Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What happened?!” Hot Rod shouted as he and Starscream clapped their hands over their audio processors.

“Not us!” Starscream gritted his teeth. “I--I can’t focus with this noise!”

“Wait!” The speedster pulled his hands away for a split second. “It’s the same noise! The portal…the…Oracle! Vector Sigma! Let us talk to Alpha Trion! Please!”  

«Well. » The syllable cut through the noise as though a hand parting a curtain, the air now deafeningly anechoic. « What do we have here? »

“Scrap,” Starscream whispered, too loud in the abrupt silence.

Hot Rod squared his shoulders as he pulled himself upright. “The Director, I presume?” 

« Ah. This shard was thorough, it appears. Yes, I am The Director. Oh no, you stay put, little one. »

Hot Rod whipped his attention towards the red and black mech as an electrifying bolt struck Starscream, lifting the writhing flier off the ground.

“Is that necessary?” Hot Rod demanded, now balling up his fists. 

« All part of the self-loathing process, I assure you, » The Director replied flippantly, and released Starscream. « Now, I am a very busy god doing rather important things. Why, Hot Rod of Nyon from some insignificant permutation of Primax 984 Alpha or Gamma or thereabouts, are you here? »

“Trying to get back to that permutation, thank you very much.”

« And you believe Vector Sigma would hold that answer. I suppose there is some base level logic in that assumption, especially if you had come across the Oracle…that archaic glitched-beyond-use interface. I cut it off before I claimed my rightful place here; I refuse to network with damaged equipment. Tell me, who did it show you? What did it promise you? »

“He’s trying to discredit what you’ve seen,” Starscream whispered. “He wants you to doubt.” 

« Please. Now is not the time to cultivate a spine. » The multifaceted sheroid shifted, now forming a caricature of an all too familiar face. « Fine. I have a need for you, Hot Rod of Nyon. It’s a very simple request, and one, from what I have gathered, would bring you closure to that deeply seeded guilt you still harbor. »

Hot Rod was intending to interrupt just before The Director mentioned “guilt”. 

« You wish to return “home”. This is something I cannot provide, even if I wanted to. But as you have figured out by now, Vector Prime might be able to fulfill your need. Sending you to Axiomia Nexus, now that is well within my capabilities. I just ask you to do one thing while you’re there. » 

“We’ll find another way,” Starscream hissed. To Hot Rod, he ordered, “Don’t accept it. He’s setting you up to fail.”

« Amusing, isn’t he? » The Director chuckled. « I’ll admit, he comes from a universal stream where I had a moment of weakness…of conscience, I suppose. Sacrificed himself to make a point, I believe? It did not matter, and now he is here, cowering behind a lost little Autobot. No matter; this lost little Autobot has requested my audience, and now you have it. Hot Rod of Nyon, present your case without interruption, » this, the face within the orb glared pointedly at Starscream, who glowered silently, « and then I will speak of the price for my assistance. »

“You know, I hear you talking but all I hear is hot air,” Hot Rod countered.

The overbearing presence chuckled. « I’m not the one needing off a living planet that can, with a thought, extinguish you with a snap. Try again. »

Hot Rod looked over at Starscream; the red and black Seeker met his gaze with a multitude of emotions: anger, regret, helplessness…. “He is not to be harmed,” Hot Rod ordered.

« Oh, please. Harming him would harm myself. Granted, it would be like pulling a loose panel from my plating -- a minor irritation, no more. But very well, if it makes you feel better, he will not come to harm. »   

“We were on the surface, avoiding…the Warden?” Hot Rod frowned. “What is the Warden, exactly?”

« Asking a lot of questions, aren’t you? The Warden keeps my errant shards on the surface complacent; that is all. Continue. »

Hot Rod once again looked over at the red and black flyer; Starscream grimaced, glowering at the orb, his posture rigid, wings vibrating either fighting an urge or restraints. “We found a place to hide…the old pub in Iacon…Maccadam’s.”

« Ah, yes, and I’m willing to bet you met the proprietor of the establishment. I know: the memory of him rolls away like mercury, doesn’t it, as though you it’s right on the edge and you cannot quite catch it. That is the nature of Maccadam and his liminal space. I’ve experienced it so many times before I ascended. No matter. Continue. » The face in the orb nodded.

“Mac,” Hot Rod tried out the name, convinced that it fit into place. “He was the one who pointed us to Vector Prime.”

« Now we have three Primes in the mix. Hmmm. » The polygonal face frowned in thought. « So you figured that you needed a functioning spacebridge to make your way to Axioma Nexus. Trypticon would be out of the question; even if you were spaceworthy, you would not be able to get around his orbital defenses. So you decided to come here. Perhaps you believed another Prime would help you? Unfortunately for that plan, Alpha Trion has been erased from Vector Sigma. Now, the Oracle. Basically an overly complicated ground bridge with two fixed points, its core processor has been glitching long before I staked my claim here. »

“If you’re too busy monologuing,” Hot Rod furrowed his brow, “We’ll just move to plan C.”

« Plan…C? Oh, please, Hot Rod, you never even have a Plan A, let alone any other consecutive ones -- »

“The other titan,” the Autobot interrupted; the flyer by his side flinched. “Not Trypticon. This one --” he flipped his thumb to the red and black mech, “wouldn’t react this way if it wasn’t Autobot-aligned.”

The face within Vector Sigma contorted into anger. « You DARE threaten me? »

Hot Rod spread his arms out, palms up, and grinned. “C’mon,” he taunted, “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t push the envelope.”

“What are you doing?” his companion hissed through gritted teeth.

“I’m getting the feeling that the Warden isn’t under your control,” Hot Rod continued, “and this other titan’s feelings may be mutual. Can’t lie, I’m curious, but I’m also impatient. What’s your proposition, Director? I’d love to get home to catch The Office with Springer and Arcee--”

« Annoying speck! »

Giving the orb his back, Hot Rod waved nonchalantly. “Yep, that’s my cue. I’m sure I can find my way out. Lessee, if I was an Autobot-aligned titan, I would be --”

« Kill Megatron. »

Hot Rod halted, glancing over his shoulder to meet The Director’s furious glare. “Say what?”

« Kill Megatron. He has somehow entered this universe. I want him dead. Kill. Megatron. »

“Still holding a flame for him, I see.” The Autobot crossed his arms over his chest. “And why would I do that? Why not lure him here and do it yourself?”

« Call it a preemptive strike. I should just send you on your way and hope both of you will eradicate one another. » Changing tactics, the Director’s expression relaxed. « You’re giving me a headache and I frankly don’t want to waste the energy on destroying you. Last thing I need is to absorb your obnoxious -- ahem. I will open the gate to Axiom Nexus. You will kill Megatron for me. Do we have an accord? »

“And what is stopping you from ejecting me into deep space?”

“Me,” the red and black shard lowered his head in defiance. “This husk of a planet is populated by every splinter, every personality, every possibility of him, all interconnected, all influencing him, whether he likes it or not. And that includes what had been as well as the what is now, the good as well as the evil, the --”

« Oh, do shut up! » The Director ordered. « Do not confuse self preservation for a conscience! »

“So I take it this is a common occurrence around here?” Hot Rod harrumphed. “Arguing with yourself whether or not you’re capable of selflessness? Yeah, scrap this, I’m heading back to Maccadam’s --”

« NO YOU DON’T! »

“Ah!” Hot Rod snapped his fingers. “Found the titan, did I? You know, I was thinking of the Primal Basilica, until you mentioned the nature of Maccadam’s and three Primes. I only mentioned Vector,” he held up his index finger -- “and Alpha Trion,” -- his middle finger -- “which leaves only one other in the conversation,” and finally, his thumb. “Mac.”

« And why, » The Director countered, « do you not consider yourself one as well? » The scowl turned upward into an all-too-familiar smirk. « Youngest Prime. » 

The two on the Oracle’s Bridge … Micronus and Onyx … were they Primes as well? “Do I look like I have the Matrix?” Hot Rod retorted, holding his hands out as though inviting a frisk. 

« Yes, the Matrix from the Primax 924 stream did possess metamorphic properties, didn’t it? » The Director muttered, more to himself. « Still, you did not deny the title. So much bravado, yet so humble. You are an anachronism. »

“And you’re stalling.” Hot Rod raised a hand and walked back in the direction where they had arrived. “See ya.”

« Stop. » The tone was more of a plea and less of a command. « Fine. I hardly doubt you could lay a servo on Megatron, anyway. Look at the last time you went toe to toe with him, after all. You did me a service that day, you know. »

“If only Unicron hadn’t intervened,” Starscream reminded. “Hot Rod displayed more bravery to serve his leader than we could.”

« We were never to serve! » The Director snapped. « Our time had come! »

The red and black flyer strafed left, gaze locked on the orb’s optics. “We scavenge. We’re opportunists. We take an opening and we run with it, no matter how desperate the situation arises --”

« ENOUGH! » The amalgam of Starscream and Vector Sigma roared and, emitting an energy blast that caught the flyer square in the chest, flinging him across the room.

Hot Rod never got the chance to retort as someone else grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Come on!” the newcomer ordered: he had the same voice as the previous Starscream, and his build was similar to the one that Hot Rod had known in his universal stream, but the white with red trim and blue optics warranted a double-take.

“What--?” Hot Rod’s protest was cut short as a space bridge opened before them, the same swirling vortex of light and noise that had washed over them when they had found the Oracle. He had no time to process as the white and red Starscream yanked him through the portal.

Chapter Text

Jetport-Operations Corridor Connector

Autobot City

“Focus on public relations,” Arcee had suggested when Blaster called her, Bumblebee, and Grimlock about the Port Hardy incident. “ Blaster’s redirecting Hound’s crew to assist there. Hot Spot has the Ark situation covered; First Aid’s got…well, yes, that covered. Leave the rest to Grimlock and me. It’s been an interesting day.” 

“Yeah, we got this,” the minibot repeated for the umpteenth time since Sky Lynx left with Elita’s team. “Totally got this -- Dr Fujiyama!” Bumblebee greeted the human, then, an afterthought, made a bow. “Glad to see you! Apologies about not being there when you landed…and that your visit couldn’t be under better circumstances…”

“Yes, that does appear to be the theme of the evening,” Dr Fujiyama returned the bow. “It is fine, Bumblebee- san ; the boys need to experience more of their world…and what better place to start than here?”

“Did Carly -- Dr. Witwicky…doctor honorific…Witwicky- hakase ? -- give you the rundown of what’s happening?” The yellow Autobot matched the human’s gait as they walked to the guest wing. “The Novus Conclave -- Cybertron’s emergency council -- wants to draw down Autobot City. Spike -- Witwicky- hakase ’s husband, he’s Cybertron’s ambassador…Witwicky- kakka …?...to Earth and Autobot City’s human representative -- he’s taking a delegation to request a stay.”

Dr Fujiyama waited patiently for a break in Bumblebee’s narrative before lifting a hand with a kind smile. “Bumblebee, please…no need to be so formal. I know it’s been quite some time since we spoke. I would like to think of the Autobots, as well as Carly and Spike, as friends, not just as colleagues. Yes, Carly has been upfront in the troubles Autobot City has faced over the course of this past week. I would congratulate you on your promotion, but I also understand the tragedy behind it. Nevertheless, I do believe the responsibility and honor did fall to the right person.” A pause. “Optimus- sama thought highly of you.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Bumblebee vented. “Anyway. Yeah. So, our concierge, Charlene, will help you settle into your quarters. Anything you need, let her know. You have full access to the University, Residential, and Commerce sections; any other areas will require an escort -- our security chief’s orders, not mine --”

“I understand completely, Bumblebee.” Now Dr Fujiyama cleared his throat. “Ah. Since it is you and I, I believe I should also be…upfront…with you. My reason to be here is two-fold. Yes, it is to help with the boys’ acclimation to other Cybertronians, but…and this is most embarrassing…”

Bumblebee halted, shoulders slumping. “Oh, no.”

“I’m…afraid so.”

“How? I mean, wasn’t she deactivated?”

“And her programming and AI scrubbed! I even asked Wheeljack and Ratchet to assist in the case Bombshell’s virus infiltrated other systems soon after the incident. She was a blank slate!”

“And of course this all happened before Perceptor joined us here. Okay, we got this: when did this happen, and tell me it wasn’t on her own volition. Also: who else knows about this?”

“Ah. Yes.” Dr Fujiyama rubbed the back of his neck. “Until our last security check two days ago, she had been accounted for. I was…selective…of who I informed of her origins.Takahashi-san was my research assistant when I first started the project, so of course I asked her if she was aware of anything strange happening in the storage facility. The only thing we could think of was that about seven years ago, we had a break-in, but nothing was taken, only vandalized…which should have raised suspicions…”

“Obvious question--”

“Yes, I did run a diagnostic on her just after the break-in; no, nothing was out of the ordinary then; and no, I did not run any concurrent diagnostics afterwards.”

“Bombshell and the other Insecticons disappeared after the Battle of Autobot City. Yikes.” Bumblebee massaged his temples. “Okay. You’re here to confirm she didn’t rendezvous with the Decepticons.”

“Correct.”

“She hasn’t shown up on our radar…which isn’t saying much; as much as I’d like to say our security has beefed up since we first encountered her, I’m sure she’d find ways around that.”

“I would,” Dr Fujiyama’s tone dropped to a hush, “ask for your discretion, my friend. Uchi no seishun-tachi …erm…Team Raiden are…unaware…of their eldest sister’s past deeds, only that she existed as a prototype.”

Bumblebee was silent, sporting a prominent frown as he cupped his chin. “Sorry, I’m just going through the current roster…Cliff’s still here…Hound will be returning with the twins…Skyfire’s left already and Jazz just left with Sky Lynx…the Dinobots were in debugging mode during that whole fiasco…everyone else came on board afterwards or…yeah. Yeah, I can chat with the others and let them know it’s a sensitive topic…and to keep an optic out for her.”

“It is appreciated,” Dr Fujiyama released his breath. “Though…it pains me to admit it, but…if it gets to the point where we must make the difficult choice…she must be stopped.”

“Understood. Hey, Dr Fujiyama? It just dawned on me…I don’t really know the details about how it works, but I just got thinking…about the Dinobots, the Aerialbots and Protectobots…by extension, the Stunticons and Combaticons…and now the Raiden Initiative…is it possible that Nightbird could have been installed with a personality component…a spark?” 

Dr Fujiyama stopped in his tracks. “Oh. I wouldn’t have considered that back then. Working with sparks had been Ratchet- san ’s focus in the Initiative. The closest analog we humans have to a spark is a soul, and that is, from an academic standpoint, the product of biological brain activity and consciousness; it’s a manifestation; your spark -- that’s a concrete, for lack of a better term, organ . Not AI, but a physical soul.” Dr Fujiyama pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “Apologies. I went off-tangent. I suppose the question I would need answered is if Bombshell’s cerebro-shells could install a spark, or an analog of one?”

“Above my pay grade, unfortunately. Maybe First Aid can get some insight on that. Huh.” Bumblebee lowered his voice. “I get that it’s been seven years, but would you have the surveillance videos of the break-in? Because it’s not hard to imagine Rumble and Frenzy creating a distraction while Bombshell and possibly Hook installing anything suspicious.”

Fujiyama furrowed his brow. “I’ll reach out to Takahashi.” 

“Wait,” Bumblebee held up his hand. “Takahashi-san was against you bringing the boys here. Not trying to insinuate anything, but…is there someone else you trust to get the security tapes?”

“She is angry with me, yes. Yoshikawa may be able to assist in that; I may also be able to reach out to Ishihara as well as she worked with Ratchet on the personality component interface. Oh, my. I apologize, Bumblebee; I do believe my hindsight is twenty-twenty, as usual. As I had used the work Wheeljack and Ratchet had on the Dinobots as my research to build Nightbird, we had used Nightbird as our study for the Initiative. Oh, no.”

“Okay, let’s not jump to any more conclusions than we already have,” Bumblebee reminded. “Focus on what’s now in front of us. Nightbird is missing, there’s a possibility she was influenced by Decepticons, and that she may be working her way to joining them. Twenty years ago, I can understand why; now, when they have the tech figured out behind the Stunticons and Combaticons, why would they have an interest in her?”

“Because she wouldn’t show up as a Cybertronian technosignature,” Fujiyama reminded.

“If Megatron were still alive, I’d agree with that assessment. Oh, here’s your quarters.” Bumblebee mustered a smile. “Get some rest, Dr Fujiyama. We can figure this out further in the morning.”

“That would probably be for the best,” the human admitted and, with a bow, entered the suite.

Once the door closed, Bumblebee vented, tension tightening his shoulders. Turning around, he headed back to the administration wing --

--and almost head-on into a dark blue leg.

“Whoops! Sorry --” the minibot looked up at the train Autobot, racking his brain for the right name. “Seizan…?”

“Getsuei,” he corrected softly. “Um…Bumblebee- sama ? May I speak to you…? In private? It’s important, I think.”

“That seems to be the theme of the evening,” Bumblebee mumbled. Louder, he added. “Of course. Let’s go to my office. Have you refueled yet? I can call up some snacks if you want.”

“That’s not…no, I think I would like that, thank you.”

Once they reached Bumblebee’s office, Bumblebee gestured to the largest chair in the room, then rounded the desk to page up some evening rations. “Make yourself comfortable, Getsuei, and take your time. I remember my first time in a new place; everything was new and bright, but also a bit scary.”

“Yes…yes, it is.” The dark blue trainbot folded his hands in his lap and looked down. “Um…I heard what you and Otosama -- Fujiyama-san -- were saying and…I may be able to…help?”

“This is my shocked face.” Bumblebee pointed to his neutral expression. “No, seriously, Getsuei, I would have been more surprised had any of you not know about Nightbird. Though I do know,” he held up a finger to stop Getsuei’s rebuttal, “that it was neither out of mistrust nor malice that he didn’t tell you. From my experience here on Earth, I’ve studied human behavior; my best friend Spike? He had a dad, and he’s now one too, and there’s a point where you can tell when something is done out of love versus out of malice. And Dr Fujiyama? His concern does come from a place of love. He was trying to protect you, as any good father would. Now, I’m not saying he’s completely in the right, mind you; from what I’ve learned during my tenure here, it is only natural to wish to protect one’s offspring, and likewise it’s natural for said offspring to test the limits --”

“I helped Nightbird escape,” Getsuei interrupted. 

Now, Bumblebee showed his shocked face.

*

Medibay

“No.” First Aid channeled every iota of authority he could summon from all the years serving under Ratchet before becoming chief medical officer. “You are not going back on duty anytime soon, and especially not until we figure out what is going on here, and definitely not until we repair that wound.”

Thundercracker harrumphed at Ultra Magnus’s discomfort; the white and blue semi shifted in his seat, spine ramrod straight, fists in his lap.

“Now,” the Protectobot was grateful his faceplate and visor hid his confusion, “what was the last thing you remember before waking up? One at a time, starting with Thundercracker.” 

“Yeah. Um.” The Seeker scratched the back of his neck with his remaining hand. “So this is going to sound like a complete cop-out, but Starscream throwing me under the proverbial transport. Cybertron, Earth…places are blurring together. Yeah. I got nothing else. Oh! Getting shot at, mostly by other Decepticons. That happened.”

First Aid scribbled some notes on his datapad and then turned to Ultra Magnus. “Same question, please.”

Magnus steepled his fingers and rested the knife edge of his hands on his faceplate, thumbs on his chin. “Battle -- close quarters. Infiltration. Ambush. Unable to move.” His optics narrowed. “Killswitch. A semicolon.”

“A…semicolon?”

“A connection between two clauses,” Thundercracker explained. “Kind of an odd thing to remember.”

“I apologize,” Ultra Magnus directed this to First Aid, “My answer is more of a stream of consciousness than a complete idea.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, sir,” First Aid assured. “It wasn’t meant as a black-and-white question, honestly, nor are there any wrong answers.” He set the datapad down and, leaning against the console behind him, resting his elbows on the surface. “I’m just…working out how this happened.”

“Maybe you made a mistake and we weren’t dead,” Thundercracker suggested.

First Aid turned his head and willed his best Disapproving-Ratchet glare to the Decepticon. “You were very much dead. In fact, to complicate matters, you --” he pointed at Thundercracker, “--continued functioning long after your spark extinguished.” He brought the datapad forward to read aloud the text on the screen; the truth was that First Aid had read this case enough times to memorize it. “You were flatline from the moment Thrust shot you through the spark, and you turned around and retaliated before going after Galvatron. Do you remember any of that?”

“I’ve been cognizant for maybe all of three megacycles. It sounds familiar but in a way that I read it in a bulletin last decacycle…?”

“That…” Ultra Magnus nodded, tapping his faceplate in thought, “is an accurate analogy.” 

“All right. Okay. Perhaps questions pertaining to short term memory aren’t the best way to tackle this.”

“Completely out into the void question and one I really don’t want to subscribe to,” Thundercracker continued, “but…what about un dead?”

“Your sparks had been extinguished,” First Aid shook his head, “when I examined you both after the battle. Now? Fully functioning sparks that match your signatures on record…granted, showing signs of coming out of a deep hibernation, with energy levels similar to those of newsparks…hmm.” Pushing away from the counter, he approached a workstation with a holographic projector. “You, Thundercracker: I did have a hypothesis, but Ultra Magnus debunked it, which means this…phenomenon…is not the result of Starscream’s machinations.” He brought up two spark schematics and studied them. “Nor is the timing…why wasn’t Thrust affected? His time of death was similar to yours, his spark also bled out from a chest wound.”

“No one liked him,” Thundercracker muttered, leaning back in his chair and propping one leg over the opposite knee.

His rib went unacknowledged. “Perhaps it was due to the weapon used…?”

“Perhaps,” Ultra Magnus cleared his throat, then pointed to his exposed spark, “if you could repair me, I could assist?”

“Yeah, I’d kinda want to be able to move around without my gearbox hanging out -- wait.” The Seeker sat up. “Metroplex.” He pointed to Ultra Magnus. “Did Metroplex talk to you?”

The former city commander regarded Thundercracker with an unreadable expression. “It is possible,” he weighed his words carefully, “that Metroplex had spoken to me while I was…incapacitated. Although it would be conjecture at this point, as I would not have considered it had Thundercracker not brought it up.”

“That is something I can look into!” First Aid’s tone brightened, tapping at the console. “There’s still so much about titans we’ve yet to uncover, but it’s possible a lead!”

“So, yeah, before you go off and do that,” Thundercracker pointed to his exposed spark. “Can you do something with this? I mean, I’ll wait for my arm if I must.”

“I am forced to agree with Thundercracker,” Ultra Magnus averted his optics.

“Oh. Yes, of course. My apologies.” First Aid pulled away from his research and picked up a nanite scanner. “Repair first. But!” This, he directed to Ultra Magnus, once again channeling his deceased mentor, “you’re not cleared for duty until I say you are.”

*

5 kilometers outside of Autobot City

“Hey, bro, where’re you going?” Sideswipe called out as Sunstreaker broke away from the rest of the team. “Autobot City is this way!”

“Too many humes!” Sunstreaker retorted, taking the dirt road up to Mount St. Hilary. 

“Let him be,” Hound suggested. “The Ark’s a familiar place for him; he’ll come by on his own.”

“It’s not like we’ll not know where he’ll be,” Hoist added. 

“I know you’re both right, it’s just…”

Hound picked up the frontliner’s concern. “Sideswipe?”

“It’s nothing, Hound.”

“It’s not ‘nothing’, Sideswipe. What’s wrong?”

“Last time we were here, we lost a lot of friends. Sunstreaker hasn’t gotten over it.”

“Ah.” Hound, had he been in root mode, would have nodded sagely. “Let’s give him space then. You of all people know he prefers to mourn alone.”

“He’s also most destructive alone,” Hoist reminded gently. “Especially when upset.” 

“And there’s the problem,” Sideswipe sighed. “Hound, I’m gonna follow him. Keep an optic out on him. If anything, just to make certain he doesn’t find some of Trailbreaker’s moonshine and trash the Ark in the process.”

“And speaking from experience, only Teebs and Ironhide could get past one quart of that,” Hound muttered. “Yeah, better tail him. I’ll let Bee know what’s going on.”

“Just like old times, wouldn’t you say?” Hoist asked as Sideswipe spun into a tight u-turn to pursue his brother.

“Yeah, we need to get that sorted,” Hound’s frown was easy to pick up from his tone. “Got lots of newbies to the Earthside fold who aren’t used to -- or fond of -- how we roll. Searchlight’s still shooting me passive-aggressive snipes under the pretense of debrief reports.”

“Ah, yes, that would explain Cliffjumper’s warning to me earlier. Shall I make a report to First Aid that I recommended the twins to…erm…’blow off some steam’ after our Port Hardy incident?”

“We know where they’re going anyway. Sounds like a plan. I’d like you and Grapple to head up the Constructibots and report to Engineering when we get to the City. Keep it as fact-finding; under no circumstances do you let anyone start drawing up or breaking down anything until you have a detailed plan to report to Operations.”

“But that would take decacycles!” Hoist exclaimed, allowing a touch of melodrama that hinted he caught Hound’s intention.

“We either do it thoroughly or we do it half-aft. I’m going to meet up with Bee, bring him up to speed about what happened at Port Hardy, and let him know that Sunstreaker’s blasting aggrotech back at the Ark for some alone time. Let’s hope Sideswipe can keep him from doing anything stupid.”

