sprawling plot, a big cast, and inconsistent pacing. A Lot of stuff will happen within a short amount of time and then I don’t really know how to follow up on it. There is so much casual writing advice out there that I should have heeded, I realize that now. 
4. I used to have a lot of fun writing this and now I don’t. I treat this story as my one chance to do a transformer’s story. Any idea I had for a Transformers story, I had to introduce it. And eventually I realized, no, that’s not how I had to do things but it was too late.

Now, what else was planned for Unearthed? The next arc would have been called Invasive Species and would have focused on Metroplex and the Camians revealing themselves on Earth. Metroplex would take the form of a hydroelectric dam and appear along a river, drawing a lot of attention and possible danger from flooding/environmental damage. Sector 7 and some Autobots would go in and investigate. There’d be a stand off or misunderstanding but eventually Metroplex would be moved and the Camians would align themselves with the Autobots. Along with Windblade, I planned on including Ironhide and Chromia.

I didn’t have a set number of arcs in mind, just a collection of plot points or little things I wanted to include. Here’s an informal list of them:

• I would have reintroduced Deadlock as Drift, a transmasc swords bot roaming the Earth and looking for a new cause. He’d find it in Hot Rod who he’d first meet in a spar before being bested by the Autobot. The two would have a heart-to-heart where Hot Rod would let slip that he’s prophesied to become the next Prime. Drift would then become Hot Rod’s most vocal supporter and never leave his side. 
• Windblade would teach Nightviper how to be a Cityspeaker and become bonded to Tortuga. 
• Optimus, Sky Lynx, Skywarp, and Jazz’s trip back to Earth would be interrupted by a Decepticon encounter, most likely Shockwave’s own warship where we would find out more about his grand plan to usurp Megatron. They would eventually escape and return to Earth. 
• I wanted to find a way to introduce Decepticon Pretenders. My thoughts were that they would be diplomats between the Decepticon Empire and other alien races, traitors living on Earth pretending to be monsters, or integrated into my next idea…
• The Decepticons would have sponsored some companies on Earth, manned by synthoids. Ideas I had were a beverage company, a weapons manufacturer, and survival kit manufacturer banking on the very same chaos the Decepticons created. Higher-ups in the government, above Sector 7s leadership, were aware of this but forbade investigation. This would be a part of a conspiracy going on in the background and that I never really developed. 
• Once Optimus returned, there would be some discussion between him, Rattrap, Metalhawk, and Deep Blue over Autobot leadership on Earth. None of those three challenge him. Instead, it's Gnashteeth who makes the challenge. My subplot for her would be that she’s steadily growing in power and influence among both humans and autobots. She was the one who fought Megatron one-on-one and had earned the public’s faith because of it. Hot Rod would react incredulously but Optimus would tell him to stand down and that he would consider Gnashteeth’s claim. 
• That would never come to pass. As part of Unicron’s awakening, there would be foreshocks. Massive earthquakes and volcanic eruptions would be triggered around the world with the key locations being the PNW, Yellowstone Nat’l Park, Iceland, Japan, and the East African Rift. The Autobots would be scattered across the Earth trying to evacuate people. Together, Tortuga and Metroplex would coordinate their spacebridges to mass-teleport hundreds of millions of people out of the danger zones. The feat would prove too much for Tortuga and she would perish after. Optimus Prime would also die during these disasters. 
• Hot Rod would find Optimus’s body and the Matrix of Leadership inside it. Before notifying anyone else, he’d try something. He took the Matrix into his hands and tried to open it. Nothing. Nothing happens. 
• Unearthed would end with the final assault on Unicron. The foreshocks would create giant crevices for his limbs to arise out of but allow the autobots to bring the Matrix to him. The essential members of the team going down would be Metalhawk, Hot Rod, Rattrap, Gnashteeth, Drift, Sky Lynx, and Marissa. At some point, Metalhawk would be singled out by Unicron and the two would have a talk not too dissimilar to Jetstorm’s conversation in SOE’s epilogue. 
• Marissa would be the one to actually open up the Matrix and unleash its power upon Unicron. In his final moments, Optimus decided that the Matrix would open to the one holding it in the universe’s darkest hour. Because Hot Rod was fixated on the prophecy, he couldn’t open it. Not yet. 

I even had plans for a third story, making this a trilogy. It would be set roughly 20 years after Unearthed and see the conclusion of the Cybertronian War plus any other plot threads. 

I never want to discount working on Unearthed again. I have lost interest in this project before only to return to it after a period of time. But if I did return to working on it, I’d still have a mess on my hands. Still, I am open to revisiting concepts, plot points, and characters in a future rewrite. I had a blast writing this. 

Lastly, I want to thank you, the readers. Thank you. 

TLDR: This fic is going on indefinite hiatus because I crammed all my ideas into it and now I’ve written myself into a corner.