*

“Helluva day,” Groove said to Streetwise as they pulled up to the well-worn path of their old base.

“I still have no fragging clue what happened,” the sedan retorted. “When can we get off-duty so I can have an existential crisis?”

“Too late for me,” Blades replied over the radio as he buzzed his three teammates. “I mentally punched out after the morgue.”

“Looks, we’ve all dealt with stranger things --”

“--if you’re going to say Unicron, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Streetwise interrupted Hot Spot. “We were not directly involved in that. No, this entire day has been the strangest we’ve dealt with. I will pull out receipts to prove this is the strangest thing we’ve dealt with.”

Hot Spot waited a full five seconds before asking, “All set? Got that off your spark? Good. Let’s focus: it’s likely whatever Pipes’ team did earlier may have set off one of Wheeljack’s dormant pet projects. The other possibility is that it was set off by an infiltrator.”

“That ‘Con who escaped?” Groove questioned.

“Still got the headache from his darts,” Blades muttered.

“Yeah, that guy. He’s the number one suspect: he’s the one who brought the device in, he’s likely responsible for the EMP that hit the research team. We’re going to go in, see what the problem is, neutralize it if needed--”

“--or bring it back to base as a new mascot--” Streetwise muttered.

“--and head back. Blades, give me aerial recon,” Hot Spot ordered once they reached the Ark entrance. Returning to root mode with his team following suit, the Protectobot leader continued. “Don’t worry about stealth; we want our presence known. Sorry, Bambi,” he added over his shoulder to any unseen wildlife. “Sensors have been glitching out since Pipes’ team vacated and tripped whatever Wheeljack had in his lab -- I saw that, Streetwise.”

Streetwise, who had rolled his optics, held up his hands defensively. “Sorry! Sorry, don’t mean ill on the dead but…this is Wheeljack.”

Groove sheepishly nodded in agreement. “Can we override his locks? Not permission-wise, I know we have that authorization, but can we even override his locks without POOM! ” he spread his fingers out wide, pantomiming an explosion.

“I’ll focus on that,” Hot Spot replied. “Streetwise, I want you to investigate ground zero, specifically Teletraan One and the surrounding lab area. Let’s see if we can paint a better picture for all of us to figure out what happened. The moment you pick up biomechanical material, send that data directly to First Aid. Groove,” the Protectobot leader’s volume dropped, “I want a sweep of the Ark interior. You know what I’m looking for.”

“On it, boss,” Groove saluted.

“I want to be thorough here; no shortcuts -- “ this, he directed to Streetwise, “--all focus, anything out of place logged. Let’s --” His optics narrowed as he looked over Streetwise’s shoulder. “Oh, what now?”

The snarl of a high performance mid-engine preceded the yellow Autobot as Sunstreaker downshifted, swerving to avoid Streetwise. “Move it!” Sunstreaker ordered, surging past Hot Spot and into the Ark.

“Primus Below,” Hot Spot pinched the bridge of his nose just as Sideswipe stopped in front of him, reverting from vehicle mode with a snappy spin. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” the red Autobot rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s in a mood. What’s going on?”

“Wheeljack’s lab went into lockdown on its own,” The day’s events finally crashed down onto the largest of the group as his exhaustion crept into his tone, “there’s probably some random ‘Con snooping around in there, and we’re supposed to investigate what is likely an EMP that went off by Teletraan One.”

“And now my cranky brother just fragged up your crime scene. Yeah, I got him.” Sideswipe shrugged in a “what do you do?” manner before heading into the base.

“They’re here sooner than expected,” Groove observed. 

“Must have picked up an earlier shuttle,” Hot Spot set his shoulders. “All right. Take two: let’s get this done.”

 *

Ignoring the alarm and the glitching stream of programming on Teletraan One’s primary screen, Sunstreaker stormed through the main area of the Ark and into the crew quarters. Sliding open the door to his and Sideswipe’s old room with such force for it to jump the track, he then beelined it to his recharge slab, fell face-first into it, and, with an accuracy that only muscle memory could obtain, slammed a hand onto his stereo. 

No matter how high the volume, the blaring from Wheeljack’s lab could not be drowned out. Probably could live with it if it matched the beats per minute but it’s 20 bpm for the alarm and 107 bpm for this particular track and it’s really fraggin’ annoying -- “Can someone do something about that damned alarm?!” he shouted over his shoulder. 

“Trust me, they’re trying,” Sideswipe leaned up against the jamb. “So, you wanna chat or are you content with blowing out your audio receptors with…” he cocked his head to one side to catch the lyrics “...Wumpscut? You’re listening to Earth music?”

“Frag off, Wreath of Barbs is an experience,” Sunstreaker retorted, face still pressed into the headrest. “I’m tired. Go away and turn off that alarm.”

“Cool, no problem.” Sideswipe held up his hands in defeat. “I’ll pass along your complaint to Hot Spot; in the meantime, I’m gonna help Groove with his base sweep.” He waited for a beat. “You good? Just call me if you need anything, yeah?”

Sunstreaker raised a hand as both acknowledgement and dismissal. His brother shrugged and rounded the jamb, rejoining Groove down the hall.

“Is he going to be okay?” the two-wheeler questioned earnestly.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine, just give him a bit of space,” Sideswipe replied. “So, what’s the plan? What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Start at the back, work our way back up front.” Groove handed the larger mech his datapad, displaying the mugshot of the Seeker from earlier. “Buddy here was picked up earlier, with another mech posing to be a Bot who ended up being a walking flashbang. Long story short: this one did a runner, tried to make it look like he headed back to the ‘Con camp, but Skyspy picked up vapor trails this way. We think he came here.”

“Something wrong with your camera?” Sideswipe squinted at the screen, pinching open to zoom in on the image. “Or something…right? It’s…too clear.”

“You see that too? Yeah, the running theory is onboard perception filters. His friend’s mug had the same artifacting.”

Sideswipe handed the datapad back. “So what happened to Teletraan One?”

Groove waved the datapad. “This guy had a…well, they called it an OOPArt. Out-of-place artifact. Kinda looked like a t-cog, but…more facets? Anyway, Pipes’ team brought it here to examine and it went off like an electromagnetic pulse. We think buddy here came back for it. The EMP likely kicked something off in Wheeljack’s lab and that’s why we’re here. Still, mighty glad you’re assisting; buddy was disarmed and seemed more of a talker than a fighter; we’ve pretty much figured out we’re dealing with the ‘Con equivalent to a community theater troupe, but there’s no telling what their true capabilities are.”

“Ugh.” Sideswipe threw his head back in disgust. “But yeah, de nada . What’s another ‘Con to pound into the tarmac, eh?”

“We’re thinking these guys -- sorry, this one and his partner, who is now out of the picture --”

“The flashbang?”

“--yeah, unnerving as all hell but not the weirdest thing to happen today. Anyway, this Seeker -- Skaði of the Edge of the Knife --”

“Clunky name.”

“You’re telling me. Skaði’s seems to be more about infiltration than actual head-to-head frontlines. The Starscream worship is likely him throwing us junk code to distract us.”

“So you want me to rough him up so that you can find out what he’s really up to?”

Groove winced. “‘Rough up’ is a bit harsh…”

“All right, if he’s nerdy, I’ll just bend his arm behind his back and noogie him. Whatever.” Sideswipe looked over his shoulder, up the corridor. “I’m hoping Hot Spot gets that alarm turned off soon.”

“I’m sure Blaster’s helping out too. Now, Engineering,” Groove tapped at his ‘pad to pull up a schematic of the base. “I’m thinking we can take opposite sides of the core and meet behind --”

“Uh.” Sideswipe stopped short as the doors parted. “I know I spent as little time as I could down here, but I don’t remember this.”

Groove looked up and fumbled his ‘pad in surprise.

The Vanguard-class engineering bay was a utilitarian area with a central core extending floor to ceiling, consoles and monitors lining the walls between storage alcoves, and workstations. In the past the area had been just tidy enough to pass inspection with just enough clutter to mark who was head of the department, and very little had changed since the Ark was relegated to an auxiliary base. Now, it was unrecognizable: while the core was still present, the rest of the room had imploded in on itself, twisted cables pulled out of every imaginable panel and cocooning the central structure.

“Okay,” the small Protectobot muttered, taking a step back. “This…complicates things.”

“No scrap,” Sideswipe, in contrast, leaned into the room, searching for a path in. “Maybe get one of Blaster’s team in here; there’s no way either one of us is gonna fit in there.”

“EMP charge must have magnetized the core and caused an implosion…?”

“Can’t help you there; I’m not a nerd. I can say that anything larger than a turbofox ain’t gonna fit in there.”

“Let’s check the other areas,” Groove rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll call Blaster for an assist.”

“Good idea.”

*

“Dammit!” Hot Spot growled as the panel buzzed angrily at him for the umpteenth time. “I’ve tried security override, medical override, department override, administrative override, I even asked nicely!” Squatting with elbows resting on his knees, he glared at the strobing keypad as though attempting to intimidate it. “What in the Pit did Wheeljack want to hide in there?”

“Oh, remember the time he acquired that barrel of FOOF from those anarchists in Northern California?” Streetwise asked as he examined the wreckage of the transmat scanner.

“‘They said they were authorized to resell it as a fundraiser!’ Don’t remind me. Brilliance of Solus Prime, the common sense of a petrorabbit .” Hot Spot shook his head. “Naw, we would have known if something blew up in there. I’m banking on some malfunctioning training bot or something.”

“Groove checking in,” Groove hailed over the comm link. “Engineering is impassible. I’m thinking that EMP may have magnetized the core and caused some sort of ferromagnetic runaway effect. Yeah, I made that name up. Good thing that was cleared out before we moved to Autobot City. That could have been a mess! Maybe tap Blaster to see if anyone of his crew could come down here and help clear out the mess. Anyway, Sideswipe and I are checking the storage bays now.”

“Thanks, Groove; keep us posted.” Just as he was about to call Blaster, Sunstreaker stormed up to the Protectobot leader. 

“Did you try the percussive failsafe?” the frontliner asked.

“Percussive failsafe--”

Sunstreaker slammed two knuckles into the keypad, denting the panel enough for the face to pop off. The alarm sputtered into a warble and finally ceased. “Percussive failsafe. You’re welcome.” He spun on his heel and marched back to the crew quarters.

Ten seconds later Sideswipe called in. “Ah, someone -- I’m guessing Sunny -- opted for the percussive failsafe.”

“What,” Hot Spot enunciated, “the hell --”

“If all else fails, punch it. Hey, my lob-ball! I’ve been looking for that!” With that, Sideswipe ended the transmission.

“That sounds like something Ironhide would have done, to be honest,” Streetwise observed.

“Put it that way,” Hot Spot rose to his full height and, sliding the manual handle to the door, slid it open. “That makes sense. Okay. Primus Below.”

The lights flickered on, revealing a lab that had not been touched since its occupant had died over a year ago. Wheeljack’s organizational skills made sense only to him: precarious piles of wires and cables followed the perimeter of the room, various chasses that were difficult to decipher whether they were from an Earth vehicle or a Cybertronian drone, stacks of metal sheets toppled across boxes and shelves, tools strewn everywhere, and countless gadgets and appliances, many of which were still showing signs of power. 

“I can already hear him from beyond the Allspark: ‘Yeah, no worries, I’ll get to tidying up, Prime, just after I disassemble this carburetor!’” Streetwise peeked into the room. “If anything --”

“Hey! Good! You got hands! Great!” A disembodied voice sounding unnervingly like Wheeljack called out from within the lab. Streetwise yelped and jumped back, blasters at the ready. “Give me a hand with this, will ya! Also: who’s there? My optic sensors aren’t calibrated yet! I’d say Ironhide or Sunstreaker, if the percussive failsafe’s been activated.”

“It’s…it’s Hot Spot, with Streetwise.” Hot Spot, while not at the battle ready his teammate was sporting, was still on edge. “Wheeljack? Is that you?”

“Nope, just his AI assistant. Call me Jackie. So! You’re here to help me figure out what’s going on with Teletraan One, eh? No matter what I try I’m getting files-not-found and forbidden errors left and right and, well, without hands I can’t start pushing buttons and yanking wires to get to the bottom of this.”

“Welp, case solved,” Streetwise sheathed his blasters. “EMP goes off, sets off one of Wheeljack’s inventions.”

“EMP? Nope, there’d be more blowouts with our basic infrastructure. Look, without Teletraan One, I can only pick up what’s going on within the lab. Wait, I got it! Carly’s exosuit should be somewhere, I could download my backup into the harddrive and…yeah, Locker 7! I can pop it open and --” something clicked, creaked open, followed by a cacophony of metal toppling over and clattering on the floor. “--scrap. Okay, I think there’s some struts in the way. Can one of you get over there and dislodge it?”

“It’s as though he never left,” Streetwise whispered; Hot Spot nudged the smaller Protectobot in warning.

Chapter Text

Trypticon Base
British Columbia

“I hope that was worth it!” Motormaster snapped once the Stunticons disengaged from Mensasor. “Fraggin’ ‘Bots came in with reinforcements -- including Omega Supreme! I thought he was on Cybertron!”

“Clearly not anymore,” Starscream huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Catching Soundwave in his periphery, he added, “I’m sure your interim leader didn’t factor that in.”

“Priority: low.” Soundwave ignored Starscream’s jab. “Mission complete. Outcome: Success.”

“We were able to get the necessary materials to repair Trypticon’s essential systems,” Scrapper reported. “With the help of our…new colleagues…we will be able to jump to high earth orbit via spacebridge. From there --”

“Who cares?” Dead End groused. “Autobots still have control over Cybertron. What’s Shockwave gonna do? Ask them nicely to step down?”

“And besides, once we jump, we’re gonna be sitting cyberducks for the EDC,” Blast Off added. “They’ll know right where we’re heading.”

“We’re not their concern,” Starscream chided. “In fact, the faster we can get off this planet, the better. They want us gone.” He held his hands out with an exaggerated shrug. “Thanks to Galvatron’s mishandling of our once illustrious troops, we are seen as little more than a splinter group of terrorists. They could wipe us out if they wanted to exert the energy.” He rubbed his fingers together as though crushing something between them. “It’s just easier to have the Autobots trounce us and call it a sol, case in point…” he gestured toward Motormaster, who balled up his fists and stepped forward to lunge at the modified Seeker. “Oh, sit down before you hurt yourself even further, I was speaking in rhetoric. They let Astrotrain through the defenses when we arrived. Why? Because they didn’t see him as bringing reinforcements; they saw him as an escape vessel. Now, I’m not saying that Earth is a lost cause, we just need to refortify with other--”

“Enough.” Soundwave ordered. “Departure: five megacycles. Destination: Chaar.”

“Chaar?” Onslaught tilted his head to one side, then nodded. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Close enough to Cybertron to keep tabs, far enough to not attract too much attention.”

Soundwave waited for anyone else to voice their opinions; none did. “Scrapper: engineering; Onslaught: tactical. Razorclaw: infantry. Form your teams. Dismissed.” His optics behind his visor darted to his periphery to regard Starscream, a challenge for the former second-in-command to weigh in his opinion.

Soundwave was surprised, relieved, and suspicious when Starscream did not take the bait. “Do they--” the Seeker nodded to the departing troops, each assigned squad captain barking orders, “--know about our old friend joining us?”

“If Anego wishes,” a disembodied and synthetic voice, void of tone with heavy enunciation on each diphone, retorted, “ Anego shall let her presence be known. For now, Anego is content following the lead of Soundwave- sama .”

“What --” Starscream sneered, turning to face Nightbird. “What the hell was that?”

She tapped the case on her right thigh.  “ Anego is this one’s eyes and ears; this one is her voice. Starscream- sama and Soundwave- sama may call this one Shadow. This one and Anego bring information that will interest Megatron- dono .”  

“Megatron is dead,” Starscream reminded, his pride and contempt unfettered.

“Megatron- dono is dead, this one is aware; Starscream- sama and Soundwave- sama may use this information to serve Decepticon- orekireki as deemed fit. In trade, Anego and this one request to accompany and assist Decepticon- orekireki .” Nightbird pressed her hands together and bowed formally, first to Starscream, then to Soundwave.

“Perhaps you should ease off on the flattery,” Starscream suggested. “Your insincerity is blindingly obvious.”

“Starscream: Authority,” Soundwave countered. Before Starscream could retort, the spymaster continued. “Information: valuable. Trade: acceptable.”  

“I didn’t agree--”

“Air Commander Role: Advisory.” Soundwave met Starscream’s contemptuous glare. 

Nightbird glanced down at the device at her hip; Shadow emitted a grating buzz that could have been a chuckle. “ Anego informs this one that the consistency of Cybertronians is a welcome change from the fleetness of humanity. Soundwave- sama , kyoushuku de gozaimasu .” Nightbird bowed again, this time solely to Soundwave. “This one and Anego may have been created by humans, Bombshell- sama improved the design.” 

“You want something more than just a ride off of Earth,” Starscream sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “What would a human-built wind-up doll and her pull-string chatterbox have that would interest us, and what is it that you really want?”

The lithe mech planted her feet shoulder-width apart and rested her hands on her hips, optics narrowed in challenge. “This one would think it obvious, Starscream- sama ,” Shadow replied, “ Otou-sama has written us off as corrupted by Megatron- dono and left in cold storage to rust. Anego requires her own voice, and this one requires one’s own body. This is unobtainable if we stay on Earth.”

“And in exchange you pledge allegiance to the Decepticon cause?” Starscream cocked his head to one side.

“Because of Megatron- dono and Bombshell-sama, Anego gained awareness, sapience. It had been the Autobots and Otou-sama who locked us away. Our allegiance to Decepticon- orekireki is clear.”

*

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” Magazine muttered without taking his optics from the console. “Keeping us on task, are you?”

“I know you don’t trust us,” Lockstock continued, “and frankly, we don’t blame you. But right now, we’re all on the same screen.”

“Our reason for being here has been fulfilled; the rest is just filler,” Magazine picked up the narrative. “Our sparks are running on fumes. What was sustaining us is now focused on Skaði.”

“It will buy you time to get Trypticon off Earth, but…well, we’re not much longer for this world.”

Ravage, cover now blown, slunk from the shadows, sat on his haunches, and maintained vigilance on the two lithe Decepticons.

“It’s stating the obvious,” Magazine stood, using the console for support, then turned to stare down at the felinoid, “but I’m hoping your boss has a plan for dealing with Starscream. I’m sure he does.”

“Oh, I’m sure Starscream will have problems of his own soon enough,” Carnivac reported; he was in his bipedal mode, one hand clamped firmly around Waspinator’s neck. Catilla followed behind, ears folded back and tail swishing when he paced by Ravage. “You need a speaker? I happen to have one.” 

“Has he awakened?” Magazine questioned, grabbing Waspinator’s jaw and forcibly twisted his head to the right to study the insectoid insignia. “No port.”

“Natural talent, actually. And the time displacement helps.”

“You’re describing a titan master, not a city speaker.” 

“What is the difference? Build? Education and training? Semantics? Politics? Ethics? Whatever, you need a pilot to get to Chaar in one piece; well, look here: we happen to have one.”

“Thing is,” Lockstock remained seated, elbows resting on his knees with a spanner dangling from his fingers, “he’s unwilling at worst and clueless at best. What the hell good is he to us?”

“Wazzzzpinator would be going to Chaar?” Waspinator whimpered.

“One step closer to Cybertron,” Carnivac nodded. “You want to go home, yeah?”

“Better yet,” Lockstock chuckled, “you want to get some revenge against the Air Commander?”

The insectoid’s antennae snapped to attention. 

“We’re gonna show you,” Magazine patted the wasp’s head, “how to utilize that link he’s got on you. And you’re gonna use it for the good of the Decepticons. Savvy?”

“How long is it going to take?” Carnivac demanded.

Magazine picked up the brain module that had once been inside Gunrun’s cranium, dug into the side, and pulled out a tiny device with a jack and a long, corkscrew injector. “Fifteen clicks,” he answered, before stabbing it into Waspinator’s temple.

Excruciating pain blazed across the insectoid’s neural net, before an icy numbness replaced the shock. Just as he was about to give up for dead, something…clicked.

« Well, now, what have we here? »

The intrusive thought was an icepick through Waspinator’s consciousness.

« Is this what I have to work with? You’re terrified. Tell me why you’re terrified. » 

“Nnnnnnn…” the green and gold mech shuddered, sinking to his knees and clutching his head. “Wazzzzpinator not want to be part of thizzzz…!”

« And yet you are. Certainly not by choice, but perhaps we can make do, after all. You see, you and I are both prisoners of the same predicament. These are extraneous times, my little friend, and I could use someone of your caliber to shake these shackles off, for both of us. »

“Who…are you…?” 

“Who’s he talking to?” Catilla demanded.

“Shhh!” Magazine pressed a finger to his lips, exaggerated. “He’s making the handshake.”

« Why, it should be obvious, my new speaker. I’m all around you, of course. Go on, say my name. You can do it. »

“Nnnnn…” Waspinator’s antennae quaked. “Trypticon…?”

« Very good! Yes, but how shall I put this? I’ve been woefully hobbled since I’ve been under Galvatron’s “employment”, if one could call it that. Indentured servitude does not even begin to cover this situation! But I digress. By the by, I would be cautious to trust those two…» Waspinator sensed the speaker emoting a twirling hand as though conjuring up a word, if only added for dramatics, «…the riflemecha, that is, not the beastformers. Although they have their own warning labels applied, just not as hazardous as the former. As I was saying, it appears they are attempting to corrupt me with their own titan’s essence. Fortunately, they…heh…blew their charge on infiltrating the Autobot base that I could make short work of their virus. Galvatron may have crippled my mind, but my antivirus is still top notch. Oh, I have it isolated right now -- I would love to learn more about this long lost brother of mine, and I’m certain during our travels that we would find someone who could tell me more about it, but that is neither here nor there. Waspinator, was it? Yes, Waspinator, my temporally displaced friend, you and I are going to get to know one another very well for the next…hmmm…at least the next two hundred stellar cycles, it seems? Well, then, we might as well prepare for our trip to Chaar, then! »

“Nnnn…” Waspinator shook his head. “Dinozzzcitybot talk a lot.”

« Oh, I am equally curious about this. You see, until they connected you to my hub, I’ve been…sleeping, it seems, almost drugged. I’m uncertain yet if it is the machinations of the Constructicons -- I would not be in the least bit surprised -- or Soundwave -- similarly expected -- or a combination of the two, and possibly some long lost scheme of Shockwave could be in the mix there as well. It was as though you…well, you were the first sip of charged energon in the morning. Do not look too deeply into the euphemism, but my gratitude is there that it was you who roused me from said slumber. So! Seeing that you and I have a mutual distaste of our shared scenario, what say you pretend to our current employers that I am still intellectually stunted, and we do everything that is told of us, and once we arrive at Chaar and I am at full power, we go as we please? » 

“Dinozzzcitybot is…groggy,” Waspinator reported, “azzzz if he wazzzz zzzzsleeping…? But Dinozzzzcitybot….is compliant.”

« Very good, friend Waspinator! Very good! Keep it up and we shall be out of this post haste! »

“That,” Carnivac rubbed his chin, “was surprisingly efficient.”

“Finding those with the raw talent is the hard part,” Magazine explained. “I don’t know how you stumbled across this one, but --”

“Our boss knows him well,” Carnivac interrupted.

“Then I do hope,” Magazine narrowed his optics, “that we stay alive long enough to meet this boss of yours.”

*

Civil Barracks

Prison Block Zeta (Flight Risk Section)
Government Center
Iacon, Cybertron

The benefit of hailing from the future was that the captors were unaware of Tarantulas’ little toys.

The deployment was simple: drop a slew of nanite mites upon planetfall, let them settle into points of interest globally, and wait for them to construct his surveillance drones to keep him informed on what was transpiring.

The bulk of them were throughout Iacon Proper; separate clusters were sent to Polyhex and the Five Cities of the now former ( and perhaps once again in some other timeline?, he mused) Decepticon Empire, one cluster prepared to board for the battalions being sent to Klo, and a couple rode along with Hound’s group to keep tabs Earthside.

Simple.

He paid little attention to what was transpiring outside his cell, and instead focused on his internal HUD; the primary screen focused on what was transpiring in the primary Council Chambers, and it was mind numbingly dull.

“Bah!” he waved his hand dismissively, and switched over to the Polyhex cluster.  The polity was destroyed, yes, but the drone sensors were picking up just enough activity to warrant interest. “I wonder…” « Polyhex Cluster, lock onto Shockwave’s tower, fifty meter perimeter. »

The cluster darted forward at blinding speed, circling the area as directed. A squad of Decepticon scavvers were digging around the area, probably scrounging for --

--wait a cycle.  

Their movements were too structured to be digging through the rubble. No, they were actively cleaning the perimeter of the tower. 

“Oh, my old friend Shockwave, what are you up to?” he chuckled, cupping his chin and tapping his cheek, unconcerned about being overheard.

A ping alerted him, and he brought his attention to the cluster he had sent to Kaon. A graph revealing a massive energy spike blipped in an overlay; the visual transmission glitching. “What is going on, indeed…?” « Kaon Cluster, report radiation levels. »

A digital counter popped up over the remains of The Cradle, bouncing wildly around the near-lethal levels for even the hardiest of Cybertronian. 

“Oh, you have to be picking this up,” he cackled, now rubbing his pincers together, his comment directed to both Shockwave (who was in no way going to respond) and his captors (who should by now suspect that Tarantulas had scanners in play and was definitely listening in.) He had not prepared his drones for those levels of radiation, and willed them into a holding pattern just outside the danger zone. Switching to one of his local clusters, he willed them to locate a global monitoring outfit -- a newsroom, perhaps, or a briefing area, with keywords to pick up from conversation: Kaon, Cradle, Kolkular , radiation, Shockwave --

-- there! 

His drones picked up a terse conversation between Traachon and Tomaandi; the visual was from a ceiling vent, and a third, a light blue mech delegated to secretarial duties, was taking dictation.

“-- Kolkular Ruins. We should send a patrol --”

“Primus Below, Tomaandi, think! That’s likely where Shockwave is gathering any other Decepticon foolish enough to return to Cybertron! We should just launch a strike --”

“How? We’re still rebuilding our orbital defense stations! Look, we’re picking up a localized radiation spike, nothing more.”

“There is,” a fourth mech, just outside the drone’s visual, “the possibility that Shockwave attempted to power up the Cradle to boost his broadcast. If it would please the Conclave, I could send my own warriors out to scout Kolkular.”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude, Dai Atlas --”

“Advocate Tomaandi, we are all invested in the security of Cybertron. My warriors are skilled, and loyal to the cause.”

“They are unfamiliar with the terrain,” Traachon rebutted.

“One isn’t,” Dai Atlas countered. “In fact, he has already approached me to lead the mission if needed.”

“How would he --”

“Do not misunderstand, it had been a general standby offer.”

“No, how would one of your Circle know Kaon’s terrain?”

“Yes, Dai Atlas,” Tarantulas rubbed his chin as he searched his own recollections about the Theophany leader and his time as a pre-War senator, “how would your subordinate know…?” 

Something had passed silently between Dai Atlas and the advocates; Tomaandi and Traachon looked at one another, then at the secretary.

“Apollo,” Traachon beckoned; the light blue mech looked up from his ‘pad. “Please go retrieve Xaaron.”

“Sir,” Apollo nodded, tucking his ‘pad under an arm and, with a sharp heel turn, left the room.

«Follow him, » Tarantulas ordered another nearby drone, resuming his attention on the first.

Tomaandi had closed and locked the door behind the secretary, then turned back to the others; Dai Atlas had entered the field of vision, a winged, broad-shouldered mech in blues and oranges, towering over Tomaandi and Traachon. “Our Order,” he stressed, “takes in anyone who is willing to abide by our teachings, no matter their past. It is what they do with the rest of their journey after they accept our tenets that matters.”

“You do have turncoats in your midst, don’t you?” Tarantulas chuckled, though inwardly he had a hint of concern. Oh, bother, we must have deviated from my original timeline. Well, then, let’s see where this takes us.  

A sudden pounding on the door startled the three. “Advocates! Counselor! Please vacate the premises! This office is compromised!”

Tarantulas’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, recognizing the muffled voice: he would need to do something about that tenacious security director. Self-destructing the drone into its base parts, he slumped back against the wall, folding his arms against his chest, focusing his periphery on the other drone following the secretary. 

* 

After his meeting with Hound’s defense specialist, Xaaron prayed.

For guidance, for inspiration, for some sense to be knocked in by slamming Tomaandi’s and Traachon’s heads together…Xaaron prayed.

A quick, quiet rap at his door broke his concentration. “Come in,” he invited, making a production of tidying his already neat desk.

The administrative assistant entered, holding a datapad. “Sir,” Apollo cleared his throat. “Advocates Traachon and Tomaandi have asked for you to join them in Meeting Room Epsilon-7.”

“I’m certain they do.” The elderly Autobot rubbed his brow. “Is it about how the Earthbound squadron decided to take it upon themselves to find passage? How did my fellow counselors take to that news?”

“No, sir, it…has nothing to do with Commander Hound’s crew.” Apollo squared his shoulders. “Counselor Dai Atlas is present as well. It’s the Kolkular Ruins in Kaon. From the sounds of it, the reactor there may have gone into meltdown. My words, sir; they…they were dancing around the topic.” 

“Good lad; it’s fortunate you’re seeing through their foolishness. I assume they want to start a committee to weigh the value of sending a team out to investigate…?”

“Actually, Counselor Dai Atlas is the one who suggested it. Advocates Tomaandi and Traachon --”

“No need to be so formal, Apollo. Just tell me, plainly.”

“Dai Atlas wants to send his own team out to investigate.”

Xaaron’s brow shot up. “Dai Atlas hasn’t been on Cybertron in nearly six hundred myriads; we couldn’t --wouldn’t!-- risk him to lead a team out there.”

“It’s what wasn’t said, before I was dismissed, that made me think,” Apollo purposely turned off his datapad and set it on the desk. “I think Dai Atlas was implying he had someone familiar with Decepticon territory.”

“Dai Atlas has always been loyal to the Autobot cause, second only to his devotion to Primus. If Theophany harbors Decepticons, then we must put our trust that their loyalty to their order’s teachings are stronger than faction. Yes, let us discuss this further.”

Apollo’s next gesture betrayed his bodyguard training; leading through the door, he scanned the corridor before turning, head tilted just enough to keep his periphery to catch any other movement behind them, and allowed for Xaaron to take the point.

They met the advocates and Dai Atlas midway between Xaaron’s office and the meeting suites. “That paranoid security director is sweeping the offices. Again,” Tomaandi groused. “We’re moving to --”

“Follow me,” Xaaron interrupted. “I know where we can continue this conversation in peace.”

Chapter Text

Dignitary Guest Suites, Residential Block West
Autobot City

Captain Fairborne barely had time to set her travel kit in her Earthside quarters before Carly, half-dragged by a brunette with an authoritarian presence that rivaled Sky Lynx’s, met her at the door.

“I’ve already called for a car,” the woman checked her watch, “they’re going to meet us at the western gate. If you need to bring anything important, now’s the time to grab it.”

“Hold on,” Captain Fairborne held her hands up and pushed forward, pantomiming pumping brakes. “Carly, who is this?”

“Captain Fairborne, this is Astoria Carlton-Ritz, the President and CEO of Hybrid Technologies, Raiden Initiative’s primary financier and supplier.”

“Among other Autobot-Human projects,” Astoria held out her hand. “My company and many of its subsidiaries have a ginormous stake in the Initiative and I intend to fight.”

Midway through Astoria’s introduction, the captain reached to shake the other woman’s hand, then hesitated. “Fight? What are you talking about?” To Carly, she repeated, “What is she talking about?”

“Astoria is a ‘plan for the worst but aim for the best’ type of personality, Marissa,” Carly explained. “The cohort broke down, and we need to move forward in case of a legal battle. As the EDC representative to Autobot City, we need your help.”

“Interesting accent you got there,” Astoria interjected; she gestured animatedly as she talked, Marissa silently noted. “American, studied abroad? Mom or Dad stationed in Aviano? Look, we can chat about it on the way to the restaurant. Jetlag always makes me hangry. That’s a ‘hungry’ and ‘angry’ portmanteau and I absolutely love it. Car, restaurant, business. Let’s go!” She pointed in the direction of the western gate and marched forward.

“Pfft. Sucks to be you,” Powerglide chortled as he walked by. “I’ve got base duty until tomorrow morning so she’s your problem until then!”

Carly massaged her temples. “Nope, not getting involved in that one,” she muttered. Louder, she asked in rhetoric: “West Gate, then? This way.”

Captain Fairborne had expected a hover-taxi at best, a private jetcar at worst; instead, a land-yacht of an just-recently-considered-antique Cadillac limo was waiting for them at the western gate. As the EDC officer contemplated if this was worse than the private jetcar, the passenger in front, a middle-aged woman with a salt-and-pepper pompadour and a severely-cut pantsuit as sharp as her features, stepped out of the car and opened the back door for the three to enter.

“Thanks, Claudia!” Astoria climbed in. “Claudia, you’ve met Dr. Witwicky; this is Captain Fairborne. Claudia’s my bodyguard, and Tyrese’s my driver. Hi, Tyrese!”

“Good evening, Ms. Astoria!” Tyrese greeted. “Good evening, Dr. Witwicky, wonderful to see you again! How’s Daniel and Mr. Witwicky doing? No rush, you can tell me when you settle in. And Captain Fairborne, it’s great to meet you! I hope you enjoy tonight’s meal!”

“Tyrese is such a sweetie. Claudia’s the best, but doesn’t say much though when she’s on the clock.”

“Ma’am,” Claudia acknowledged, shutting the door after Captain Fairborne settled into the spacious leather interior. 

“Okay, drinks in the fridge right there if you want -- nothing alcoholic, sorry, open container laws and whatnot -- and chips in the cupboard if you got the munchies.” Astoria reached over to open said cupboard, then stopped, holding her hands up. “No, I will not! I have restraint!”

“No, you don’t,” Carly crossed her arms with a knowing smirk.

“I will prove you wrong! Oh, seat warmers, massage settings, reclining control thingies,” Astoria then gestured to the console between her guests. Snapping to a more prim sitting position, her flightiness abruptly controlled, she then announced, “Now, let’s get down to business.”

“I…can’t help but notice how…antiquated…this car is,” Marissa said, “especially for someone who owns one of the leads in the global market on technology.”

“Look, I’m all business; science stuff I leave to Carly and Percy and Dr Fujiyama and the lot of them. I’m…” Astoria giggled as though they were at a teenage sleepover, ”...actually not allowed to touch any electronics more complicated than a pocket calculator.”

“Now we’re getting into my expertise,” Carly took up the conversation, now channeling her Instructor mode. “We all have bioelectromagnetic fields of varying degrees -- organic or biomechanical, Terran or Cybertronian. We see it in action as how migratory animals can navigate through otherwise unfamiliar territory. In humans, this field is more or less like the appendix; it’s there, but generally underutilized. There are exceptions; you, for instance,” she gestured to Marissa, “have an exceptional sense of direction. You always know where both true and galactic North are, you have acute spatial perception and object permanence, you also have an acute gyroscopic sense to know which way is up. That’s what makes you an amazing pilot. You have exceptional control of your EMF whether or not you recognize it. Astoria’s EM field is, well…”

“I’m a walking static charge.” Astoria delivered this statement with equal parts pride and regret. “If EMFs were like language, most people are ‘bouba-bouba’--” she moved her hands in airy, gentle circles “-- and I’m ‘ki-ki! Ki-ki!’” She rapidly opened and closed her hands, splaying out her fingers. “Thus, the fewer electronics I touch, the better. Hence why I’m never on video calls and I have Hector do all my emails. Oh, Hector’s my administrative assistant. You may see him tonight, he tends to be ‘do his task and ninja-vanish!’ sorta guy.” Astoria pantomimed throwing down a smoke bomb. 

“I think I should make it clear that I am very uncomfortable representing the EDC at this point,” Captain Fairborne stated, realizing that Astoria was finally allowing her to speak. “As a friend to Dr. Witwicky -- Carly -- I am willing to help out anyway I can. You may call me Marissa -- in fact, I think I would prefer that while we’re on our current…project.” She weighed her next words carefully. “As Marissa, I will hear out and give opinion on your plan, as friends, in an unofficial channel, and, after we get everything sorted, I, as Captain Fairborne, will present the case to my superior officers. First things first: I recommend focusing on ethics over science.”

“Ma’am,” Claudia slid open a window that separated the rear passenger seating from the cab, “Hector called in to report everything’s set up at the restaurant.”

“Thanks, Claudia! Let Hector know I thank him too! Oh my god, I am so freakin’ hangry!” She wrenched open the cupboard, grabbed a bag of potato chips, and ripped it open, and proceeded to unceremoniously shovel the contents into her mouth.

“Not,” Marissa stressed, “what I was expecting from the CEO of Hy-Tech.”

“No, this is good,” Carly replied. “That means she’s accepted you as part of the clan.”

“I still feel like you’re speaking in code.”

“It means,” Astoria tipped the bag back, emptying the crumbs into her mouth, before shoving the crumpled bag into a discrete bin by her seat, “I know you’re a dirty Cybe lover too.”

Carly collected her thoughts, breathed in, then out, and reminded, “We don’t know he’s targeting on that, Astoria --”

“Oh, oh!” Astoria shook her finger. “But I do! It’s been well documented that Abe’s a xenophobic, misogynistic jerk who will play the ‘Earth Alpha Male First’ card whenever possible.”

“Wait.” Marissa succumbed to the need for caffeine and removed a can of diet soda from the minifridge. “Are you talking about Abraham Dante of Epsilon Holdings?” She cracked open the tab, carbonation hissing from the broken seal. “Off the record, whatever you’re planning, I’m in.”  

* 

Administration Office

Bumblebee found his voice after a couple of false starts. “What do you mean --” 

Quickly, Getsuei held up his hands defensively and stammered, “I didn’t mean to! I mean, I never took what she told me to spark -- “

“Wait.” Bumblebee cocked his head to one side. “She can talk?”

“It’s…complicated?” Getsuei hunched his shoulders forward. “Shadow usually spoke for her, but she always seemed to be…in charge of the conversation?”

“Who’s Shadow?”

Getsuei grew silent, optics darting to the corner out of shame. “My older brother, second oldest to Nightbird. He…never got a body.”

“All right.” Bumblebee steepled his hands together and closed his optics as though in prayer, gathering his thoughts. “Okay, we got this. When did she escape?”

“Three nights ago,”

“And…you’re not in trouble, I promise: why were you with her?”

“I’ve been visiting her for at least the past six years or so. She’s been…she was helping me with my forms.”

“ Ninjutsu .”

Getsuei raised his head, optics wide. “You’re familiar with ninjutsu ?”

“Not personally; mostly from movies and television, honestly. My martial arts training is primarily in circuit-su -- it’s a Cybertronian style, kinda like judo and targets the joints. Very handy for us Minibots when we’re taking on larger opponents.” Recognizing Getsuei’s interest, Bumblebee mustered a smile. “I can show you sometime, if you’d like. But let’s get back on topic. Can you tell me more about Shadow? How did you meet him and Nightbird?”

“It…was an accident,” Getsuei admitted, optics darting to the corner in recollection. “We had been playing a game -- my brothers and our mentors, that is. It was part of Wheeljack- sama ’s cognitive program: we were to each learn a game and teach the others to play it. Kaen found -- I’m sorry, you want the direct answer --”

Bumblebee pulled his office chair around the desk so that he could sit across from the much larger Autobot with nothing between them. “Please, continue, Getsuei; I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“Oh. I’m -- thank you, Bumblebee- sama --”

“And you can call me Bumblebee, or just Bee. I’ve --” Bumblebee chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve never been one for formalities. I prefer one-on-one as equals…something I picked up from Optimus, come to think of it. Anyway, please, continue.”

“Oh. Thank you…Bee. Kaen…he has always been…not mean-spirited, but…he enjoyed…one-upping?...everyone. He had picked this game he had learned from one of the research assistants, and, well, one thing led to another and I found where they were stored.” Getsuei frowned. “I wanted to ask Otousan about them but Shadow said not to because he was not proud of them.”

“I…think I’m seeing the problem, and it has nothing to do with you. You said you kept these visits secret from your brothers as well as your mentors?”

Getsuei nodded. “Shadow was insistent that I didn’t. They wouldn’t understand, he said.”

“Hey.” Bumblebee leaned forward and looked up at Getsuei, catching his gaze. “I appreciate your honesty and I’m glad you feel safe to talk to me about it, even if we only have known each other for maybe a megacycle -- an hour. Just know that I got your back, but I am going to have to talk to Dr Fujiyama about this, and I won’t be able to keep your involvement secret. I’d appreciate it if you would be there with me when I did talk to him about it, but if you can’t, I also understand.”

Getsuei slouched, head down, and nodded reluctantly. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell Otousan …if you’ll be there too.”

“Of course I will. But why don’t we wait until the morning when we’re all rested up? It’s been a long day for all of us.” Bumblebee slid off his chair. “I’ve a hunch I want to check on which may help our case, too. Just remember that I got your back.”

“Thank you, Bumblebee. Tomorrow, then. And maybe…you can show me circuit-su ?”

“It’s a deal.” The smaller Autobot nodded enthusiastically. “Get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning.”

Once the younger mech left his office, Bumblebee activated his comms. “Hey, Blaster, is Skyspy keeping an optic on the Decepticon camp?”

“Audio blackout’s still in effect, but thermal, geofencing, and GPS triangulating seems to be operating nominally -- nothing raising any more red flags than usual. Looks like they didn’t get much from their raid. Flyboys are back in refueling; don’t think we should send them out again until they get a good recharge in.”

“Agreed, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I actually need you to scan for human-based tech, high end, and let me know if you find anything.”

“Anything in particular, or just ‘more advanced than a Dreamcast?’”

“That console was too far ahead of its time and you know it!” Bumblebee chuckled. “But yeah, I need you to scan for EMF fields, heat signatures, anything that would hint that the ‘Cons are holding advanced Earth tech hostage.”

“‘Hostage’? Bee, we talkin’ ‘bout --”

“I don’t know yet,” Bumblebee said, hoping that he came across as holding off on suspicions rather than flat-out lying. “I just got a hunch.”

“So gonna fill me in on our new friend there?” Hound sauntered in, flipping a thumb in the direction that Getsuei had left.

As though a weight and twenty years had been lifted from his spark, Bumblebee darted forward, giving his old friend a hug, who returned it in earnest. “Great to have you back, Hound! I could use some guidance here.”

“You know I’m here for you, little buddy,” Hound clapped the smaller mech’s back before stepping back. “So what’s going on? Give me the rundown. Also, the twins are at the Ark; Sunny was in a mood and Sides is keeping an optic on him.”

“The Protectobots are over there investigating an EMP discharge,” Bumblebee explained. “But yeah, Carly and Dr Fujiyama decided to bring the Raiden Initiative here; sounds like one of their partners is interested in weaponizing the project.”

“Because why wouldn’t they?” Hound growled, rolling his optics.

“That was Getsuei; from what I gather, he’s the quiet one. Good kid, may have accidentally handed Nightbird over to the ‘Cons, but I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

“Can’t be any worse than Hoist and Grapple befriending the Constructicons that one time.” Hound shrugged. “Or when Red hooked up with Starscream. Or when Pax accidentally called Trailbreaker ‘Trailblazer’ and we ended up following Megatron’s clone --”

“See? This is why I need you!” Bumblebee’s smile faded. “Truthfully, I think we’ve got the Raiden Initiative under control. Carly and Astoria --”

“--that explains Powerglide’s new air freshener--”

“--are tackling the Earthside legalese while we’re using our status as the Cybertronian Embassy to protect the kids.”

“Ah. ‘Diplomatic Immunity’.” Hound delivered the quote in an exaggerated accent.

“Let’s hope we’re not mistaken for a South African drug cartel. Chip and Raoul are lending a hand to do some digging Iacon-side. Well, Chip is; I think Carly’s hoping that Raoul will help if this defense contractor tries to claim intellectual property.”

“Ugh. The very concept of defense contractors.” Hound rolled his optics. “From experience, they’re not at all defensive. Anyway, Tracks will be thrilled to have Raoul visit anyway. And Spike’s representing the Earth colony.” The former third-in-command held up a hand. “Yes, I know, we were refugees, not colonists. I don’t think the Conclave wants to admit that, though I’m sure neither our experience nor my opinions weigh much in this case. So!” He clapped his hands, “what else is going to hell in a handcart?” 

“So, do you want bad news first, or worse news?” Blaster interrupted.

Bumblebee and Hound groaned in unison. “Bad news,” they exclaimed together.

“Hey, Hound, my man! How’s it hangin’? Anywho, so Bee, yeah, you were right. After cutting out known noise, I narrowed it down and, yeah, picked up some advanced hume tech signatures that are practically blastin’ the entirety of Kilroy Was Here, complete with laser show.”

“Plural?” Hound asked.

“Plural. Ready for the worse news?”

“Hit us,” Bumblebee ordered.

“Well, after cutting out known noise and finding said advanced hume tech sigs, there’s also a Trypticon-shaped uh-oh on the infrared.”

“Is he moving?” 

“Now? Naw, but he’s not sawin’ wood anymore; he’s only takin’ a siesta. What’s your call, Boss-Buzz?”

“Brief Grimlock,” Bumblebee ordered. “Put the Dinobots on standby. See if Omega can provide them a show of strength if needed; Metroplex is still in no condition to take on even a weakened Trypticon.” To Hound, he asked, “I’ve gotta make a call; you up for giving me a hand?”

“I’ve always got your back, my friend,” Hound clapped the Minibot’s shoulder.

*

The Ark

“Hey, you found the lob-ball!” Eject exclaimed as he and Rewind entered the base. Sideswipe held the object in question over his head in victory. “I bet Prowl hid it on us!”

“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Sideswipe agreed, then wound up and pitched the ball to the much smaller Autobot. “Think fast!”

Blades, just behind the two deployers, snatched the ball in mid-air, somersaulted, then used the momentum to launch the ball back to Sideswipe.

“No lobbing while on duty!” Hot Spot ordered. 

“Yeah, it’s a fragging crime scene!” Sideswipe retorted, catching the lob and, spinning, threw it at Streetwise, who was absolutely not prepared. 

“Good Primus, I swear there’s something in the air here,” the Protectobot leader grumbled, unheard by the others by Streetwise’s string of curses. Louder, Hot Spot addressed the deployers. “Thanks for coming in. I should warn you, one of Wheeljack’s inventions did activate --”

“Call me Jackie!” the AI shouted from within the laboratory. “Hi! I just need to get these beams dislodged, and then I can get clear to give you a hand.”

“That --” Eject began, pointed into the lab.

“--sounded like Wheeljack, yeah. Really, are you surprised?” Sideswipe retorted just as Streetwise tackled the frontliner low. Blades half-heartedly attempted to get in between them, a grey area in whether he intended to break it up and goad them on.

“On the clock!” Hot Spot reminded, punctuating each syllable. To Eject and Rewind, he shrugged. “Sorry about that. So…if I could get one of you to help me out with freeing…Jackie…and the other one can help Groove with Engineering --”

“What happened in Engineering?” Rewind questioned. “I’m still confused by the request.”

“I got the lab,” Eject volunteered, sticking out his elbows and twisting at the waist as though stretching out stiff ligaments before entering the cluttered room. “Nothing like an MXC obstacle course to wind down after a seriously screwed up day.”

“You weren’t the one picking apart Quintesson-adjacent fractals,” Rewind countered, flipping a thumb down the corridor. “Anyway, Engineering?”

“We’re thinking EMP implosion,” Groove explained, “but--”

“It wasn’t an EMP,” Jackie retorted. “I would know if it was an EMP. That? That was not an EMP. Hey, Eject, watch out for that --” tools clattered onto the floor, “--toolbox, yeah, I wonder who left that there. Oh! At least I got the sensors working!”

 “I’d be freaked out,” Sideswipe twisted Streetwise’s arm around his back, then let go with a shove to give distance, “but this is Wheeljack we’re talking about. I think everyone had ‘copy his personality in an AI program so he could talk to himself’ on the bingo card for the past twenty years.”

“Sure, I’ll go in and take a look,” Rewind agreed. “Erm…Jackie? If it wasn’t an electromagnetic pulse, what would you say it was?”

“That’s a good question! Let’s see.” There was a silence that, for those who knew the Autobot inventor, was easy to imagine Wheeljack ticking off his fingers. “There’s particle radiation, acoustic radiation, gravitational radiation -- hey! Could also be a combination of two or all of the above! I need to jot this -- scrap, no hands yet. Rewind! Can you jot something down for me?” 

Rewind sighed, picked up a datapad from the desk, wiped away the dust, and attempted to turn it on.

“Okay, so --”

“Not ready!” Rewind chided, shaking the device before returning it to a docking station. “Wheeljack forgot to recharge his notepad.”

“Yeah, that sounds par for the course,” Sideswipe shrugged, wincing as another batch of struts clattered within the lab.

From down the hall, Sunstreaker turned up his music.

“Okay, just someone remind me later: particle, acoustic, gravitational. Anyway, there’s definitely some non-zero rest energy here with a touch of gravitational waves. Huh, someone’s playing with spacetime. Is Perceptor still around? I bet he’d like to bounce off some ideas --” another crash, followed by Eject swearing as he bolted out of the lab, interrupted Jackie. “Ah! Perfect! Give us a click. Wow, this place really is a mess. Huh.” A lanky mech sporting a familiar red and green stripe motif and an LED faceplate with prominent audial fins stumbled after the deployer. The face displayed oversized optics blinking comically, before looking down at its hands, wiggling the digits. “Oh! I have optics! And hands now! So! What can I help out with?” As it talked, the fins flashed in tandem to its speech, a feature that made clear who its creator was.

The Protectobots shared bewildered and exhausted glances.

“So…Engineering?” To break the silence, Sideswipe questioned, pointing down the hall.

“Engineering! Okay, yes! Let’s go!” the seemingly empty exosuit clapped its hands and took the lead. “I can’t wait to see this!”

Hot Spot gave Streetwise a warning glare. “Don’t say it.”

“It’s like he’s still with us,” Blades instead said. Streetwise was quick to point out the heli. 

*

Security Office
Government Center
Iacon, Cybertron

“What did I tell you?” Red Alert greeted Trailbreaker as the ute entered the office. “What did I tell you?”

“Red, it’s probably nothing --”

“Stop. Right there.” The security chief stood up and rounded the desk. “You’re pandering. I know you, Trailbreaker, you pander. You try to get everyone to believe everything’s going to be all right. Well, it’s not going to be all right. They’re purposely getting rid of us!”

Trailbreaker held up his hands defensively, then looked up for support from Inferno and Firestar, who were both leaning against the far wall in near-identical stances of arms crossed across their chests.

“You know I’d be the first to talk him down,” Inferno cleared his throat, “but this time, he may be onto something.”

“See? Even Inferno recognizes it!” Red Alert threw his arms in the air in frustration. “What did he say? What did Xaaron tell you?”

“Nothing that you don’t already know,” Trailbreaker replied. “I really do think he’s on our side, honestly. I know Tomaandi had asked for Mirage; maybe we should see what he has to report before jumping to conclusions --”

“I’ve already talked to Mirage,” Red Alert interrupted. “And it was the last time he will be able to talk to me without supervision; Tomaandi and Traachon have conscripted him to the Senate as the Cybertronian representative. His new duties will keep him from administration and operations for the foreseeable future, and under constant supervision of state-appointed bodyguards.”

“Officially, promoted,” Firestar harrumphed. “Inferno said ‘conscripted’. I say ‘house arrest’.”

“I want to hear it from you,” Red Alert met the graphite black mech’s optics. “What did Xaaron tell you?”

“Well,” Trailbreaker took the chair next to Inferno and, leaning back, propped one foot over his knee. “The Theophany leader, Dai Atlas? He’s prewar Senate; he and Xaaron were tight on the floor back then, it seems. Anyway, there’s going to be a vote to dissolve the Novus Conclave and to elect First Speaker of the Council. There’s a lot of support behind the delegate from Victory.”

“What about Elita?” Firestar demanded; Inferno placed a hand on her shoulder.

“They’re…using this as a rally to end the Rule of Primes; Xaaron’s words, not mine.” Trailbreaker shrugged.

“What about the Matrix?” Inferno questioned.

“They’re gonna shelf it,” Red Alert groused.

The ute planted both feet on the ground and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Look, culturally or spiritually or traditionally as it gets, anyone with it can be considered a target, regardless of zealots, heretics, or atheists. Someone is gonna take offense, and someone is gonna get hurt. Maybe it’s for the best it gets placed under lock and key…?”

“Well,” Inferno vented hard, “the lot of us aren’t exactly the religious sorts. What’s a little blasphemy amongst friends?”

“Xaaron…is against that.” Trailbreaker continued. “He’s arguing to maintain tradition. Have Elita take her place as Cybertron’s leader, Matrix and all.”

“As well she should,” Firestar retorted. “War’s over, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we can let our guard down. Chromia’s got a couple of squads scouring Polyhex right now for ‘Con holdouts, and we now know Shockwave’s scuttling under that rubble.”

“On top of that, The Cradle’s power supply went into meltdown,” Red Alert added. “Dai Atlas has volunteered one of his own squads to investigate why, as our forces are already stretched thin outside of Iacon and Kalis. The running theory is that Shockwave used the reactor as a boost to his broadcast.”

“And you believe him?” Inferno asked.

Red Alert barked a laugh. “There’s definitely an ulterior motive there.”

“Un-frikkin’-believable.” Firestar tossed her hands in the air. “They fragged off when we needed them the most, and now Dai Atlas is coming back calling shots as if it’s five million stels ago?”

“Hey.” Trailbreaker’s tone was gentle, but firm. “We fought for those who couldn’t. That still stands. So, I know Red wants me to get to the point: he wants you three to stay behind. Best security detail in the universe, you know.”

“I don’t know why, they all think I’m some paranoid conspiracy theorist,” Red Alert huffed. 

Inferno patted his shoulder. “Yes, but you’re our paranoid conspiracy theorist and that’s why we love you.”

“I’d reprimand you if it wasn’t true,” Red Alert muttered.

Trailbreaker allowed a true smile to flicker from the display of affection. “Chromia’s staying Cybertron-side, too. Me, Blue, and Smokey will be going to Klo as part of the Elite Guard entourage; I’m representing the ethics committee to keep the EG and the Wreckers from not tripping over one another. Jazz is interim head of the EG, Springer is CO of the Wreckers, on record, at least. Moonracer, Lancer, Greenlight, they’re also going. Along with volunteers from the colonies, those willing to be part of the defense line. That’s what I got.” He hesitated. “Well, there’s also the reason why the EG and the Wreckers are getting deployed simultaneously.”

Red Alert nodded with a frown. “Keep going. Let’s hear it.”

“Elita took matters into her own hands.”

“Yes!” Firestar pumped her fists. “‘Course she did!”

“She’s the one who pushed for the Wrecker deployment to recover Rodimus.”

“Seriously?” Inferno cocked his head to one side. “That’s a bit overkill.” Upon Red Alert and Firestar sharing a knowing glance, the largest of the first responders held up his hands. “I didn’t say I didn’t approve!”

Trailbreaker cleared his throat. “Tomaandi and Traachon weren’t on board, hence why they’re deploying the Elite Guard to ‘assist’. So, the problem there, besides introducing gasoline and a match…well, not gonna lie, I love Smokey like a brother, but --”

“He’s a liability,” Inferno growled. “He’s a fragging liability and the moment he sniffs out a chance to sell us out -- no, Teebs, you are not going to defend him, you weren’t the one he used as a bartering chip!”

“What Trailbreaker won’t say,” Firestar placed a hand on Inferno’s arm, “is that Tomaandi and Traachon are purposely assigning ‘liabilities’ to the EG to make our troops appear weak in the face of the colonies, to prove that Cybertron needs new management. Sorry, Teebs.”

“Hey, a spade’s a spade,” Trailbreaker held up his hands. “I’m fully aware of my shortcomings; I already took that into account when Xaaron tapped me.”

“C’mon!” Inferno tossed his head back with a scoff. “He tapped you ‘cuz you’re a mediator who ain’t afraid to throw your weight around if needed!”

“Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Trailbreaker grinned, a superficial gesture, “but Firestar’s right.”

“Which is why it’s important we remain vigilant that those shortcomings don’t get in the way of the mission. Now the hard part,” Red Alert sighed, standing. “Firestar, Inferno, when Elita returns to Iacon, you’re to escort her to the Dignitary Protection suites immediately.”

“Okay, why?” Firestar’s lip curled.

“We don’t know how the colonies will take to the Matrix Bearer --”

“She’s to be placed under house arrest,” Red Alert interrupted Trailbreaker. “Officially, Trailbreaker is correct. Off the record? Tomaandi and Traachon aren’t too happy with her going rogue, and they’re thinking Xaaron isn’t too far behind her.”

“Thus why,” Trailbreaker’s shoulders slumped, “they’re looking to dissolve the Conclave and the Rule of Prime.”

*

A Little Vengeance
Somewhere between Sirius II and Klo

The familiar creak and groan of the hull reaching to the change of pressure as it exited the outer atmosphere gave way to a spark-shattering roar of a storm. Artemis’s consciousness transitioned seamlessly into the mental prison--

-- could she still call it a prison?

Compared to the previous visions, dreams, and hallucinations, this felt…safe. Secure. That sensation of peace knowing one is hunkered down in a cozy place with a hot drink and a good book, and, while the storm raged outside, she would be all right. 

As though summoned by the thought, the publican set before her a frothy mug with a spicy sweet aroma. She responded with a lift of the mug in salute and sipped.

“He’ll be at it for a while,” Mac sighed. “I’m betting he hitched a ride when that Brontes fella spark spasmed.”

“He knew me, Mac,” Artemis muttered. “Brontes. And I don’t know why but…I feel like I should have known him right back. But…until this evening, I know I have never seen him before in my life. Yet…”

“You did know him,” Mac crossed his arms onto the bar surface and leaned forward. “Or rather, you will know him, in some other stream. It’s okay to mourn for him, my girl. As for him ,” the publican’s gaze fell onto the barricaded door, “Figuring out how he got here isn’t the priority, we need to exorcize him first. He’s wreaking havoc on my façade.”

“Who is he, other than some mad titan that I obviously will piss off in some distant future?”

“I’d be cautious about digging that up,” Mac cocked his head to one side. “That could open up a floodgate of problems. So, how to explain this? Somewhere along the line, you and him will cross paths. The thing is, it’s not you, but rather a rebecoming of you. It’s different than if you meet yourself from the past or future, because it’s not you. It will never be you. Because what happens when you find things that the other you had? It will leave you a sense of confusion at best. Case in point --”

“Brontes,” Artemis said in unison.

He nodded. “Exactly. At worst, well…hopefully we won’t have to deal with that.” He held out his hands as a peace offering. “You’ve always been the curious one, and if it was safe to tell you, my girl, I would. Let’s see if I can do my best: something is testing the fabric of spacetime, and there’s…seepage…coming through. This fella --” he gestured to the door, “--found a rather large leak.”

“Does this have to do with Perceptor’s experiment two days ago?” she questioned.

“It might,” Mac nodded. “Though he’s not the only one poking holes, intentional or otherwise, and it would be no stretch of the imagination to point at Shockwave, either, in any iteration. But I speak in conjecture: this is more Vector’s realm than mine, truthfully. I know the laymech’s explanation, but anything further --” He sighed. “Truth be told, my girl, I’m concerned. Strike that: I’m afraid. Not because of that braggart out there yowling blue murder, but more of what could follow him. Right now, he’s intangible: source code, nothing more. Those fellas that came with him? Brontes and the pretty Seeker? They were able to fit through, and there could be more of them, too. The thing is -- and forgive me, I’m going through a stream of consciousness right now, trying to parse what is happening all while trying to keep my sanity about the matter -- the thing is, I fear that it may cause more than just creating tangent universes.”

“They’re trying to create a universe where he’s in charge,” Artemis translated, flipping her thumb to the door. 

“Boiled down to its base elements, yes. Perhaps. Or he could be a harbinger of something else.”

That triggered the vision of the devoured city. “Antilla.”

“Yes, that still weighs on me too. Not gonna lie, while we’re in here, we’re safe, but we’re limited . The reason why you can’t access the rest of the Matrix is because of me, in hindsight.”

“I’m not complaining, actually. It’s less overwhelming. Makes it a little more bearable.”

“So I guess the question would now be,” Mac rubbed his chin, “whether or not you want to focus on your mission at hand -- finding Rodimus and bringing him home -- or tackle the much bigger problem, these shards of what-could-bes.”

Honestly?” Artemis leaned forward, meeting the publican’s gaze, “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they were connected. But yeah, Rodimus first. Then we can save the universe.”

Mac laughed heartily, patting her hand. “I like the way you think,” he smiled broadly, a genuine warmth radiating. “Let’s find our young Prime.”

For the first time in at least three days, Artemis roused herself into consciousness, and even longer that she felt fully recharged and even motivated.

“ETA,” she directed to Skyfire as she sat up in the co-pilot’s chair. She frowned. “When did I get here?”

“A couple of megacycles; I didn’t want to risk too large of a fold, so I’ve programmed three smaller hops. To answer your second question, you weren’t fully cognizant when we left Kethys,” Skyfire admitted. “Almost sleepwalking.” A pause. “Octane took care of Kup’s…order…while you were resting.” Another pause. “Have you figured out anything else?”

She turned her head to meet his periphery. “Unlike you to take stock in an artifact’s visions.”

“The same goes for you, which is why I choose to take what you have to say seriously. My current hypothesis is that the ‘wisdom’ of the Matrix is more of a repository of genetic memory, recorded experiences, nothing more. But never mind my musings, you know I’m here to lend a hand.”

“A million times over, thank you.” A shadow of a smile crept across her face. “Okay, let’s see if I can make sense of this. Big takeaway is that something’s poking holes in the spacetime fabric. I think. That’s how the two that the Aerialbots brought in came in through. They’re trying to widen those pinpricks to let other things -- big things -- come through. Primus Below, that sounds vague now that I say that out loud.”

“Hmm.” That was a good sound, one of interest and curiosity, two of Skyfire’s strongest traits for scientific endeavors. “Perhaps we may be dealing with an ekpyrotic universe mirroring our own? That would, at least on the surface, make the most sense for holes in spacetime, as there would only be a fifth spatial dimension separating the two. The issue I could see would be a potential incompatibility with muons resonating at different frequencies -- ah.” How he turned his head to meet her gaze, his face alight with inspiration. “That could explain the fractal artifacts in the images Streetwise had taken! You may be onto something, old friend!” He gestured over the board and called up the subspace messaging program. “My understanding of fifth dimensional physics is academic at best outside of navigation -- and if we’re dipping our toes into 11-space, I’ll definitely need some help -- but I’m certain Perceptor could decipher this puzzle.” After typing out the quick note and sending it, the giant Autobot leaned back in his seat, the distraction welcoming. “Sorry, Artemis, I was considering Perceptor’s experiment and the possibility -- the probability! -- that the accident may have not been a cause of negligence or miscalculation! What if we’re on the right track about the ekpyrotic universe, and if it was the trigger for the accident rather than anything Rodimus or Perceptor did --”

“You get the math down, you could repeat the event,” Artemis’s optics widened.

He nodded enthusiastically, his smile broadening. “We could repeat and reverse the event! We’re onto something here!” 

“Okay, there’s too much happiness in here. What’s going on and whatever you’re on, I want some,” Octane demanded as he ducked into the cockpit, wincing as his head did not quite clear the jamb. 

“We’re not getting our hopes up yet,” Artemis warned, “but Skyfire may have figured out what caused Rodimus’ accident.”

“Let’s not get too much ahead of ourselves,” Skyfire added, though his mirth was infectious. “We will need to coordinate the research first. Once Perceptor and I go over the numbers, we can then make a plan.”

“And then we pawn off the Matrix and head to Monacus, not necessarily in that order.” Octane clapped his hands. “Perfect!”

“There’s more that needs to be done before that,” Sandstorm reminded. “Don’t forget about those gasholes who nuked Paradron and the other colonies.”

“Primus Below, you had to remind me,” the rogue Decepticon’s shoulders slumped and he rolled his head upward to stare at the ceiling. “What’s wrong with self-preservation and wanton debauchery?”

“Justice first,” Sandstorm crossed his arms over his chest. “Then debauchery.”

“As long as I get the debauchery.”

“You’ll get the debauchery.”

“Yes!” Octane pumped his fists. “All right, find Rodders, dump the Matrix, get revenge, then debauchery. Plan made, let’s go!”

Artemis brought up the copilot’s board and took over the flight duties from Skyfire. “All right,” she sighed, setting her shoulders. “Showtime, boys.”

Chapter Text

Ruins of Deseeus, former capital of the Quintesson Empire 

Chaar

“We left Reicere for this ?” Roadblock snarled, smashing a fist into a crumbling wall. “At least we had amenities! Utilities! Basic necessities!” He turned to Thunderwing, shoulders heaving. “We could have made Reicere our base of operations! Not…this burnt out husk!”

Most others would have balked at his outburst; Thunderwing did not. “That is not your concern,” the squadron commander retorted, turning his back on the furious frontliner. “Bludgeon, take a team to the command hub and activate comms. We’ll be expecting company soon enough.”

“Jhiaxus, sir?” Bludgeon questioned, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Not yet. I’m banking on this ‘burnt out husk’ to escape his notice. Once we gather our expanded forces…well, that will be a different story.”

“Expanded forces?” Roadblock demanded. “What do you mean --”

“Exactly what I said,” Thunderwing interrupted. “Now go draw down the Warworld generator so we don’t become any more of a target than we already are.” He gave the hulk the barest of glances, dismissed him with a quarter-turn, and continued to scan the jagged horizon.

“Lord Thunderwing, two unknown crafts entering high orbit,” Blot transmitted. “They’re ignoring our hails, but signatures come off as individual Decepticons. Shall we intercept?”

“Negative, Blot. Send my coordinates and an invitation to parley.”

“S-sir.”  Blot, unlike Roadblock, knew how to take an order.

Thunderwing crossed his arms over his chest, attuned to his surroundings. Catching the glint of three incoming mecha, he set his feet and squared his shoulders. Upon approach, two of the figures retained spacefaring vehicle modes and flanked the third, in root mode. The lead and right were similar violets; the left was a twilight blue.

“What are you doing here, Thunderwing?” the lead mech demanded, landing solidly in front of the Cygnus leader. “I was expecting Soundwave!”

“I apologize for disappointing you, whoever you are,” Thunderwing countered. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“Insolent speck!” the left-hand mech snapped, reverting to bipedal mode. “Do not address Lord Galvatron so casually -- oof !”

The one called Galvatron had swung his arm and caught the dark blue mech across his helm with a loud crack. “Silence, Scourge! Thunderwing is an old friend, even though he does not recognize me.” This was delivered with a hint of feigned heavy-heartedness.

“Ah. Of course.” Thunderwing nodded, set his first against his spark, and made a small bow. “Word had reached us of your…upgrade, my lord; I had not the opportunity to see it for myself. To answer your question: we have only just arrived here, and are currently triangulating communications with Polyhex, Kaon, and Darkmount.”

“And no word from Soundwave?”

“Not yet, my lord. We received Shockwave’s broadcast within the past decacycle, and proceeded to the predesignated coordinates.”

Scourge was about to protest again; Cyclonus gave his contemporary a swift shake of the head in warning, before regarding his leader, keeping Thunderwing in his periphery. “Predesignated coordinates?” the taller mech questioned Galvatron.

“Did you think I gathered the Decepticons here on Chaar at random?” Galvatron guffawed. “Of course Shockwave would have reached out to all my lieutenants when it was time!”

“Of…of course, my lord,” Cyclonus nodded, resuming his about-face. Inwardly, conflicting evidence bounced around within his thoughts: Galvatron had been more cognizant when it had been just the three of them; now, he had resumed the wild-opticked raving of a madmech. The only logical reason had to be that Galvatron was truly sane, and was manipulating the other Decepticons into place for some future scheme that was known only to him.

That was the simplest explanation. It had to be the truth. 

No, there was one other above Galvatron, and it was possible that Unicron, however dead, could still exert his will upon them. 

Cyclonus felt a heated glare on him, and realized Thunderwing was now regarding exclusively him. “You’re the intelligent of the two,” the Cygnean Decepticon growled. “By our esteemed leader’s grace, have Bludgeon catch you up to speed while I take Lord Galvatron to the bunker.”

The bunker…? What is he talking about? “My lord…?” Cyclonus questioned Galvatron.

“Do as he commands,” Galvatron ordered. “I shall see for myself the fruits of our endeavors. Come, Scourge,” this, he directed to his left, as Scourge balled up his fists, resisting the urge to fling himself at Thunderwing for such insolence. “You will have the privilege to be one of the first to witness the rebirth of the Decepticon Empire.”

*

Sky Lynx
Approaching Sol-Lambda Scorpii Direct Bridge
Sol Jump Station
L2 Jupiter

Hound’s message was…concerning.

Elita had received the communique just as they left low Earth orbit; while Hound’s preamble was succinct, direct, the forwarded followup churned her fuel tank with disgust tinged with rage.

There would be a time and place for that, when she returned to Cybertron. Now, she needed to focus on the tasks at hand. 

While the message from the prisoner waiting for her in Iacon still simmered, there was a compartmentalized section of Elita’s brain that was listening in on the conversation between Jazz, Springer, and Spike; an even smaller one was aware of Raoul and Chip’s. The majority of her attention was on the strangely silent Perceptor. Normally, he had a habit of talking out his thoughts and ideas, jotting them down, even counting equations on his fingers. Now, he was staring out one of the windows, the foldspace patterns streaking by, without actually looking. 

“I could put pressure on the Conclave,” she initiated, “for you to return to Earth, if you wish.”

“Hmm? Oh, your intention is very much appreciated, but unnecessary, Prime. Regardless, thank you for your concern.” he glanced at her in acknowledgement, then returned to his inner contemplation.

His head movement, while subtle, caught Elita off guard, a strange afterimage burned in her vision. 

“When I tried to remove the paradox locks, I momentarily created a macrocosmic environment within which parallel universes were possible…”

“What are paradox locks?” she questioned.

“Oh!” This edged him out of his funk, and for the first time in three days, Perceptor seemed engaged. “It’s a hypothetical device -- and by device, I mean it could be a physical device or even a string of code -- meant to keep temporal paradoxes from occurring. We do have something similar for navigating 3+1 spacetime in place, thus the reason why we primarily use fold engines over FTL, to balance out the phase, group, and signal velocities. Paradox locks expand into superstring, supergravity, and brane theories -- that is, 6+4 and 7+4 dimensional mathematics -- “    

A strange, electronic reverberation and diphonic tone underlay his regular tenor, and Elita straightened her posture, uncertain if she had imagined the shift. Perceptor took her reaction for boredom, and cleared his throat. “Apologies, Elita, I’ve been actually contemplating paradox locks and how to circumvent them, and given your question just happens to coincide with this train of thought, I get overly excited and often forget not everyone is as interested in hyperdimensional physics as myself.”

“It’s quite all right, Perceptor,” Elita smiled, mustering as much warmth as she could into the gesture. “I enjoy listening to the passion you have in your field.” She paused, considering the ghostly whisper just before she asked her initial question. “What…if you were to remove the paradox locks?”

“Remove the…oh my.” He rubbed his chin. “That would definitely circumvent the problem, indeed, though between the energy output needed to produce the intended results, let alone the, well, paradoxes…but if they could be shunted, if minutely, to create its own macrocosmic environment…I would need to factor quantum entanglement to prevent duplication, but that shouldn’t be too difficult…why, thank you, Elita; while I recognize your assistance was out of politeness, I do believe you may have helped me consider another point of view, regardless of how unscientific it seemed.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she nodded.

With that, Perceptor stood up to follow Springer and Kup down the corridor, slinging his sniper rifle over his shoulder and --

Wait, what?

Elita shook her head, focusing back on a now engaged Perceptor, still sitting across from her and typing furiously at his datapad. Springer and Kup were in their seats, now arguing quietly in hisses and growls, likely over the elder’s relapsed substance use.

What just happened?

I edited the narrative. Just a little bit. He would have figured it out on his own eventually. I just nudged him in the right direction, gave him a little inspiration. That’s all.

Perceptor’s datapad beeped an incoming message alert. Intrigued, he paused his notetaking and tapped at the screen to open the message. Brow rose in surprise, he then muttered, “Hmmm…that is quite fascinating…!” and resumed his feverish jotting. Paused. “If only I had some data on those newcomers from this evening --” Another incoming message alert. “--hmmm?”

“You’re welcome,” Cavalier, across the aisle, raised her hand in salute without taking her optics from her own console. “Content warning: serious Junji Ito vibes when magnified.”

“Ah, indeed, this is most…oh dear.”

“Warned you.”

“Perhaps if I had known who Junji Ito was -- no, I appreciate your attempt to educate me, but now is not the time. Nonetheless, thank you, despite your…erm…”

“Eavesdropping on every single conversation in this cabin without anyone picking it up?” Springer called out. To Kup, he said, “Told you she’ll be useful.”

“When she’s not a security risk,” Kup muttered under his breath.

“No more a security risk than me,” Jazz chuckled, hands behind his head as he reclined in his seat. 

“I see what you did there,” the elder Autobot countered. “Perceptor, what is it?”

“Hmmm? Oh!” The red and black scientist sat up, now painfully aware that he was the center of attention. “Well, Skyfire sent me a hypothesis to ponder and, I’m sorry, I really don’t want to bore you with the details, although it really is quite fascinating to consider!” His shoulders slumped. “Also, I don’t want to raise any hopes and not deliver, either…mind, it’s still a hypothesis!...though there is a chance that…well, that…losing Rodimus…might have been a matter of convenience by extraneous forces and not by happenstance.”

Cavalier’s head snapped up, then she bolted to sit next to Perceptor. “Dude, someone kidnapped Rod?”

“A hypothesis, mind! I do not have enough data to construct a theory! Oh, please, don’t get your hopes up -- I’m still gathering information.”

“Cav, let Percy percolate in peace,” Springer ordered, partially in jest. “If we smell burning transistors, then we can bother him.”   

“Dude, anything else you need, just ask,” Cavalier directed to Perceptor. “Seriously. Even if it’s totally out there in the Delta Quadrant. Oh! Hold on!” She returned her attention to her console and, with both thumbs, tapped out a sequence on the keypad. A third message alert dinged on Perceptor’s ‘pad. “There. That’s the records Streetwise had on those two ‘Cons.”

Jazz tilted his head just enough to give his fellow white and black mech a knowing smirk.

Springer snapped his fingers. “Hey, Cav, while you’re at it,” he caught Kup’s scowl with a smirk of his own, “I bet Percy would appreciate anything out of the ordinary you got ten megacycles prior and after the battle.”

“Truly, I do appreciate your efforts, but --” a series of beeps interrupted Perceptor; furrowing his brow, he studied the files before staring at Cavalier. “How did you even acquire these?”

She shrugged. “Meh. It was different, so I grabbed it.”

“What is it?” Kup questioned.

“These are environmental readings from Metroplex: electrical outputs, air quality, temperature, even bacterial, microbial, and radiation levels, split down to the types…mind, I’m not at all complaining, but…why would you even keep this?” Perceptor demanded.

“It was different,” she repeated. “Figured it might be important somehow. Pfft -- most of the time I don’t know why I do scrap.”

“And you don’t throw anything away,” Springer chuckled. “I kinda suspected you’d’ve pulled it off.” To Perceptor, he asked, “Could that be helpful?”

“Y-yes!” Perceptor shook off his surprise and then nodded vigorously. “The radiation levels especially, if Skyfire’s hypothesis holds steady, we would be able to replicate and…perhaps reverse…the accident….! And…and if I were to consider the workaround of paradox locks -- this…this may be the breakthrough I’ve been searching for!”

“So we’re not on the Mako-infused ‘Cons anymore?” Cavalier questioned. 

“If you’re referring to…Brontes of Lower Altihex and Skaði of the Edge of the Knife?...then yes…and no.” Perceptor now rubbed his chin. “I am afraid to ask, but…you don’t by any chance have the readings from Security during the times when they were present…?”

“Huh. Not certain, I was busy with Oblivion at the time. Gimme a mo’ -- okay, running a search script, may take a while, I wasn’t in info broker mode then.”

“You are a security risk,” Kup groused.

“I would be if I wasn’t committed to the cause,” she countered. “Not certain what said cause was three days ago, but right now it’s whatever it takes to get Rod back.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Springer agreed, patting Kup’s shoulder before standing. Walking over to Elita, he bent down and hissed in her audio receptor, “A moment alone, Prime?”

Elita, who had been finding herself distracted by shadowy apparitions flitting throughout the cabin, met the young commander’s Matrix blue optics, nodded, and followed him to another part of the shuttle.

“Yo, Captain Modesty, some privacy?” Springer questioned, closing the door behind them.

« I will have you know I am only complying because Prime is with you, not at all for your brutish attitude -- »

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, sorry for being an aft,” Springer interrupted. A click, the abrupt anechoic filter, and then a white noise drone emitted from the intercom. 

“Elita, look…I got that I’ll be meeting up with the courier later, but…” Springer rubbed the back of his neck, and suddenly he was no longer a commanding officer, but the young, war-forged mech Elita had taken under her wing all those centuries before, “I know that look you’ve been sporting. Rod got those, ever since…well, ever since the battle with Unicron. And…well, as much as the teasing I did about it, I believe them. Believe in them. In him. The visions, that is. And…and if you’re getting them too, I’ll believe you as well. Always have. So, if there’s anything you can share with me that will help with this mission, I’m open to all frequencies.”

“Perceptor needs to go with you,” she retorted as soon as he stopped talking. “Not with the Elite Guard. He’s…critical…to finding Rodimus. I’ve…been contemplating how I would explain his absence.”

“He should have stayed on Earth,” Springer countered. “He’d be safer there --”

“It’s not safety he requires.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “And his children are in capable hands, as is Earth --”

“You haven’t been around the humes long enough to know what they’re capable of.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Elita. That was uncalled for.”

“You’re right, I haven’t. Not as long as you and certainly not as long as Perceptor and Jazz. I acknowledge that. I also have faith in Drs Witwicky and Fujiyama as well as Bumblebee and Arcee to make wise decisions while Perceptor is away. Autobot City is in capable hands.”

“You keep repeating that, and I believe you, but --”

She smiled, a rare warmth reaching her optics. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Am I going to find myself at odds with Jazz?” he questioned. “I don’t want to be -- I respect him too much -- but if I have to make a call that goes against his --”

“Both Jazz and myself will expect you to do what you feel is right. I dare say we would expect nothing less, and in fact hope that you do. And now, for disclosure on my end: I will likely be put under house arrest upon returning to Iacon.”

Springer’s brow shot up. “What?”

“Complicated politics,” she delivered this admission with icy stoicism.

“Then come to Klo! We could use you --”

“No, Springer. It will be all right. I can use that to my advantage. I’m informing you now because the High Council, once the Conclave disbands, will likely dissolve the Rule of Primes. Once they realize I do not possess what they want, it will be a race against time. The Elite Guard, the Wreckers, any Autobot who followed Optimus during the Great War will be a target for arrest.”

“Primus Below, Elita, what do we do?”

“We persist,” she squared her shoulders. “And you will find Rodimus. Bring him home.”

“If they dissolve the Rule of Primes --”

“Rodimus transcends the Rule of Primes.” 

“You’re damn right he does. That much we’re on the same page.” 

Keep an optic on him, that intrusive presence warned. There’s others who would want to tangle him within their webs.

*

The Ark

Mount Saint Hilary, Oregon, Earth

“So!” As they walked down the corridor, Jackie spun on their heel, taking everything in. “As I was saying, while it’s easy to accept an EMP burst causing this damage, it doesn’t match the wavelength for electromagnetism. Too tight. Does anyone need a refresher on 3+1 spacetime? Electromagnetism sticks to that. The readings I’ve been sifting through are reaching more using Minowski coordinates -- sorry, just realized I’ve got some Earth-based machine language learning protocols in place -- so, 4+2 spacetime -- x, y, z , and w for spatial coordinates, and two temporal, which includes the one we are aware of, and another that corrects --”

“Sorry -- erm, Jackie? -- but you’re just --” Groove passed his hand over his head and exhaled with an exaggerated “whoosh!”. “Talking over our heads.”

“Polite way of saying ‘bored now’,” Sideswipe added. 

“Speak for yourself,” Rewind countered.

“Naw, I’m with these guys,” Eject retorted. “Pretty much, we’re at ‘not EMP, something more complicated.’ That’s a good start.”

“Oh. Okay. Well.” Jackie cupped their chin and looked up at the ceiling. “So, the secondary temporal dimension that’s tighter wound than the one we’re going forward. It’s pretty much there to keep paradoxes from becoming catastrophic. I’m trying to come up with an analogy -- oh! You know the difference between climate and weather, yeah?” 

“Hey, something I know about!” Blades snapped his fingers. “Weather is what’s happening in the more immediate area, and can change on a shannix; climate is used for more long-term planning, to speculate how weather is going to behave.”

“It’s kinda like that, yeah. Let’s use the variable t as the variable for time; t ₁ is normal time, and t₂ for our secondary temporal dimension --”

“Nerd!” Sideswipe threw his head back, sighing melodramatically. “Can you get to the point?”

“Look,” Jackie spun around and jabbed a finger into Sideswipe’s chest, “My primary function is an instructional stand-in for when Wheeljack was busy with either the Initiative or Metroplex or whatever ten bazillion projects he had going on that required his full attention. Because my language models are based on his patterns and habits, like him, I talk out loud to figure scrap out. Now either you deal with the fact I’m trying to solve what happened here because you sure as hell ain’t helping, or you and your moody brother can frag back off to Autobot City and let me work in peace. Savvy?” Without waiting for a response, the possessed exosuit resumed his march and commentary. “Now, factoring in special relativity --”

“Yep, forgot about that,” Sideswipe muttered.

“Excuse me, Jackie, a thought:” Rewind jogged up to the lanky mech and matched their gait, “only because you brought up ‘tightly wound’, would it be feasible to consider fractals into your musings?”

“Always! After all, most extra-dimensional geometry pretty much relies on fractal topology! Any particular reason why you bring that up?”

 “Streetwise’s datapad is glitching,” Blades interrupted.

Streetwise shot his teammate a warning look.

“Enough.” Hot Spot sighed, placing a hand on Streetwise’s shoulder to halt a retort. “We’ve all had a long day. Rewind, care to explain what you found?”

As the black and grey deployer filled the AI mech the information regarding the deviations within the mugshots, Jackie listened, nodding occasionally and making little affirmation noises. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” they muttered, “if the fractal artifacts in the photography were due to the sensors overcompensating for extra detail…I would definitely love to see those close-up!”

“Skyfire suggested it was similar to astrocartography mapping,” Rewind continued. “That the camera was attempting to fill in what couldn’t be captured.”

“That is absolutely what I was thinking! Oh, I cannot wait to -- um. Hmm.” Jackie halted, rubbing their chin again. “Nope, definitely gravitational. Yeah, we…probably should--” they flipped their thumb back towards the Ark entrance, all while keeping their optics forward, “--you know, fall back.”

Sideswipe had already begun backing up. “What’s going to explode?” he demanded, hand on the butt of his pistol out of habit.

“‘Explode’ is not the word I’d use,” Jackie corrected. “My interferometer just jumped. With gravitational radiation, there’s usually only two ways it goes: out, and in. And judging by how that --” they gestured to the mass of cables and struts bowing inward around the core, “--is concave as opposed to convex, we’re likely dealing with the latter. So yeah, backing up may be smart.” The LED optics formed a caricature of worry. “And possibly getting the Ark -- or at least Engineering -- into high planetary orbit might need to be moved up on the docket.”

Rewind went rigid, tightening his posture and raising his shoulders. “It’s become a black hole.”

“Do,” Hot Spot weighed his words carefully, “we need to evacuate?” 

“Probably only the immediate area,” Jackie took a couple of steps back. “If this was an actual black hole, it would have been too late long before now. Maybe a kugelblitz? Though those would exist only for a fraction of an astrosecond. Anyway, right now, I’m classifying this as a gravitational anomaly of concern.” The AI mech turned around and headed back to the bridge, looking down at their hands and tapping digits as though counting. “Judging that Teletraan-1 has some corrupted partitions, I would probably have to pull some sectors to get the data from the last twelve hours to figure out how screwed we are…”

Groove looked up at Hot Spot. “So,” he exhaled forcibly, “what’s the order, boss?”

“Return to the city,” the Protectobot leader’s shoulders slumped. “I’m going to report this directly to Bumblebee. Sideswipe? Thanks for the assist, though I’m going to enforce the quarantine on the Ark.”

“Oh, yay, I get to convince Sunny to be social!” Sideswipe cheered, sarcasm dripping. Resuming his normal deadpan self, he added with a salute, “See you there.”

“And what are we going to do about Jackie?” Streetwise questioned.

“Can they be our new mascot?” Blades questioned.

“I think the best bet would be to bring them to Dr Witwicky’s attention,” Hot Spot led the way out of Engineering. 

“After all, I am inhabiting her exosuit,” Jackie reminded. “It was either that or Autobot X, and, yeah, I didn’t think that would be a good idea, especially around Spike. And before you ask, yes, Wheeljack did help her construct it. Me. Hm. I’m having a bit of an existential … well, not a crisis, but…realization? This is quite fascinating. Oh.” Jackie’s head kipped up. “Yeah, we…might want to quicken our pace. I think -- nope, scratch that, I’m definitely -- picking up another spike in gravitational wavelength anomalies.” 

*

“Hey, bro?” Sideswipe knocked at the door jamb. “Look, we need to vacate. Long story short: weird Wheeljack scrap in Engineering that might explode. Hot Spot’s calling a quarantine.”

Sunstreaker, remaining facedown in the berth, groaned, but did not move to get up.

“I get it, I really do.” The red mech held up his hands. “Bad vibes and whatnot. It ain’t really the humes keeping you from Autobot City; it’s the battle.”

Sunstreaker reached over to turn his music up. 

“C’mon. I know it’s better memories over here, but we can’t stick around, not until the brains can figure out what’s going on with Engineering.”

“Sideswipe --” Hot Spot called out from the bridge.

“I’m working on it!” Sideswipe snapped, then, adding under his breath, “Primus Below, I’m sure it ain’t as big of a deal as they’re making it out to be.”

Sunstreaker muttered something into the headrest.

“What was that, bro?”

“I said, ‘this was the last place when we were all together’.” The yellow twin finally sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the berth and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “When we were all…content. I hate Earth but…I think it hate it less than Cybertron now.”

“Funny how that is,” Sideswipe nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, I get it. Seems like it grew on us…feels more like home than home does.”

“It’s the ghost of home,” Sunstreaker corrected, standing. “Fine, let’s go. You’re depressing me.”

“I knew you’d see reason eventually.” Sideswipe snapped his fingers. “Oh, just a head’s up: yes, the exosuit is sentient, and yes, the AI was designed by Wheeljack, which means --”

“It’s sapient, then, not just sentient. ‘Sentient’ just means it’s aware of its surroundings; ‘sapient’ refers to intelligence -- Primus Below, it’s got Wheeljack’s personality, doesn’t it?”

“Right down to having debates with themself.”

“You two really have no concept of emergency, do you?” Groove asked as the twins joined the rest of the group. 

“Pfft! We survived the Dinobots, and Jackie here--” Sideswipe indicated to his brother the mech in question, who waved, “-- that’s Jackie -- Jackie said that if it was a black hole, we’d be dead by now.”

“I didn’t say those words exactly,” Jackie countered.

“I guess we’re done here,” Hot Spot sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Streetwise, Blades, get the cordon up. Would be easier if we had a door --”

Jackie abruptly bristled. “Move it!” they shouted, bolting towards the entrance, a half-click before a concussive blast struck them off their feet. 

*

Sideswipe

Sideswipe…couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Bumblebee was calling his name, but it was far away, somehow disjointed, and...it didn’t sound like Bumblebee. Too low, less of his usual deceptively youthful pitch and more authoritarian.

Yet Sideswipe registered the voice as belonging to Bumblebee. 

Coming back to consciousness, he found himself restrained against a slab. Above him was a grimy concrete ceiling, the damp scent of underground striking his olfactory sensors. 

“Where…where am I?” Is that my voice…? His accent was different enough to reverberate oddly within his audio receptors. Can’t think about that now! Focus! “Bumblebee, come in!” Struggling against his restraints, Sideswipe grunted in frustration, then, in anger, and snapped, “Strongarm, is this your idea of payback?!”

Wait…who’s Strongarm?

“Oh, this is not payback, I assure you,” something large slithered just within his periphery, something that he instinctively knew was not the Strongarm he had earlier cursed out.

Sideswipe shook his head within the restraints, optics wildly darting for the other entity in the chamber as panic radiated from his spark. “Not good…not good! Help!” 

“No one will hear you. These walls…they’re very thick.” The crackling of a device powering up electrified the air around Sideswipe.

“Who…who are you?!” the Autobot demanded, the frustration and anger bleeding into fear as the other creature, serpentine in build, towered over him, yellow optics and biolighting piercing the darkness.

“No one,” it grinned maliciously before darting forward, holding a device to Sideswipe’s head, “compared to you.” Pressing a button, the device activated, shooting a blinding red laser next to the Autobot’s right temple and crossed his face, emanating a heat just short of burning across his cheek plates. “I watched you and your friends enter the tunnels. They’d all make excellent specimens, but you…” the laser swung back around Sideswipe’s temple, then over, and crossed the vertice of his head, “you’re agile, quick, stealthy…everything an Autobot should strive to be.”

“Uh…” Where was this guy going with this? Sideswipe weighed something witty and instead settled on “Thanks…?”, followed by a Hail Solus: “Hey, how about you untie me, and I shake your haaaaand…” Primus, this is sounding stupid but too late to stop! “...things?”

The serpentine mech -- yep, Decepticon by the brand on its strange-fitted chestplate -- laughed maniacally. Sideswipe found himself also laughing, except nervously. “It’s…not that funny…”

Still cackling, the ‘Con returned to Sideswipe, now with a pair of forceps in the right claw and a syringe in the left, drawing uncomfortably closer to the struggling Autobot.

The agony was the most excruciating Sideswipe had ever experienced.

*

Sunstreaker

The agony was the most excruciating Sunstreaker had ever experienced. Even within the Kaon gladiatorial pits before the war, it was superficial, quick flashes of pain that fueled the battle frenzy and bloodlust, followed by the annoyance to schedule a detailing session with his favorite body shop.

This…this was much deeper, severing nerves, pistons, tendons, spinal column. This wasn’t losing a limb; this was complete deconstruction down to the base parts from the ground up, a slow, methodical process where he keened for release.

The humans did this. The humans!  

The pain made it difficult to think, and where he acted almost exclusively on instinct, that made things even more challenging. Instinct forced him to scream. Instinct was insisting he retreat into the recesses of his brain. They were keeping him alive, splintering his awareness across a myriad of fractures, a broken mirror. 

The pain brought waves upon waves of nausea, and he wanted to retch, but physically he was unable to. He no longer possessed an esophageal tract. They destroyed the majority of his vocal box when his streaming grew too intense; it was affecting morale, he picked up from one of the splinters, and the realization brought awareness to other whispers, other shadows, darting across the fractured mirror of his mind. 

One of those shadows approached; just as much pain but…quieter, giving off a sensation of ally and not asset like the other whispers. 

As much as Sunstreaker hated sympathy, this ally whisper brought respite, not from the pain, but…camaraderie in the pain, and maybe, just maybe, an instinctual solution to ebb it.

His one working optic flickered online, and focused the best he could on the armored hume standing before him. 

The shaggy red hair was a dead giveaway.

“Ht…Hunterrr…?” he asked, his inquiry little more than a sharp intake. 

Wait…who’s Hunter?  

A shard connected to another; relief, concern, fear coursed between the two. Sunstreaker saw a way out and snatched it.

“Pl…please…” Both knew he would never say please unless he truly meant it. “...Kill…me….”

“No.” 

The retort was a shotgun shell through Sunstreaker’s mind, and somewhere, his spark. Hope for release fizzled, replaced by Hunter’s hope to live. This isn’t what I want!

The hume -- no, he was no longer human; Hunter had been augmented by the same monsters who disassembled and hacked Sunstreaker -- took a stance, pointing a finger at the Autobot’s ruined visage. “I won’t accept that. There must be another option. Some way to fight back.”

*

“Jackie, what the hell just happened?” Eject shouted, shaking the glitches from his vision.

“Gravitational pulse! Good news: it blew us clear!” The AI chuckled, rubbing the back of their neck. “That’s good, because if it was the other way, we would have likely been spaghettified. Anyway! Let’s--um.” 

Other than Jackie and Eject, the other Autobots had ragdolled around them. Eject bolted to his brother as Jackie cupped their chin in contemplation. “What the hell just happened?” Eject repeated, checking Rewind’s vitals.

“I’m working on it! Why are you and I unaffected? If it had affected sparks, you’d be out too. Combiners? Rewind and the twins break that hypothesis. Spark mutations? No, Rewind wouldn’t have been affected.” They pressed their palms over their optics. “C’mon, Jackie, think!”

Rewind sat up suddenly. “Success!” he announced. “Every deck, every room, every corridor…all recorded for…” His optics flickered; he shook his head and met his brother’s gaze, confused. “...prosperity? I was just talking to Hound and Hoist…how…?” He regarded his surroundings. “The Ark…?”

“Protectobots, sound off!” Hot Spot shouted, his first responder training lurching him into a crouched and ready position; his pick-head fire ax gripped in his right hand. Like Rewind, confusion filled his gaze. “Wait, weren’t we…?”

“Where’s First Aid?” Groove demanded. “Scrap, you don’t think that guy got him?”

“He’s back at Autobot City,” Eject reminded. “He’s been there all day. Jackie?”

“I know, I’m thinking! Taking into consideration gravitational wave readings for the past six hours local, I may be able to decipher a pattern, a sort of gravatar based kugelblitz, perhaps? Hmmm…”

“Okay, they’re useless right now,” Eject returned his attention to Rewind. “Do you --”

The twins screamed in unison, flailing. The four Protectobots leapt to action, Hot Spot throwing his axe into the ground with a hefty thunk to assist in rescue protocols.

“That’s not good,” Jackie’s face frowned comically. “Sorry, friends, I don’t know what happened or what to do.”

“We get them back to Autobot City, that’s what,” Eject snapped. “Hot Spot, you good to travel?”

“As soon as we get the twins stabilized!” Hot Spot replied. “You and Rewind go head with Jackie -- we’ll be right behind you.”

“First Aid, this is Groove,” the smallest Protectobot hailed. “We’re bringing in the twins; we were caught in some sort of concussive blast and they may have taken the brunt of it.”

“Any disorientation? A sort of temporary fugue state?”

Groove looked at each of his teammates, then Rewind. “Funny you should mention that…”

“Same thing happened to Pipes’ team earlier. I want everyone in here ASAP.”

“CMO override,” Groove reported, “we’re all to report to Medibay.”

“Same thing happened to Pipes and company?” Streetwise questioned.

Groove nodded. “Exactly.”

“Looks like that quarantine is going to stay up for a while,” Hot Spot muttered, then louder, “Blades! We’re moving out!”

Blades, uncharacteristically quiet, regarded the lob ball in his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m just…no, I’m good. Just…nah. I’m good.” 

He then set the ball on the nearest shelf and, after assuring it wouldn’t roll off, followed on foot. 

*

Command Hub
Trypticon
Somewhere in British Columbia

Starscream suspected Soundwave. Of course, Starscream had always suspected the spymaster, regardless of scheme. Soundwave possessed few if any tells of his ulterior motives. Megatron had more or less been forthright within his inner circle, unless, of course, he relied on a certain second-in-command to overstep boundaries (Starscream relented, begrudgingly); Shockwave had a lit to his self-perceived superiority whenever he spoke; even Starscream recognized his own opportunistic pounce. The last time Starscream had ever noticed Soundwave express anything other stoicism was --

-- ah.

“Tell me, old friend ,” he tilted his head to catch the glint of the spymaster’s visor, “why did you side with us to dispose of Megatron?”

Soundwave made a noise that could have been a scoff. Stoic, yes, but Primus Below, that mech could throw shade. “Initial Assessment: Correct. Repairing Megatron was infeasible given resources at hand.” 

“Did…you know about Unicron?” 

“Negative. Unicron was an unforeseen variable. That iteration of Megatron failed to confront his own mortality.”

“That iteration--” Starscream bolted forward, swinging around to face Soundwave. “What did you and Shockwave do?!”

Soundwave only met Starscream’s wide-opticked glare with an impassive one of his own.

“Soundwave, answer me!”

“Shall I tell him?” Hook questioned, joining the two. “As an aside, our titan engineers report that we have enough power for an orbital jump before connecting with the Chaar base, by your mark.”

“Hook, you better tell me now --”

Soundwave gave the Constructicon a nod before continuing his trek to the inner command hub.

“Do you remember when we came across the korlonium crystals?” Hook questioned, then followed Soundwave. “I’m certain you can figure it out from that.”

“Korlonium --” Panic gripped his spark and Starscream raced after the two, pushing past Hook. “You cloned Megatron?!” he jabbed his finger against the spymaster’s chest. “Are you mad ?!”

“It was his contingency plan,” Hook continued, nonplussed by Starscream’s outburst. “Unlike the Optimus clone, this one has its free will once revived. Megatron understood there would be the risk of falling to the Autobots during our big push, and moreso, he knew you would do your damnedest to finish him off. Granted, Unicron threw a spanner in the works, but…well, as the humans say, ‘c’est la vie’ .” He shrugged.

“So which one’s Galvatron?” Starscream flailed his hands as though to summon more information. “Is he the clone?”

Hook shrugged again. “I honestly cannot tell you; only Shockwave knew.”

“Brain and spark scan: identical,” Soundwave added. “Conclusion: whichever is the clone is irrelevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant!” Starscream countered.

“Why is it relevant?” Hook demanded, cocking his head knowingly.

Every argument Starscream was scrambling to mentally prepare was rooted in the ethics behind the process, which given their positions would have not worked in his favor. He opened his mouth to bring up the age of the materials used, then thought better of it.

Hook recognized the struggle and chuckled. “You’re focused on identity and change; if we replace all your parts, are you still Starscream?” This he arched a brow, patiently awaiting the answer to his rhetoric as Soundwave once again broke away from the two.

“My spark --”

“-- oh, yes, we’re now painfully aware of your aberration. But regardless, in your own self-centered way, you’re catching on: is it the physical form that dictates the self? Is it the spirit? Or is it the mere idea?”

Did you know about this, Unicron?! Starscream channeled his dread and anger into the thought. 

The dead god did not respond.

At least not directly.

« Megatron, » Soundwave’s voice reverberated just inside Starscream’s audio processor, « counted on you to make it convincing. You played your part to his satisfaction. » 

*

The riflemecha knew of Ravage’s presence, but, if Starscream did, he did not reveal it. Instead, the Air Commander -- it was unclear if he still retained the title, though his gait and posture spoke volumes otherwise -- stormed into the hub and, unfurling his sword, pressed the tip against Magazine’s throat.

“Seems like,” Lockstock rolled from his knees to a sitting position, one arm draped over a knee, studying Starscream’s profile, “Soundwave’s sowing some dissension amongst the ranks.”

“Are you implying he falsified his accusation?” Starscream retorted.

“I don’t think he’s capable of lying,” Lockstock shrugged. “Omitting the truth, bending it to his liking, possibly, but --”

“Soundwave will answer in due time,” Starscream interrupted. “I want to hear what you --” he lifted his sword, raising Magazine’s chin to meet his gaze, “-- have you say.”

“We’ve been forthright to you,” Magazine’s tone was even, cool, “we have no reason not to be. We just hated our Starscream with what’s left of our sparks, and we’re just projecting it on you. Nothing personal.”

“Everything personal,” Lockstock corrected. “‘Cuz --”

“I want to know about this titan,” Starscream held up a finger to halt Lockstock from continuing the thought. “Not Trypticon. The one fueling your sparks.” 

“Huh.” Magazine barely vented the word. “Not anymore. We’re ghosting. Probably won’t make it after liftoff. What’s left went with Skaði. What do you want to know?”

Starscream lowered the sword, but did not sheathe it just yet. “Is your titan rooting himself within the Ark?”

“Huh.” Once again, Magazine considered the hypothesis. “That…could be an accurate description. Not quite certain what could happen, whether or not the Logos Protocol would override Teletraan. Maybe enough for Skaði to override the Protocol? He’d definitely be interested in what would happen --”

“Yeah, pissy sky commander iteration demanding direct answers,” Lockstock stood up and dusted off his backside. “Look, despite how much we loathe you, Screamer, we’re on your side. It’s in our -- read: our titan’s -- best interest.”

“What is the Logos Protocol?” Starscream demanded.

Lockstock grinned at his brother. “You did that on purpose.”

Magazine shrugged. “It would take too long to break it down, especially this early from the zero point. Also, more Skaði’s jurisdiction.”

“Hmm.” At last, Starscream sheathed his sword. “Logos. Logic, reason. Order. You stand opposite of Mayhem, the Chimeracons, and…Unicron. Against Chaos. Oh.” A sly grin crept across the Seeker’s face and he chuckled. “I do believe I’m understanding now.”

“About fragging time,” Lockstock muttered, just before a thunderous crack heralded a spray of gore across the control panel. 

“Now,” Starscream turned to Magazine as what remained of Lockstock slumped to the side. “Will that buy you more time?”

The remaining riflemech regarded the matte black handgun in Starscream’s left hand, brow raised but otherwise expression neutral. “Only way to find out,” he admitted. “What would you demand of me, Sky Commander?”

“That’s not out of fear, is it?”

“Should it be?” The lanky Decepticon stood, head barely coming to the flyer’s elbow and pointed his chin to the firearm. “That’s Hell. Do you also have Heaven?”

“How…?” Starscream threw his head back and laughed, holstering the gun within a hip compartment. “Oh, you are quite the enigma!” 

“On the contrary, I’m an open book,” Magazine retorted, holding his arms out in invitation. “I’ll tell you everything, past, present, future, and all the possibilities in between. You’re eternal, after all; no matter how many times the cycle restarts, your machinations reach far and wide.”

“Your flattery may be ill-placed,” Starscream made a “follow me” gesture with a tilt of his head, “but I think maybe we should depart the company of our smaller minded brethren.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“You know so much about the past, present, future, and all possibilities in between. You tell me.” The Seeker enunciated the last three syllables.

“Of course you would know the Ark will be under scrutiny.”

“I wouldn’t imagine it otherwise.”

“And your revenge against Megatron?”

“Seems trivial in the grander scheme of things.”

Magazine harrumphed. “Come on, now, Sky Commander. You and I both know that isn’t true.”

“I could command a titan,” Starscream scanned the hub methodically, almost melodramatically, “or,” his scheming smile returned as he met the smaller mech’s optics, “I could become one.”

“And what could Megatron do to stand against that?” Magazine questioned.

*

« So what do you think, my little accomplice? We could inform Soundwave of this little scheme of our favorite Air Commander -- I am being facetious, of course -- or we could see how this plays out? No, don’t respond, you’ve yet to understand the finer nuances of cityspeaking; nothing a little on the job training will remedy soon enough. »

Waspinator was too terrified, too overwhelmed to react to the inner Trypticon, only stared forward, past the two Chimeracons standing over him.

“You think they broke him?” Catilla demanded.

“Entirely possible,” Carnivac rubbed his chin. “Though Tarantulas was pretty convinced he’d be able to handle this one thing.”

“Tarantulas is quite mad, you know.”

“But we can’t deny his genius.” The lupine mech reached over and slapped Waspinator’s cheek as though trying to wake him from sleep. “Hey, you still with us, buggy?”

“Wazzzpinator izzz figuring thingzzzz out,” the displaced Predacon whined. “Wazzzpinator having hard time conzzzzentrating.”

“Yeah, we gotta get a handle on this quick,” Carnivac growled. “Listen sharp, buggy, we have a change of plans. First: can you ask Trypticon to generate some anti-psychic field? So that we can…” he moved his hands back and forth between himself and Waspinator and lowered his voice, “...converse privately?”

« Easy enough, after all I’ve been able to mask my true nature for this long, but please, my friend, don’t let them know I’ve already been doing this; make a production of trying to explain it to me, like I was a protoform. We are, after all, have to keep our cards close to our chest still, before we can raise our bet and call their bluff. »

“Wazzzpinator will try.” The green and gold mech mentally recited the words to an old pub song, and, upon finishing the second stanza, he reported, “I think it worked…?”

“Okay, so we’re heading to Chaar instead of Polyhex. No worries, this is just a detour.”

“Galvatron may also be a clone of Megatron and not Megatron himself, or vice versa,” Catilla added.

“That in itself is going to be glorious,” Carnivac chuckled. “Neither of them is going to bow to the other. And if Shockwave’s truly calling a moot, it’s just gonna dissolve into a battle royale with Shockwave on top…at least until the next warlord gets brazen.”

“What about Starscream?”

“What about him? Those titan hunters obviously know how to talk him up enough to make him fall flat on his face at the worst possible moment. Or best. Depends on what side of the gallows you’re on, I suppose. Ultimately, what happens after that is up to you and the big guy.” This, he directed to Waspinator.

« I do believe these Chimeracons may have a titan of their own in play, my diminutive friend. Ask them how they plan on leaving Chaar if we are left to our own devices. »

Waspinator considered his words carefully. “Where would doggybot and kittybot go after Chaar?”

“Oh, isn’t he adorable?” Carnivac cooed to his unimpressed companion before shrugging. “Figure we can just steal a ship or maybe use a nudge gun on some unsuspecting Sweep to get back to Cybertronian space, meet up with Tarantulas and the rest of our crew, and get the hell out of the system.”

« They are definitely hiding something. Honestly, I do believe the only Decepticons not harboring some deep dark secret are the Predacons. So many spiders spinning webs, it seems! Well, then, shall we check in on our interim leader? »

“Zzzzay what?” Waspinator asked aloud before tensing as his awareness was snatched from his physical body; he found himself looking down at Soundwave, who had taken the command chair where Megatron would have rightfully claimed. The human-built robot Nightbird stood on his right, a silent sentinel.

Ravage entered the bridge, footfalls silent, and stopped before his master, sitting on his haunches. Outwardly nothing was spoken; after a minute, Soundwave nodded, and the feline deployer transformed back to alt mode, returning to the symbiote cavity within Soundwave’s chest.

“Air Commander,” the spymaster hailed, “report to the bridge for mission commencement. Liftoff: twenty-five cycles.” 

« The riflemecha, » Trypticon suggested, and once again Waspinator’s consciousness ragdolled with the titan’s attention, into the engineering hub where one of the mecha in question laid prone, the top of his head a mess of energon and brain matter, with Starscream now scowling; the other lank Decepticon stood, arms crossed and head cocked, waiting for the Seeker’s next move.

“What does he want?” Starscream grumbled, snapping his fingers as though Magazine was at his beck. 

Instead, the smaller mech set his shoulders. “Twenty-five cycles. Do we have the time for this?”

“The Ark will remain on earth, no matter what we do,” Starscream retorted. “Titan or not, regardless of what your patron has done to it, it’s been gutted, if not by us, then by the Autobots themselves to rebuild Metroplex. No, we will come back for that later. First, we need to amass our army.”

For the first time since Waspinator joined the ragtag team of Cons on Reicere, he witnessed Magazine’s expression die , as though something else had taken possession of his shell. 

“Tell me, Magazine of The Edge of the Knife,” Starscream questioned, his tone dripping vitriol. “What is your titan’s name so that I may address it properly?”

“You shall now address Furorarx, the Vanguard of Logos Prime,” Magazine who was no longer Magazine replied, a strange reverberation underlying his words, “and of my eight severed shards, only one remains. I could have led you to that final piece; you would bring it to the Ark, and with the outcome hold the chaos of Hell and the order of Heaven in your hands. But seeing that you’ve made your choice to instead enact your petty vendetta…”

And, with that, what was left of Magazine’s spark spasmed, blooming outward and ejecting shrapnel in all directions within a blinding light.

*

Waspinator screamed, throwing his arms up to shield his optics.

“Someone had a walkabout,” Carnivac commented flippantly. “So what did you learn, buggy?” 

“Nnnnn….” Waspinator shook his head, clearing the psychic debris from his thoughts. “Ghostbot…fragged up.” He cocked his head as though listening to whispers. “Ghostbot…is unresponsive.”

« And you’re quite welcome, my little friend. For now, you are more free than you’ve been in all of your life. Now, what shall we now accomplish together? »  

* 

Yakiniku Kunpū
Pearl District, Portland

“Here.” Astoria plopped two messenger bags, black leather with Hybrid Technologies’ logo in gold foil stamped on each side, before Marissa and Carly. “Set up shop while I make some calls. If you’re missing anything, tell me. Whatever we need, we’ll get. We have the entire floor for as long as we like. Order whatever you want if I’m not back by the time Hana- san comes by. Shouldn’t be long.” 

“She doesn’t sit still, does she?” Marissa asked, tentatively opening the bag in front of her.

“You don’t want to get in her way when she’s on a mission, that’s for certain,” Carly exhumed a laptop from her bag and harrumphed. “Oh yeah. She’s gearing for a fight.”

“What on earth…?” Marissa pulled out devices and wires out of hers. “What is all this…?”

“Satellite uplink modem,” Carly explained, pointing to each device, “signal scrambler, white noise generator, aromatherapy humidifier -- put those back, we don’t need it -- OCR tablets and styluses-- here, take one -- power bank -- go ahead and plug it, in, the outlet’s on your side -- and -- burner phones?”

“Is this necessary…?” Marissa took the proffered devices and set them aside.

“To Astoria? Yes.” Carly nodded, hooking up the hardware. “About five years ago, Mr Dante tried to stage a hostile takeover of Hy-Tech. Attempted to buy out the other shareholders for 51%, that sort of thing. I don’t know the details -- I’ve no headspace for business -- but there was something about how Hy-Tech’s patents were set up that would have left Epsilon Holdings with all of the company goodwill and none of the patents. He’d pretty much be starting from scratch. Be that a lesson: if Astoria doesn’t take you out immediately, she will outlast you.”

“Then I’m glad she’s on our side with this,” Marissa sighed.

“The jury may still be out on you,” Carly warned. “After all, EDC has ties with Epsilon; they’ve responsible for the Damocles Defence Systems and the Ares Terrestrial Probes.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Marissa removed the last item from her bag, a vintage Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with packing tape clear packing tape reinforcing the folds. “What in the world --”

“That’s Astoria’s. She works analog. You want her to work analog.” Carly took the binder and placed it at the spot across from them, along with a matching pen case.

“Argh, I hate dealing with stupid suits!” Astoria returned, falling into her chair with her head as far back as it could go, before pulling herself upright. “Hector informed the board of what we’re doing -- all within his right, I didn’t say he couldn’t . Anyway, Francis -- I kinda inherited him from my dad when he died -- my dad, not Francis, though he’s so old he may be for all I know -- so Francis tried to convince me that I shouldn’t take this head-on.” She turned to the approaching waitress and nodded. “ Sake no namazake o ichibin onegai shimasu ,” she ordered without missing a step, then turned back to her cohorts. “Do you want anything else other than sake?”

“Oh, I’m not much of a sake person, thank you,” Marissa admitted. “Water is fine --”

“She’s more of a whiskey gal,” Carly said.

“I’m quite --”

“ Yamazaki 18-nen no whiskey o hitotsu onegai shimasu, ” Astoria added. The waitress bowed and retreated, and Astoria returned her attention to her guests. “I’m just going to order the deluxe mixed grill and we can pick from it. Jetlag is the worst, I am so hungry! Go ahead and order anything else if you want it. Ah, thanks, you’re way ahead of me.” Opening her binder to a tabbed page, she pulled out a four-color pen from the case and clicked down the black cartridge. “So, what’s the plan to nail that nasty ol’ Abe’s ass to the floor?”

“Bad blood between the two of you?” Marissa asked in a tone that tested the waters.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she laughed, a biting, mocking sound. “The moment he finds out I got involved, he’s gonna be thinking twice about challenging Hy-Tech patents ‘cuz you know he’s gonna go for those first. Oop!” She removed a smartphone from her purse, checked the number, then handed it to Carly. “It’s Dr. Fujiyama. Tell him where we are and invite him over.”

Carly fumbled, caught the phone, and did as told as the waitress brought a tray ladened with a basket of hot towels, a stoneware sake serving set, and a small decanter with a lowball glass to the table. As the waitress set out the glass settings, Carly turned away in her seat to take the call. “ Moshimoshi , Fujiyama- san , it’s Carly. Astoria wants to know if you want to join us for dinner…? No, understood. How are the boys settling in? Oh, good, Bee and Blaster are perfect to help out there. We’ll probably be back…?” She glanced back at Astoria, who was lecturing Marissa on the etiquette of using the hot towels. “Astoria, how long are we going to be here?”

“As long as it takes to get our battle plans in place.” Astoria ticked off her fingers. “Invalidity, non-infringement, estoppel…” She then drew two lines down the length of her pad to create three columns. You--” she waved her pen at Marissa, “--boot up the thingy --” she gestured to the laptop -- “and open the Shibuya Manufacturing folder in the…” she snapped her fingers repeatedly as though attempting to summon the right word. “...the file whatsit. We’re looking for the patent files.”

“I think I need to rescue Captain Faireborn,” Carly admitted. “I’m so sorry for leaving you without backup, Dr. Fujiyama..okay, yes, that would be Skids…yes, I’ll let Astoria know. Dewa mata ne .” Thumbing the hook button, she handed the phone back to Astoria before booting up the laptop. “Scrap. Did I use the right phrase to say goodbye?”

“It’s fine,” Astoria waved away the concern. “Oh! Hana-san, derakukusu miksugurikku to yasai o kudasai. So, what did our famous scientist need?”

“He wanted to remind you about Symultech’s and Shibuya Manufacturing’s patent research.”

“Oh, yeah, I told him to give me a buzz to remind me. How’re the boys settling in?”

“All right, I need clarification,” Marissa held up her hands to stop everyone’s tracks. “What exactly are we doing here?”

“Officially?” Astoria’s tone took a snippy dive. “Building a case to keep Epsilon Holdings from forcing the Raiden Initiative to hand over the project results due to a purported breach of contract.”

Marissa’s mouth drew taut, not quite a frown. “I understand that, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s a personal investment in this--”

“You’re damn right --”

“Astoria,” Carly held up a finger. “Please, let me handle this part. Marissa, yes, there is a personal investment in the Raiden Initiative. Astoria and I…Spike, Chip, Raoul as well…when we made contact with the Autobots…dammit, I don’t even know how to broach this delicately.”

“They were there for us,” Astoria interrupted in a hard, defensive tone. “They were there for us when we needed them the most. Yes, collectively as the human race, but for us. Me, Carly, Spike, Raoul, Chip… us .”    

“While our personal reasons are important,” Carly placed a hand over Astoria’s in solidarity, “the fact is that Cybertron was dealing with resource scarcity before their war -- that’s common knowledge. But what isn’t talked about is their population decline. The Great War caused a civilization collapse, one that Cybertron is unable to recover on its own. That’s what the Initiative is about. It’s conservation of a species at a galactic level. It was never a military project; it has always been a humanitarian one. Ever since the Initiative showed signs of fruition, Epison Holdings has been fighting to make it about defense.”

“Oh. Oh!” Astoria snapped her fingers again. “Just thought of something.” She scribbled something followed by a series of question and exclamation marks across the top of her page, hard enough to gouge the paper. “Gonna reach out to some nonpartisan contacts in the government and global humanitarian sectors there. Now, what are you bringing to the table, Captain?”

“Obviously, diplomacy, seeing that both of you are ready to rattle sabers,” Marissa removed the stopper from the whisky decanter and poured two fingers’ worth into the lowball. “Going with the humanitarian angle would be your best bet. I know, you want to be prepared for the patent because Dante is the type of wanker who does everything in his power to objectify his investments, but focus on what we know: at this table, we have two of the leading experts on Cybertronian-human relations. Second, the…Terrans?...are not stateless, so there’s no need for asylum so long as they remain in either Autobot City or Japan.”

“Born in Shibuya, Tokyo,” Carly nodded. “The Diet even commemorated a christening at Meiji shrine a month after they came online.”

“I have pictures!” Astoria exclaimed, rummaging through her voluminous bag.

“Recognized Japanese citizens with passports and certificates. Perfect. Bringing official articles to the table is a bonus.” Marissa sipped her drink and tilted her head back, enjoying the flavor, then the burn. “You do have those documents then?”

“Scrapbook!” Astoria smiled broadly, pulling out the article in question. “They’re copies -- Dr Fujiyama should have the originals -- but I thought it would be fun to make a baby book one night when I was bored and might have had too much wine…”

“Powerglide helped you, didn’t he?” Carly took the proffered book and studied the blue-striped cover with crookedly applied puffy yellow and green bubble letters reading “RAIDEN INITAIVITE”.

Astoria, in a rare moment of intuition, caught the awkward silence. “It’s the spelling, isn’t it?”

“The alignment, but now that you pointed out the spelling--”

“No, the alignment was me; I told you I might have had too much wine that night.” Astoria finished her sake in one smooth gulp. “But yes, he was in charge of spell-checking.”

Marissa arched her brow. “Now why would Powerglide --”

“Oh!” Astoria placed her elbows on the table and cupped her cheeks with a dreamy smile; it was little stretch of the imagination to envision her swinging her legs under her chair. “He’s my soulmate…sparkmate. Whatever.”

“You say that now,” Carly rebutted, refilling her sake cup. “Their pet names to one another tend to lead one to think otherwise.”

“I’m his ‘loud-mouth harpy’ and he’s my ‘screwloose rust-bucket,” Astoria continued in the same tone.

“I don’t even want to know how that works.” Marissa’s cheeks took on a blush that she hoped was the whisky.

“Just smile and nod and don’t think too much about it,” Carly suggested, tossing back her own drink.

“Good evening, ladies! Just checking in,” Tyrese strode into the private room with purpose, his grin never wavering; to Carly, she recognized that expression, one that Jazz sported when things were about to go pear-shaped. He leaned close to Astoria’s ear and whispered something.

Astoria’s own smile grew taut, then metamorphosed into a sneer. “Who?” She snarled.

“Francis is on the case,” Tyrese reassured, “and Claudia’s got her detail active.”

“Tyrese, what’s wrong?” Carly stood, palms on the table surface.

He looked down at Astoria, who nodded, before clearing his throat. “No need for alarm, ladies, I assure you, we have it under control. Francis has found evidence of corporate espionage within the board, and is investigating as we speak. In the meantime, we’re stepping up security, just as a precaution. Please, enjoy your meal.”

Marissa narrowed her eyes and pushed her low-ball away. “Perhaps I should --”

Astoria held up a hand, slamming the opposite palm against the back of the laptop screen to close it, barely missing Carly’s fingers. Meeting Tyrese’s eyes, she hissed. “Hana should have been back by now.” 

“Ma’am,” he nodded, backing out of the semi private corner, attention scanning as he moved to the back of the restaurant.

“I didn’t think he would be this stupid to go this far,” Astoria grumbled, standing. 

“What,” Marissa stressed the syllable as she stood, “have we gotten into?”

“The cohort pushed Epsilon over the edge,” Carly whispered, eyes wide. “Astoria --”

“Dante’ll want to ‘talk’ first,” Astoria assured, scowling. “Bribe. Threaten. Gloat. Whatever. Then, he’ll get nasty.”

“Anything we say --” Marissa began.

“--Anything he says,” Astoria countered, “will be a lie.”

“We need to leave,” Carly ordered. “Can we go out the --”

Astoria put a finger to her lips as Marissa took to the doorway and peeked through a gap in the cherry-blossom printed noren out into the main room.

“Tyrese is talking to someone at the entrance,” she whispered. “I can’t hear what they’re saying. He’s with someone else -- not our waitress, maybe the owner?”

Astoria joined the EDC captain. “Ayane- san , yes.” A pause as she strained to hear the sharp tone of the restaurant owner. “She’s telling our party crasher that it’s a private party and will call the cops if he doesn’t leave.”

“Something tells me Abraham Dante is not the type to be easily swayed by such a threat,” Marissa hissed.

“So what’s the plan?” Carly demanded.

Astoria’s gaze darted between the bottle of sake, the yakiniku grill at the center of the table, the cloth napkins, then back to Carly.

“No!” Carly hissed.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Marissa groused, now standing to her full height. “Look, let’s do this civilly. He wouldn’t dare make --”

Carly sternly snatched the bottle away from Astoria.

“-- a public scene.” Marissa’s sentence wilted in disappointment.

“Fine! Fine.” Astoria held up her hands. “Carly and I can’t confront him yet, not without lawyering up. You go out there and shoo him away.” She flapped her hands for emphasis.

“Me?” Marissa hissed. “Why -- oh, I see. I’m the one not directly involved.”

“That and you outrank him,” Carly reminded. “He’s Air Force, Retired.”

“Different branches; EDC is under Navy pay grade,” Marissa ran a hand through her hair and exhaled. “Okay, I’ll do it. Do you have the card of your attorney, Astoria?”

“Yeah, hold on, somewhere in here.” Astoria dug through her bag before exhuming a card case.

“Here’s what we do, I’ll greet him, give him the card, and bid him goodbye. And then I come back to talk you out of Molotov-cocktailing your way out of this dilemma.” Taking the proffered card, Marissa turned back to the curtain. “Just…let’s keep a cool head.”

Leaving the private room, Marissa set her shoulders and jaw while summoning rank mode, crossing the main area and entering the foyer, where Ayane-san was already on the phone as Tyrese barred entry to a large, middle aged man built like a former linebacker.

“Ah, Miss -- oh, you’re not Miss Ritz, apologies, the hair’s very similar,” the man, holding his Stetson, apologized. “I do need to speak to Miss Ritz right away, if you could summon her, Miss--”

“Captain.” Marissa corrected, narrowing her eyes. “Captain Faireborn, United States Navy. And I do know who you are, Mr Dante.” She held out the card. “Please refer to Ms Carlton-Ritz’s attorney for any and all communique. I do believe Ayane- san has informed you that this is a private party and, as the proprietor of the establishment, she is well within her right to bar entry. Now, if you’ll excuse me --” she raised her voice over his interruption, “--you are interrupting our meal. Good night, Mr Dante.” Turning on her heel and giving Dante her back and stormed back to the private dining area. Sitting back down, Marissa stared at the lowball, rolled her eyes, and grabbed the glass, taking a hefty pull.

“Well,” she gasped at the burn, “that was certainly thirty of the most unpleasant seconds of my life.”

“Try being in two hour meetings with him,” Astoria snarled, gesturing to Carly to pour her another serving of sake. “And now we have to deal with the fact he’s now gonna dog us back to Autobot City --”

A loud crash shattered the semblance of civility, and the three women jumped to their feet. 

“Tell me someone in the kitchen dropped something,” Carly whispered as Astoria shoved their work into one bag and slung it over her shoulder in a cross-carry.

“That didn’t come from the kitchen,” Marissa hissed, just as a burnt onion and smokey pepper odor hit their noses. She snatched a napkin and tied it around her face. “Mask up -- don’t wet it! That’s tear gas!”

Chapter Text

South Cascade Glacier
Sol III
Late Messinian Era

This planet, this entire system was far too perfect, and Starscream cursed himself for believing that.

The storm raged to whiteout conditions, and he had already destroyed his larynx shouting his partner’s name over the roar of the winds. Pings did not return, hails went unanswered, it was as though Skyfire had been plucked from existence. Not offline, not dead; there would have been some feedback with what little time transpired when the squall kicked up and now. This…there was nothing. 

The last note in his datapad was regarding the hollow moon. It was Skyfire who speculated it was hollow; Starscream had absently mused about how the tidal patterns seemed to only react to the smaller of the two moons’ gravitational pull and was about to spend little thought on the matter.

That…should have been the first clue that they were not the first explorers to have found this system.

Finding shelter was now Starscream’s priority; he could wait out the storm, resume searching for Skyfire after it let up. There was no way he would be able to break the atmosphere without his partner, even under optimal conditions, let alone through the whiteout and violent gale. A score of meters ahead, he made out what appeared to be the gaping maw of a cave and, without hesitation, Starscream trudged through calf-deep snow to the entrance.

And cursed again as the interior lit up in eerie patterns, the smooth walls sloping upward to an apparatus with multiple lenses and crystals at the apex of the dome.

A cacophony of voices bombarded his audio receptors; he dropped to his knees, holding his head in pain. 

« YOU. » The chorus snarled. « WE KNOW OF YOU. YOU WILL NOT DEFILE THE EXPERIMENT. »

It took Starscream a handful of excruciating moments to regain his faculties. “We meant no harm!” he croaked. “We’re explorers! Scientists! We come in peace!”

« YOUR RACE KNOWS NOT OF PEACE. » The many voices growled. « WE KNOW OF YOU, CYBERTRONIAN. WE KNOW OF YOUR PEOPLE, YOUR CONFLICTS, YOUR WARS. WE WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO BRING THEM HERE. »

“We did not know! There was nothing to hint at a quarantine for this system! We would have abided by one had we known!”

The apparatus spun, aligning the lenses and crystals, before it flashed, forming a massive and warped caricature of Starscream’s own face bearing down on the flyer, and the voices took on a contratenor that echoed in dissonance. « YOU DID NOT COME HERE BY CHANCE. »

“The star! It’s stable, main sequence, and long-lasting -- that’s what caught our attention! We only learned of the inner rocky planets when we entered the heliosphere! Our initial targets were the two gas giants and their moons! I swear!” Starscream held out his hands, willing his nerves to titanium. “Please, let my companion and I leave. I will destroy our findings, we’ll say there’s nothing of use here, that we should avoid the system at all costs! Please! Just let us go!”

« IT IS TOO LATE. »

“No. Please! I don’t want to die! Please, I…I will do what you say! What you want! Just let me live!”

The twisted face went slack, then sneered. « YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR COMPANION. » While it was delivered as a statement, it was a question hidden in rhetoric.

“I…” Starscream glanced over his shoulder at where the cavern mouth had once been; the wall was as smooth as the rest of the dome, with no indication of an entrance. “Skyfire…is he…?”

« YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR COMPANION. »

“Is…” the young geophysicist frowned, “Is that your condition?”

« YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR COMPANION, » the apparition thrice repeated, « AND WE WILL WIPE YOUR MEMORY OF THIS INTERACTION. YOU WILL RETURN TO YOUR INSTITUTE AND YOU WILL TELL YOUR DIRECTOR THAT THIS SYSTEM IS UNSUITED FOR CYBERFORMING AND COLONIZATION. » As though on cue, Starscream’s datapad lit up, string upon string of data scrolling on the screen. « YOU WILL DO ALL IN YOUR POWER TO DISSUADE YOUR RACE TO RETURN HERE, WITH THOSE READINGS WE HAVE PROVIDED. »

“But…”

« ARE WE IN ACCORDANCE? »

Starscream set his jaw, shuttered his optics, and reached out via comms, one last time, to Skyfire. A [ NO SIGNAL ] greeted him. “I forget I met you,” he said, “I forget I was here, I return home with a report on system wide inhabitation, and all I have to do is leave my…my partner…behind?”

« ARE WE IN ACCORDANCE? »

Starscream was the emotional one of the two; he had always relied on Skyfire to soothe his hurt and calm his anger. Now, he summoned a stone exterior, optics set in determination. 

When he looked back on his decision, as fuzzy as the memory went, he would rationalize all the possible excuses to explain away his guilt.

By the time they had reunited, six megaannum later, Starscream would have accepted the true reason why he agreed.

He would survive, no matter the cost.

Starscream had no idea how he managed to break the gravity well of the planet; perhaps sheer grief fueled his escape. Now, he found himself sprawled on the pumice-like surface of the larger of the two moons, staring up at an unfamiliar starfield.

How am I supposed to return home without a navigator?

That thought startled him. Not How am I supposed to return home without Skyfire?  

Oh, there were options; Proxima Centauri hosted a Galactic Council-affiliated jump gate station, and while as political as the GC could be to tangle other races into their network, asking for amnesty based on academic endeavors was generally a sure-fire way to receive aid and return to the Lambda Scorpii system. It would be limping home, but at least he would be home.

But…Skyfire…

No. He could not dwell on that for now. He needed to return, to deliver his findings. This system -- that world -- would destroy them all.

I need to return, in honor of Skyfire’s sacrifice, to warn them.

Yeah. That works. 

He sat up, stood, dusted off his backside, and stamped out the soreness in his joints --

-- and a blue-black mech appeared before him the barest of distance apart, optics narrowed, handsome face frowning.

“Dammit, Arty!” Starscream stepped back, optics wide, before logic settled in. “Wait…how did you get here?”

His Iaconian paramour cocked her head to one side, optics a smoldering violet instead of her usual cerulean blue, and outlined with sharp golden markings that followed her cheek structure. 

“Wait.” He narrowed his optics. “You…you’re not Arty.”

“She does not like to be called that,” Not-Artemis reminded, the voice a low rumble. “Not for a very long time, it seems, and least of all from you.”

The optics and markings clicked. This wasn’t the aftermath of that failed expedition six megaannum ago. The present flooded back. Trypticon. The titan hunters. The Edge of the Knife. “Skaði?”

“Try again, speck.” She kicked out, landing a foot hard against his chest, sending him sprawled on his back. Before he could process what had transpired, Not-Artemis straddled his waist and sat, a casual arms akimbo and resting on her knees, pinning him down.

“Release me!” Starscream ordered.

“You begged before,” another one from behind his head observed. “In this repressed memory. You begged for your life. And now you demand it.”

“He only thinks of himself, brother,” the grounder replied, not looking up at the third mech: a lithe, death-grey VTOL flyer with similar violet optics and an elaborate crested helm, sharp facial markings the color of dried energon on a skeletal face. “It is a constant in all of his iterations. Everyone else exists to be a stepping stone: to be used, then discarded.”

“A shame he is not ours to claim,” the VTOL flyer chortled, talon-like fingers tracing Starscream’s cheek. “We could have promised and delivered him so much.”

“Unicron has already left the Mark of Nemesis on this one,” the grounder revealed, grabbing hold of Starscream’s chin. “You were forced to forget this memory, Sky Commander. Why do you suppose that is?”

“You are nothing!” Starscream snarled. “You are a hallucination! A phantasm!”

“And once you wake up you will have everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” the flyer shrugged. “We both are well aware of your antics, Starscream. I am quite familiar with what burns within your spark, first hand. But you and I can wait. My brother, however, has a task at hand for you.”

“Before you so rudely interrupted me,” the grounder continued, “and cost me my last functioning avatar, I was about to extend a proposal: to right the wrong these planetary facilitators -- “ she pointed her chin to the planet below them, tranquil in its blues and greens, “-- forced upon you so long ago. This one --” she gestured to her face, “ -- my speaker, my Furyspark, is resisting me. I am too far removed from this iteration to break through whatever defenses are holding her from my influence.”

“And why,” Starscream growled, “is that my problem?”

“Problem? No.” The flyer crouched, meeting his gaze. “Not a problem. A solution. An opportunity. Your answer. The connections you’ve been trying to make for the past two stellar cycles, ever since your initial death -- your first, and definitely not your last. Not a threat, I assure you; your fate, your destiny, as it were. But the one that had set that destiny in motion, nonetheless.”

“And once those connections are in place,” the grounder continued, “you will obtain apotheosis.”

“Forgive me if I sound ungrateful -- furorarx, was it?” Starscream coughed, "but promising me godhood seems a little over the top.”

“Not us. We did not promise you this,” the grounder said. “You are eternal; you are already close to apotheosis as it is. You possess an indestructible spark, a shell built from the God of Chaos, and intelligence that is overshadowed only by your vast imagination and ambition. No, we do not need to promise anything to you. All I desire is access to my last shard, my speaker, my Furyspark, so that I may walk existence again.”

“And what about you, whoever you are?” He met the flyer’s heated gaze.

“I am merely here as an observer,” the lithe face of death touched the center of her breastplate. “Still, I, like my brother Furorarx, serve the Prime Logos, the Lost Prime, and the answer to all of your questions,” she replied. “I am Vigilem.”

*

15 miles off the coast of Cape Disappointment, Oregon
Now

Vigilem…Furorarx…

…Logos…the Lost Prime…

The names faded to the back of Starscream’s awareness as hard metal, brackish air, and flickering security lighting assaulted his senses.

“Whu--” he couldn’t form the words; a gag tied taut around his head filled his oral cavity; his arms were clamped behind his back by stasis cuffs. His vision onlining, focused first on the crackling energy bars, then Astrotrain and Blast Off on the other side of the cell.

“Never could get tired of this,” the smaller shuttle chuckled, clapping Astrotrain’s shoulder as he turned to leave. “Dunno about you, but I’d rather hitch a ride with the others than spend any more energy catching up.”

“I’m right behind you,” Astrotrain gave the Combaticon a half-hearted salute. “Gotta get some gloating in before I do.”

“Release me!” Starscream ordered, or tried to; the gag muffled his words.

Astrotrain got the implication. “Yeah, gonna stop you right there,” he harrumphed, holding up a hand. “Wasn’t interested back on Reicere when we found you, and not interested now. You can rot here for all I care.” Astrotrain turned, waving without looking back as he left the brig.

They had brought him to the Nemesis , likely taken advantage of Magazine’s -- Furorarx’s? -- self-sacrifice to knock him out. What did you hope to accomplish? Starscream pondered, and how am I going to get out of this mess?

It could not have been coincidence that Soundwave had Astrotrain and Blast Off deliver him to the Nemesis after their discussion of titans. Was this a ruse? If it was, it was a rather convincing one, as Starscream’s arms were firmly bound, the stasis cuffs thrumming around his wrists. The gag was just rust in the joint.

It’s a challenge. It had to be; Soundwave was threatened by Starscream’s presence, but he too was curious to see what would transpire. Inform me of the plan, plant the seed of inspiration, then leave me to my own devices. That has to be it.

Assessment: he still had his weapons. Binding me was a stall tactic.  Rerouting his null rays power supply into a general electromagnetic pulse, he managed to hit the right strength to short out the stasis cuffs after half a dozen attempts. Once his hands were free, he removed the gag, tossing it aside with a disgusted sneer before examining the bars. With a curt “frag this,” he blasted the wall behind the control panel. The bars flickered off, granting him some semblance of freedom. 

At least, as much freedom that one could exercise in a gutted and abandoned space cruiser over two-hundred meters below sea level. Starscream was already on his way to the command hub before a plan with a myriad of contingencies had started to form.

Furorarx’s minions referred to the Nemesis as a titan , he brooded, activating the master console and bringing up all system feeds. Correspondence between Megatron and Shockwave, Megatron and Soundwave, Megatron and the combiner leaders (Starscream was shocked to learn that Motormaster could read, let alone write), he downloaded anything that could give him insight over Megatron’s machinations. While a quick script worked through those firewalls, Starscream checked existing stocks for supplies, provisions, and short range transport that he could jury-rig for a one-way trip to --

--to where? Chaar? Cybertron? Reicere?

Well. Figure that out later. Right now, anywhere but Earth.

A stolen starhopper with an Althenian academia registration was the only ship within the hangar, likely one of Hook’s pet projects, forgotten when the Decepticons abandoned the base. No onboard weapons: that might pose a problem. Still, it was a potential escape vehicle. He’ll circle back around to that later.

Names came up in Starscream’s search script, names that he recognized as other lieutenants of Megatron’s grand empire, names he hadn’t seen in millennia. Thunderwing, Straxus, Octus, Legonis, Seizar, Deathsaurus, Scorponok --

Wait. The correspondence with Scorponok…they were within the decade -- the past couple of local years, in fact -- and they were extremely short-range. 

“Oh.” Starscream was uncertain whether to be unsettled or bemused. Scorponok was within Earth’s vicinity -- likely within Jovian orbit if avoiding Autobot and Earthian detection -- and Megatron knew about it. Tragically, the correspondence was encrypted, and Starscream lacked the patience to crack it before escaping the Nemesis .

What was Megatron’s long game? Cloning himself would only create a destructive power struggle -- even with Galvatron’s corruption, this will only tear the Decepticons further apart. And Scorponok, of all mecha; okay, he’s got the motive to be interested in using organic stock as tinker toys, but there’s no value to that with the war effort, not when resources are abundant that we needn’t resort to pink alchemy. 

Why, he entertained the thought, do I have to figure this out? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to have the Autobots worry about Scorponok and have them throw a wrench in whatever Megatron was planning?

Enough . He drew his attention to a razor focus. First: leave Earth.

Then, plot revenge. 

Tiny skittering along the ceiling alerted him; he looked up just in time to see a series of minute yellow lights heading toward the lower decks.

“And what is this…?” he muttered aloud, following the string of lights. Before long, the corridor widened into Engineering, gutted from when they used the parts to get Trypticon operational. 

One of the lights crossed his foot; instinctively, Starscream lifted, then slammed it down on the creature, crushing it, adding a grinding twist for added insult. When he was certain it was thoroughly destroyed, Starscream stepped away to regard the remains.

It was some sort of arachid drone, still twitching in its death throes. Between thumb and forefinger, Starscream picked it up to inspect it closer. 

“And what,” he muttered, gaze following the trek of the drone’s brothers, “are you up to, little ones?”

As on cue, the drones halted and turned to face the Air Commander. Instinctively, Starscream slid his foot back, cycling his null rays online. The drones followed the perimeter of the corridor, their tiny lights brightening as they faced a central point. A quick flash, and Starscream found himself face to face with a hologram of another mech, one with eight optics and a vicious maw.

« Ah! Greetings, Air Commander! I was wondering when someone would notice my little ones milling about. Funny that, they’ve been scurrying about the Nemesis since before you found her back in 1984, » the mech cackled. « But where are my manners? I am Tarantulas, a comrade of Waspinator -- well, technically his superior officer, but as you’ve likely figured out, a brain-glitched turbofox with rustmange outranks that bug -- and currently the de facto leader of the Chimeracons. Creator? No, that would be a stretch, Might have improved the technology from the Cygnus Decepticons but…no matter! I do love to talk shop with fellow intellectuals, especially with one of your caliber.  » He held up a talon. « Do not bother to respond; this pinbeam is one-way. Fortunately for you, I have little regard for the purported consequences of time travel. Causal loops are such a useful tactic. So! Allow me to spill the energon over how you came to cross the bug’s path. »

Entertaining the message until that point, the Seeker scoffed, now bored. “Not interested.” Starscream stormed through the hologram, batting at the drones as one would a swarm of gnats. “I have better things to do.”

Still, the message persisted, reforming behind him and following him in step. « Why would your spark end up two million years in the past, Air Commander? Something about you transcends time as well as space, and I’m willing to reckon even cosmology, or else the Chaosbringer Himself wouldn’t be interested in you. Regardless, I cannot help but wonder if we are in a self-healing causal loop, you being here on the Nemesis, me having tinkered aboard two megaannum ago, you crossing my path just before I was inspired to search out the Nemesis, ad nauseum -- »

“Will you be silent?!” Starscream snapped. “I have had it up to my afterburners with everyone sucking up to me being this ‘chosen one’ on my way to ‘godhood’, like I can’t pick up someone shining my skid plates to get on my good side!”

« Ah, yes, ‘Flattery will get you flattened’. Remember that for later. It’s quite the witty retort. »

Starscream’s lip curled. “I thought this was a one-way pinbeam.”

« I lied. » Tarantulas’ visage indicated that he had shrugged. « I know of your come-upance and I opted to get in enough of my pitch to warrant your attention. I do like to talk without interruption, especially as I am relatively short on singular-dimensional time. » He cut the air before his face with a pincer. « One way right now. Until I return to my ship, that is. » 

“Fine.” Resuming his trek, Starscream’s gait quickened. “Talk.”

« When you possessed Waspinator in my past -- your future -- I had to fall back and observe. You had arrived during a violent energon storm -- »

“Earth,” Starscream interjected, “does not nor ever had energon storms.”

« That’s you covering tracks, » Tarantulas chortled. « Back up on that and tell the truth. »

Exasperated, Starscream slumped his shoulders and rolled his optics. “For energon storms to develop, the planet needs to have raw energon deposits -- an abundance of energon, not scant traces.” He halted, back ramrod straight. “The Autobots were following an energon reading when they left Cybertron, which led us to this system --”

« --the same system where, a couple megaannum prior, you just happened to be surveying with your partner. » The arachnid tapped the ends of his pinchers together. « Did you plan that, Starscream? Because out of the hundred-and-then-some parsecs that you could have ended up, you ended up back here.

« You know, constellations are an interesting phenomenon, » Tarantulas continued as Starscream contemplated the logic behind the observation. « For us Cybertronians, stellar motion doesn’t hold the same meaning as other races with much shorter lifespans. Yet our constellations have anchor stars. Think now, Air Commander: what was the name of this system under the pre-war Cybertronian Stellar Catalogue? What was the name of the system that you were studying so long ago? »

Starscream halted sharply. “Orbis Aureus Nexus…Solomus’ Core.”

« And why, » Tarantulas laced his claws together and leaned forward, « was that difficult? »

“Because someone suppressed it from my memory.” Now Starscream sneered. “Who --” His mind faltered, flitting between Shockwave, Soundwave, Megatron, Sentinel, Alpha Trion, countless bureaucrats and scholars and higher-ups who lorded over him before the war, and none of them felt even remotely capable let alone worthy to be accused of such an act.

« That I can answer for you. » The hologram leaned forward, hovering by Starscream’s audio receptor. « They are the Vok, progeny of the Lost Prime. And my absolute mission is to destroy them before their schemes reach fruition. »

This, Starscream furrowed his brow but kept his retort in check, cannot be coincidence.  

*

Trypticon
900km NNE of Cape Disappointment
British Columbia

“Is it wise to keep Starscream functional?” Hook asked as he and Scrapper commenced the lift-off checklist.

The question hadn’t been directed to anyone in particular, but Soundwave nonetheless answered. “Starscream: essential to objective. Operation: Distraction.”

“I mean, he’s got a point,” Scrapper shrugged. “If Screamer is good for anything, it’s that.”

“So are we going to use him as a distraction for breaking orbit?” Hook followed up, “or are we going to just nicely ask the humes for clearance?” To Scrapper, he added, “Let’s be real for an astrosecond: we’re barely holding together as it is. We’re one ICBM away from being shot down by the EDC, and if we make it to the jump, we’ll be dealing with the ASATs, and I’m not certain we have the power for deterrence protocols --”

“Concern: unnecessary.”

“Do tell,” Hook muttered; Scrapper shot him a warning look. 

It was Onslaught who replied: “We were politely asked to leave.”

“‘Politely’ -- now, what’s this about?” Hook demanded.

“Not every Earth nation shares the United States’ trigger finger,” the Combaticon leader shrugged, “The Canadian government is less about saber-rattling and more about diplomacy. Once they realized we intended to leave, they sent an ‘ultimatum’.” He made finger quotes on either side of his head before resuming his duties at his station. “If we leave planetside before daybreak, they will not persecute us for our raid on Port Hardy, and will also request that the Autobots and EDC not to hinder our route out of the system.”

“And we…agreed?”

Onslaught shrugged again. “They figure once we get to Charr, we’re Cybertron’s problem, not Earth’s. Classic human mentality.”

Hook glanced at Soundwave for confirmation; the spymaster’s expression, as expected, was unreadable.

“It’s the path of least resistance,” Scrapper replied. “I know, it just seems too…” he snapped his fingers, trying to recall the word.

“Convenient?” Hook finished. 

“Exactly!”

“And I’m certain the EDC are thinking the very same thing,” Onslaught retorted. “Besides, we’re leaving Starscream with them to deal with. Think of him as a going away present.”

*

Autobot City
Command Hub

“We don’t have much of a say,” Bumblebee vented hard. “Trypticon’s on Canadian soil; if they’re asked to leave and have accepted the terms…”

“...all we can do is make certain that Soundwave abides by said terms until they’re out of the system,” Arcee nodded, frowning. “I can’t help but worry there’s a catch.”

“Catch is Decepticons got away with raiding mine,” Grimlock rumbled, arms crossed over his massive chest.

“Ontario’s cutting their losses with minimal human casualties,” Bumblebee tapped his cheek. “Blaster, you said the readings from the Port Hardy groundbridge they used wasn’t typical.”

“One and done by Skyspy’s liner notes,” Blaster nodded, though by the gesture it was not clear whether he was in agreement or bobbing to the music in his head. “Compared to Shockwave’s concert pianist, that was a ‘nipped-out cat rolling over the keys.”

“So just let them leave?” Grimlock growled.

“And start a diplomatic quagmire here on top of whatever the hell’s going on back on Cybertron?” Bumblebee shook his head. “We know they’re going to Chaar. We know they’re attempting to refortify. The problem is we’re a lone outpost, and one dangerously close to decommissioned at that. It’s Ontario’s call, and if the UN and EDC is on board, we need to abide by that decision.” He met the Dinobot leader’s gaze. “I don’t like it either, Grim, but we’re no longer Earth’s line of defense.”

Grimlock snarled, clenching his fists, but said nothing more.

“What’s your call, Bee?” Arcee asked. 

“Blaster, keep monitoring Trypticon, make certain they abide by the terms set by Ontario,” Bumblebee pushed off from the console he had been leaning against, “Grim, have the Dinobots stand down but keep base defenses on standby. Arcee, focus on getting Metroplex’s repairs stepped up, just in case we need to return to Cybertron. I don’t want to, and I have every intention of staying, but if we’re asked to leave, we’ll have to abide. On that note, I’m going to see about procuring legal counsel regarding our legal embassy status.” He grimaced. “I’m concerned that Washington may take Ontario’s lead.” 

“And Dubya ain’t gonna be that polite to ask,” Blaster added.

Bumblebee, walking towards the exit, pointed to Blaster en route, highlighting his concern.

*

Residential District Wall

Charlene’s phone buzzed, and she groaned, slapping her book shut. ”There better be a good reason to be botherin’ me off-shift--” she opened the phone with a practiced flick and brought it to her ear. “What’s on fire, exploded, flooded, or swallowed by a miniature black hole?” A pause. “What do you mean, ‘Gwen’s been kicked out of her office’? How does Gwen get kicked -- what do you mean, ‘some British guy just took over’? What British guy? What memo? I didn’t get any sort of memo since Dr Fujiyama arrived!” Another pause. “Ah, hell, of course it came after I punched out. What does it say?”

As she listened to the night auditor rattle off the contents of said memo, Tailgate and Swerve brought their attention to their human friend, waiting for Charlene’s response. 

“Oh, Hector’s there? Let me speak to him five seconds ago -- Hi, Hector, why did one of your people kick my evening auditor out of her office? Uh-huh. Yep. Nope, that ain’t happenin’, y’all can tell Ms Carlton-Ritz that while she’s a guest here she plays by my rules, I don’t care how many small countries she bankrolls -- don’t. Move. I’m coming down.” Hanging up the phone, she groaned, sliding off Skids’ lap. “Sorry, fellas, disaster calls.” Shrugging on her jacket, Charlene stowed her book and looked up at the higher parapet. “This is all your fault, you know!” she shouted at the watchmech on duty, pointing an accusatory finger at the red flyer.

“Not my problem until tomorrow morning!” Powerglide yelled back. “I’m on shift!”

Charlene swung her head to face Skids. “Skids, could you go kick his ass for me?”

“Scare me up a jetpack and I might consider it,” the blue mech chuckled as the human threw her hands up in exaggerated exacerbation.

The three Autobots bid their friend goodbye as she turned to the roof access. It was Swerve who noticed Skids’ reaction, an abrupt yet silent, pained expression coupled with a thousand yard stare.

“Hey, buddy,” the Minibot put a hand to the larger mech’s arm. “Did…you remember something?” 

Tailgate remained quiet, observing the interaction as he nervously wrung his hands together.

“Charl’s jacket…” Skids admitted, searching for his next words. “It’s the brand name, I know, but…it clicked. Something…clicked.”

“I didn’t notice it…?” Tailgate posed his statement as a question.

“Why would you? We don’t wear clothes,” Swerve countered. “But you know, branding. Identifying. Status symbol and the like.” Back to Skids, he asked, “Talk to us. we’re still learning to read the local language; what’s wrong with her jacket?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Skids stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. “She’s had it for almost as long as I’ve known her and…the jacket is incidental, a vehicle, a reminder. ” Biting his knuckle, he paced the roof. “Her name. The one that’s missing. The one I never met but…Primus Below, this sounds insane.”

“Hello? We were all caught in a weird existential crisis explosion?” Tailgate said. 

“At this point, nothing’s crazy-sounding if it can help figure out what happened,” Swerve added, “and it’s eating you up by keeping it in.”

“Fine.” Skids halted, shoulders back as he stared up at the night sky. “Fine. Since the Ark, I felt like part of my spark died with that vision. Like I actually died. And it left me with two distinctive…recollections. Not memories, exactly.”

“The ghost of memory?” Swerve suggested.

Skids nodded. “Yeah. That…fits.” He then shook his head and pressed a hand to his helm, shielding his optics. “This makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Repeating the part about the existential crisis explosion,” Swerve countered. Tailgate nodded in agreement.

“It’s…it’s just if I say her name, it’s…it’s like I’m admitting that she’s real. She was real. Is real.”

“So you’re thinking you may have an imaginary girlfriend?” Tailgate questioned. 

Swerve nudged him. “Not imaginary! We didn’t imagine that! It was real, just…okay, bare with me, but the more I think about it, the more I think we saw the future! Our future! And…and now we know what to avoid! And…” Swerve held his hands out in front of him, facing Skids. “You have a goal! Skids, you have to search out this mystery girl! It’s now preordained!”

“Avoid death and save the girl?” Skids chuckled, now regarding his friend with a sardonic smirk. “It didn’t feel like…well, how would I know what a vision from the future is like? Okay. Her name was…is…Nautica.”

Tailgate and Swerve met one another’s gaze. “I remember that name too,” Swerve said, and Tailgate nodded. “Triple distilled, top shelf --”

“Skids?” Tailgate interrupted, and the Minibots’ collective attention returned to the larger Autobot, who now clutched his helm and dropped to his knees, grinding his teeth.

“Sc…scum,” he hissed, “I’m…scum.”

Swerve and Tailgate glanced at one another before the former tapped Skids’ hip. “Hey, buddy…?”

“Are you going to be all right?” Tailgate asked sincerely.

Skids turned quickly, squatting before the two minibots. “Keep this between us,” he hissed. “We’ll figure this out, and --”

“We’ll find her,” Swerve took his friend’s hand with both of his. “We’ll help you find her.”

“We’re in this together,” Tailgate agreed, placing his hand atop of theirs. 

“Hey, Skids!” Powerglide shouted, shattering the moment, “I’ll cover your bar tab for the next week if you take the rest of my shift right now!”

The spell broken, the three grounders pulled away from their huddle. “Slacking off?” Swerve asked.

Powerglide harrumphed. “Nah, Claudia just called me for an assist; I’m thinking Astoria got into an argument with that SpaceX guy again and needs an extraction. She hates that guy.”

“Normally I’d say that’s on her but I hate that guy too.” Skids stood up, dusting off his hands, an action to help him clear his thoughts. “I’ll do it as long as you give me a rundown of what happened when you get back.”

“Over a six pack of Old Corroder!” Powerglide saluted, vaulting over the parapet wall and, transforming in mid-air, shot off to the southwest.

*

Medibay

“I appreciate the hand, Hoist.” First Aid was midway prepping the main bay for the third time that day when the green and yellow Autobot joined him. “The past week has been…stressful, to say the least.”

“When was the last time you had a solid recharge?” Hoist asked, taking the task datapad from the CMO. “Why don’t you take a break and I’ll finish this setup?” While posed as a question, his suggestion was an order laced with experience and wisdom.

First Aid quelled a refusal and nodded, handing Hoist the checklist. “Thank you. Let me at least give you a rundown about what happened.”

“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” Ultra Magnus called out from the main office, where First Aid, having relented to the former city commander’s urge to tidy, had assigned him menial organizing duties. “I am in agreement with Hoist’s assessment; you have not had a break since I had…regained consciousness…which in itself violates Autobot City Labor Code Section 5 Paragraph 3 --”

“Th--thank you, yes, I will…’take a break’,” First Aid interrupted, knowing that the two other Autobots could see through his lie. “Magnus, please feel free to continue using my office. I’ll…I’ll use Ratchet’s.” 

“Hoist, yes, it is good to see you Earthside again,” Magnus beckoned the engineer over. “I should be forthright: approximately six megacycles ago, I was dead, killed by Galvatron during the battle two days ago. Somehow, I am now alive, and First Aid is searching for an answer that may have something to do with Metroplex. While disconcerting, this is low priority, seeing that I am now functional within normal parameters; my armor is not, hence why I am…feeling…incredibly vulnerable.”

“Say the word and Grapple and I will reconstruct it, though I’d imagine that too would currently be considered low priority.” Hoist skimmed First Aid’s list and cocked his head to one side. “What’s this about Pipes?”

“In recovery, as I understand,” Magnus replied, flipping through the records, then handing Hoist the corresponding file. The former city commander glanced to the side. “There had been an incident earlier, and I just realized it happened around the same time that Thundercracker and I found ourselves, for lack of a better word, resurrected.”

“Excuse me, did I hear you say ‘Thundercracker’?”

 “I did. He has been cooperative, although sullen.” Magnus turned in his seat and pointed to the recovery rooms at the other end of the bay. “He is currently under observation; he poses a minimal flight risk, though I am still monitoring him.”

“Of--of course. Back to Pipes. I should start with him and work my way -- ah, Bumblebee! Good to see you, my friend!” 

“Hi, Hoist!” Bumblebee dropped his gait upon noticing Magnus. “It’s true,” he muttered, then shook his head and, brightly, mustered a smile. “I’m glad to see you, Magnus! What happened to your armor?”

“My assumption is that it has been brought to a repair bay,” Magnus answered, standing. “I am under the impression that I should report to you now, Bumblebee?”

Bumblebee held up his hands and chuckled. “Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not cleared for duty yet!” Dropping his arms to his sides, he shrugged. “It’s…complicated. How much did First Aid fill you in?”

“I have been privy to only the immediate concerns within Medibay,” the largest of the four said. “I am aware that Elita One -- excuse me, Prime -- has taken a detail back to Cybertron…?”

“‘Taken’ isn’t the word I would use,” Hound rubbed the back of his neck. “Something north of conscription, if you ask me.”

Magnus regarded Hound with a stern expression, inviting more information.

“Well,” Bumblebee took up the narrative, “now that Hound’s here too, I can fill everyone in on what happened tonight.”

Magnus listened as the two first wave Earthsiders explained their plights, Hound with the reasons why he had been sent with the engineering corps to Autobot City, Bumblebee with the Raiden Initiative quagmire.

“That and Elita authorized mobilization of the Wreckers to recover Rodimus,” Bumblebee concluded, words running together with a speed that rivaled  Blurr. “Which then caused the Conclave to countermobilize the Elite Guard to ‘assist’ because there’s a chance that Tomaandi and Traachon are looking to dissolve the Rule of Primes.”

“Ah.” Magnus sat down, harder than intended as the chair creaked in protest. 

“I promise you, once you’re cleared for duty, I have something I could really use your help with,” Bumblebee pressed his palms together and pointed his fingers at Magnus, an all-encompassing gesture of respect, promise, and an ask of assistance. “I’ll fill you in further, but only when you’re cleared, because I know you’ll --”

“-- immediately get to work on the matter,” Magnus nodded. “I understand.”

“Hey, First Aid --” Groove popped his head into the office. “Nope, no First Aid. Hi, all; looking for First Aid; is he in Ratchet’s office? Twins have come to, but they’re surly, Sunstreaker more so than normal. Might need your help, Hoist.”

“Oh, dear,” Hoist sighed. “What happened to them?”

“Don’t know, I’ll have Jackie fill you in; they and Eject were the only -- oh, yeah, Jackie’s the reason Wheeljack’s lab went into lockdown. They’re an AI based off of Wheeljack and currently piloting an experimental exosuit which happens to look a bit like Wheeljack. I know, this is my shocked face.” Groove pointed to his neutral expression with both index fingers. “Anyway, Jackie and Eject were the only ones who weren’t affected by the -- wise-kegger-blitz? I don’t know, it’s Science! with a capital ‘S’ and an exclamation mark. First Aid!” Groove pushed away from the door jamb and crossed the medibay to the other office, just as Hot Spot assisted Sideswipe to a berth; where the red brother was being cooperative, Streetwise was having a tougher time convincing Sunstreaker to take the berth next to Sideswipe.

“I’m okay, dammit! Just leave me alone!” Sunstreaker shook away the Protectobot’s grip. “I’m fine! Just…fine!”

“What happened?” Bumblebee darted to the larger mech’s side. “Sunstreaker, what happened there?”

“My clearcoat’s fragged up, that’s what happened!” Sunstreaker groused. “I’m jet-lagged and exhausted and I just want to recharge back in my own hab, okay?”

“It happened to you too, bro, didn’t it?” Sideswipe muttered, chin to his chest. 

“No, it didn’t, it was just a bad trip, that’s all. Now if you excuse me, I have a date with a microfiber buffer and my own recharge slab --”

“Someone separated my head from my body,” Sideswipe continued. “I could feel everything; he took out my pain receptors at least, but…I could still feel every disconnection, every --”

“Shut. Up.” Sunstreaker snarled. “At least you had pain blockers!”

“Please,” Sideswipe closed his optics. “Just tell them everything.”

“Whatever happened to Pipes and his team happened to us as well,” Hot Spot reported as First Aid exited the CMO office. “Nothing as drastic as his injuries, at least externally, but the twins were afflicted the strongest. Still, I think we could all use a diagnostic.”

“I’m not entirely convinced of that,” Rewind added, bringing up the rear with his brother and the lanky exosuit with the LED optics. “Not to minimize it; they definitely got the reactionary worst of the blast, but…I’m an archivist. Before heading to the Ark, my internal storage had almost six hundred terabytes of Cybertronian history and culturally significant research. I’m now at two and a half petabytes. Some of the files are duplicates, some of them conflict with corresponding dates, some of them never happened at all…but there’s no corruption. Yes, I’ve been running different protocols and routines to verify the data, but…it’s suddenly my head is so full, like in fifteen seconds I lived at least three other lifetimes in different realities.”

“If I could,” the exosuit raise their hand; Bumblebee, Hoist, and Hound all startled by how identical the AI sounded like their departed friend, “I’d love to take a look at Perceptor’s project, the one before all of this went pear-shaped. It’s possible that Rodimus’ disappearance is connected to the weisskugelblitz -- that’s what I’m calling it when it blows out, to differentiate it from a schwarzkugelblitz, which is when it sucks in. Hi, Bee, I’m Jackie, pleased to make your acquaintance.” They held out a three-fingered hand toward Bumblebee in greeting.

“And you’re…an AI based on Wheeljack…?” Bumblebee asked, returning the proffered human gesture.

“Yep! I was monitoring the Ark while Teletraan One was in standby, until Engineering developed a spacetime distortion, then I decided that I needed mobility to research the anomaly.”

“They got stuck in the lab and needed our help getting out,” Eject reported. “Funny thing is that me and Jackie weren’t affected like the others.”

“We could have been affected,” Jackie countered, rubbing their faceplate, “it’s just that our memories didn’t deviate much. Well, yours, that is; mine, I just woke up. Huh. No, I only possess what Wheeljack had up to the battle of Autobot City last year; pretty straightforward, nothing seems to deviate or raise any paradoxes or contradictions on a surface scan. Anyway, I’m wondering if what everyone else is exhibiting is the memories of other realities, after talking with Rewind for as briefly as we have. Maybe glimpses of what could have been? Where’s Perceptor’s lab? I’d like to look over his data. Rewind, you want to give me a hand?”

“Sure thing, just one thing first. Hey, Hound?”

Hound glanced down at the black and silver deployer. “What’s up?”

Rewind vented as though uncertain whether to ask what was on his mind. “Where’s Mirage?”

Hot Shot, Groove, and Streetwise all snapped their heads up from what they were doing, optics on Hound and Rewind.

“Back on Cybertron,” Hound replied, acutely aware of the three Protectobots’ collective gesture. “He was assigned to be a delegate representing Cybertron on the Council.”

“Thank you. That helps me with sorting out my data,” Rewind nodded, turning away from the command team. “Okay. Jackie, I’ll take you to Perceptor’s lab now.”

Bumblebee was about to ask Hot Spot what that was about, then shifted gears. “Where’s Blades?” he questioned.

Streetwise shrugged. “Said he wanted to walk back. Something about clearing his head.” He then chuckled. “Guess that’s par for the course given what transpired, now that I think about it.”

Hot Spot had finally convinced Sunstreaker to take the berth next to his brother and, after a thinly veiled threat invoking C.M.O. overrides toward the twins, rejoined his fellow Protectobots. “Let’s debrief while we wait for First Aid to finish up here. That’s good with you, doc?”

“Yes, though…” It was no stretch of the imagination to visualize the doctor’s frown. “Hoist, once we’ve got everything under control for the evening, I’d like for you to take over observation duties with Magnus while I debrief with my team.” Meeting the Protectobot leader’s gaze, First Aid added, “there’s something…internal…that needs to be addressed.”  

 « Who, » he transmitted to Hot Spot along the Protectobots’ shared link, « is Rook? » 

*

“I shot your aft down,” Sunstreaker snarled, directing his glare at the Seeker. “Same fight that Prime took down Megatron.”

“No, you shot Bitstream’s aft down,” Thundercracker corrected, not looking up from his screen. “I was babysitting the Stunticons and Combaticons back at Nemesis because Swindle dealt everyone else rancid nuke during that fiasco.”

“Who the hell’s Bitstream?” Sideswipe demanded.

Thundercracker sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe this is what I agreed to…nerdy guy, held his laser like a rifle? That’s Bitstream. I seriously can’t believe everyone thought he was me. You do realize there’s more Seekers than just me, Skywarp, and Starscream, yeah? Bitstream, Hotlink, and Nacelle were also Earthside, though they were base technicians and didn’t get out much.”

“You were like, what, clones or something?” Sideswipe asked.

“No!” Thundercracker’s features contorted, then went slack. “N…no. I…don’t think we were.”

“Ignore him,” Sunstreaker groused, falling back on the slab. “No use conversing with ‘Cons, anyway.”

“At least, no more than the two of you,” Thundercracker continued, his tone neutral as though talking more to himself. He resumed frowning. “Did…did you…experience…something weird recently? Like…deja vu? Only…it wasn’t familiar?”

“Yeah,” Sideswipe sat up, drawing his knees up and folding his arms over them. “Yeah, as a matter of fact --”

“Shut. Up.” Sunstreaker hissed. “In case you forgot, he’s a ‘Con!”

“He ain’t shooting,” the red Autobot countered. Back to the Seeker, he asked, “you had something happen too?”

“‘Happen’?” Thundercracker gestured to the skeleton of his partially reconstructed arm. “Six megacycles ago I was dead. I’ll say something happened.”

“So…you’re some kind of zombie?”

Sunstreaker groaned again, burying his face into the head prop.

“No, I’m not some kind of zombie.” The blue and white flyer pointed to the vitals monitor next to his berth. “According to First Aid, I’m very much alive.” He shrugged. “We just don’t know how.” 

“I have this distinct memory of having my head surgically removed,” Sideswipe admitted. 

Sunstreaker threw the prop at his brother before hopping off the berth and storming out of the recovery room.

“So did he,” Sideswipe added. “He just doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“But you do?”

Sideswipe shrugged. “Everyone else is too busy, and Sunny’s…well…surly.”

“When isn’t he?” Thundercracker chuckled, then caught himself. “Erm…yeah. So…just leave me alone.” For emphasis, he twisted at his waist and propped himself up on his intact elbow, focused on his ‘pad.

“What did you see?” Sideswipe did not take the hint.

“What? The afterlife? Pfft. There was nothing. Like a lightswitch. On/off.”

“No.” Sideswipe shook his head, a gesture that was too deliberate. “No, what did you see as the other you?”

“Other--what the hell are--no, I’m not entertaining that. Nothing. It was just…nothing.”

“It wasn’t the head removal, either,” Sideswipe continued. “That was the strongest, but it wasn’t the only one. The other was primarily a never-ending chaos or explosions -- but I had tyres for feet! That was kinda cool. I think I died in that one, though. But the strongest one…there was someone else. Someone important, someone that wasn’t Sunny and…I really do feel like there’s a part of me that’s…missing, but reverse? Wow. Saying that out loud sounded --”

“--crazy, yeah, that’s why you should shut up.” After a fifteen second silence, Thundercracker added softly, “I…had a dog.”

*

“Hey, Sunstreaker! How’s it going? Yanno, Raoul left you some carnauba wax when he heard you…” Bumblebee trailed off as Sunstreaker stormed past the smaller mech without so much as a greeting. “...were coming. Looks like Groove was right about him being surlier than usual.” 

“Ark’s under quarantine,” Hoist reminded, “and that’s where he was most at home. Give him space.”

“That’s par for the course,” Bumblebee retorted, “I just wish we knew more about what happened over there.”

“Rewind and Jackie are on the case,” Hound said. “I’m certain they’ll come up with something other than ‘burping pinprick in the fabric of spacetime’ soon enough. Speaking of which, want me to go see if I can get Beachcomber down from his spiritual high?” 

“Probably poppy pollen in his air filter,” Bumblebee jested, patting Hound’s arm. 

“Nah, too late in the season. They tend to do better in a more arid climate anyway. I’m guessing cedar and no less than three different species of salvia.”

Ultra Magnus, who had been silent during the exchange, sat back from his rearranging of the desk surface, now organized and straightened to the micrometer. “I still think I could be of better use if I were back on duty.” He flexed his fingers, balled them into fists, then relaxed them, before folding his hands onto the desk.

“I’m under orders to rebuke that,” Hoist countered, navigating to Magnus’s file on the ‘pad. “You are still under observation for any adverse side effects to your, well, for lack of a better word, resurrection. Also, I am well aware of your discomfort to be outside of your armor which is why I have already asked Grapple to draft up an ETA for repairs.”

“That sounds like a good benchmark,” Bumblebee agreed. “How’s about it, Magnus? Take a break, relax, recharge; we’ll meet back up in the morning, when we have clear heads. Hound, go ahead and check on Beachcomber. Last I saw him he was chilling in your garden.”

“It’s a rewilding project,” Hound corrected with a chuckle. “Little more complicated than a garden. But yeah, it would be nice to reconnect to the dirt.” He departed the office with a wave.

“I’m gonna go check on Sunstreaker,” Bumblebee said, flipping his thumb in the direction where the frontliner left. “Hoist, you good?”

“Absolutely!” The engineer nodded enthusiastically. “It’s good to be back, honestly. I’ve missed the air here. It’s…refreshing.”

“That would be the higher nitrogen content in the atmosphere,” Magnus informed absently. “Cybertron has slightly lower nitrogen and oxygen levels, and higher argon on average by comparison to Earth. Currently, Cybertron is still within habitable perimeters for humans.” His optics narrowed, and he rubbed his faceplate as though attempting to recall something. “I…I feel as though I am missing something. Something…important about Cybertron. About…” looking down at his right hand, Magnus flexed his fingers experimentally before shaking his head. “It…it will return. I…I think today’s events have been…draining.” 

Hoist contemplated the breakdown, made a little “huh” sound, and nodded, returning to his rounds.

*

“Oh! Hey, Sunstreaker!”

Sunstreaker groaned. “If I could slump my shoulders any lower,” he snarled, “I’d be in vehicle mode…what is it, Blades?”

Blades jogged up to the frontliner and clapped his hands together. “I am totally blowing off Hot Spot right now,” the heli chuckled, pantomiming a boxing stance, “but yeah, wanna go a few rounds in some friendly competition? Yanno, to blow off some steam? Because the last few hours?” Blades vented hard, splaying his fingers apart. “Completely FUBAR.”

“Finally, someone who gets it!” For the first time since arriving, Sunstreaker’s mood shifted from contempt to barely tolerating company. “Just don’t bring up whatever the hell happened and we’re good.”

“First rule of Fight Club: we don’t talk about Fight Club. Got it. Hey!” Blades raised his arms over his head as they entered the rec room, where the Dinobots sans Grimlock were playing Mario Kart on modified controllers with two unfamiliar Bots. “Who’re our new friends?”

“They our big little brothers!” Swoop announced, dropping his controller and standing. “That Yukikaze --” he pointed to the grey and white mech, “--and Suiken.” His finger arched to include the green and black Autobot. “They from Shibuya!”

Both trainbots scampered to their feet, then bowed.

“Hoo boy, not my turn to babysit,” Sunstreaker pinched the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, Blades, let’s go somewhere --”

“I’m Blades!” Blades interrupted, bounding the distance between the door and the newcomers. “You’re from the Raiden Initiative, right? Sorry I missed you coming in -- we were on a mission and I just got back!”

“What the hell…?” Sunstreaker muttered. “Blades, what’s --”

“This is eight players, yeah?” Blades took a seat between Yukikaze and Suiken. “So how was your trip? Any issues? Did Grimlock scare you? He’s not scary as long as you’re friendly to the Witwickys -- they’re our human friends, family too. How’re you liking Autobot City?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna…” Sunstreaker flipped his thumb back to the hallway. 

“We have to have even players for Double Dash if you don’t stick around!” Blades protested.

“Oh, no, I don’t play Mario Kart,” Sunstreaker backed away and in the process tripped over Bumblebee. “Scrap!”

“Hey, sorry!” Bumblebee grabbed the larger mech’s arm to help steady. “You--what’s wrong?”

Bending down, Sunstreaker grabbed Bumblebee by the shoulders. “Something is seriously wrong with Blades!” he hissed, dragging the smaller Autobot away from the door. “He used to be…cool!”

“Yeah, Hot Spot said he was acting odd,” Bumblebee agreed. “But right now I’m worried about you. We’re comrades, Sunstreaker; friends, even. Please, tell me what the hell happened at the Ark? Your words, not the clinical speak the Protectobots are reporting.” He smiled, encouraging. “I want to know how it really happened.”

“Primus Below, I hate you,” Sunstreaker grumbled, shaking his head. There was a hint of fondness in his tone. “Just…I’m not crazy.”

“I would never think otherwise. You’re an asshole, but you’re our asshole.”

Sunstreaker scoffed. “You’ve been hanging around humans too long.” His expression hardened. “They’re worse than us. As a whole. Our friends…they’re…they’re good. But as a collective?” Sunstreaker’s frown crumbled, “We’re nothing but weapons to them. To be used. To be exploited. And…what I saw? What I experienced? It only proved that maybe…maybe we should just leave them at their own devices, let them blow themselves up.”

“Sunstreaker.” Bumblebee mustered a warm smile. “What would help you right now?”

“I just want to be left alone.” Sunstreaker stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “For a while, that is. I…just want to…push a reset button. Turn off and turn back on. Wake up fresh.”

“Tell you what,” Bumblebee nodded. “I’ll get First Aid and Sideswipe off your back, give you whatever rack time you need, but I need a favor from you in return.”

The frontliner lifted his chin and looked down on the current city commander.

Bumblebee took that as an invitation to continue. “The boys -- the Raiden Initiative -- they’re going to need someone to help them learn about Cybertron. Not just about the war, but also our culture, our sports, our art, before our war.” Bumblebee held up a finger. “Not a babysitter. A mentor.”

“I won’t go easy on them.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

Now Sunstreaker bowed his head, keeping his optics locked on Bumblebee. “There’s a catch.”

“No catch.”

“No, there’s a catch. I’m just too fragging tired to see it right now.” Sunstreaker dropped his arms to his side and turned away, raising a hand briskly as a gesture of “good night”.

“Rest well, my friend,” Bumblebee agreed, returning his attention to the seven in the rec room. “Is there room for one more?”

“Bumblebee be Snarl’s partner!” Snarl ordered. “Sludge no play good!”

“Me Sludge play good!” Sludge protested.

“Of course you do, big guy!” Bumblebee agreed. “Though I’d think you two would be tired from your flight,” he directed to the newcomers.

“I’m too excited to sleep,” Suiken admitted. “Sludge and Swoop have been telling us about the local terrain. Would we be able to explore outside the environs tomorrow?”

“Play now!” Slag yelled, holding the eighth controller to the yellow minibot. “Be Slag’s partner!”

“Tell you what,” Bumblebee grinned broadly, holding his hands out in peace offering. “Let’s take turns. I’d like to get to know Yuki and Suiken a bit, too. Will that work? Oh! Sorry, Yukikaze, I was talking to Getsuei earlier and he had called you Yuki --”

“That’s fine, Bumblebee-san, I don’t mind.” There was a similar shyness in the grey and white mech, though with Getsuei the perceived guilt fueled the young trainbot’s reaction, with Yukikaze it was veneration.

“Call me Bumblebee, both of you,” Bumblebee maintained his smile, focused on putting as much warmth and genuine kinship into the gesture. “Or just Bee. I’ve never been one for formalities. How’re you adjusting? I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“It is that,” Suiken rumbled, studying the modified controller in his hands. “Will we be able to help soon? With the Decepticons?”

“That’s a tricky subject,” Bumblebee sighed, trying not to think about the ramifications tomorrow morning may entail. “And one I don’t think you need to focus too much on, especially so soon after arriving. Let Grimlock and Arcee keep an optic on them for now, and you focus on getting to know Autobot City. This is going to be your second home, after all.”

“I miss Shibuya already,” Yukikaze whispered. “I miss Gō-sensei and our friends.”

“Gō-sensei?”

“We were assigned mentors,” Suiken explained, “to help us acclimate to working with humans, that is. Yuki’s mentor is Gō-sensei , mine is Ishihara-sensei , for example. Fujiyama-sensei told us we would likely be assigned mentors here as well.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that,” Bumblebee took the space between Suiken and Blades. “Besides, I think we may have to convince the Dinobots to share the attention.”  

“Me Sludge not like to share,” Sludge muttered, folding his arms over his chest and jutting out his bottom lip.

“Me Slag say Sludge not like anything,” Slag countered.

“Me like being onii-san!” Sludge growled, sinking further into his pout.

“That mean ‘big brother’,” Swoop translated to Bumblebee.

“That’s pretty good!” Bumblebee gave the flyer a high five, before turning to Blades. “Hey, how’s it going? Heard you had a bit of a rough spot back at the Ark. Figured I’d cover for you if Hot Spot was wondering -- Blades?”

“Oh! Yeah, hey! Sorry!” Blades voice hitched up an octane, startled. “Yeah, megamiles away. So! Bee! Hey! Yeah, I’m okay! Feeling actually pretty good! Just…enjoying some downtime. Too bad about Sunstreaker, I was hoping he’d join us, but you! I’m glad you’re here! Maybe after you can team up with me…?”

“Yeah…of course!” Bumblebee nodded vigorously; while the Dinobots had not the attention span, nor Yukikaze and Suiken the experience, the minibot made a mental note with a yellow flag to talk to Hot Spot and First Aid later.

Sunstreaker was right; the normally assertive at best, aggressive at worst Blades was not acting like himself.

What exactly happened at the Ark?

And did it have anything to do with Ultra Magnus and Thundercracker’s resurrections? 

*

Perceptor’s Lab

“Looks like a model Stargate,” Jackie studied the circular device on the workbench and poked it with a finger.

“Wreck-Gar helped,” Rewind suggested, pushing himself up onto a stool.

“Ah.” Jackie nodded as though accepting that as fact, then, a beat later, “Who’s Wreck-Gar?”

“Oh, sorry, we need to bring you up to speed about the Junkions, it seems.”

“Junkions. Okay. Noted.”

“From the planet Junk. Actually, not really a planet, there’s evidence that Junk was an ejected plate from Cybertron’s southern hemisphere and I’ve lost you.”

“Nothing personal, I’m sure it’s interesting if I wasn’t so focused on higher dimensional mathematics and physics. As an aside, why did you ask about Mirage?”

“I wasn’t kidding -- it helped me to sort the data because I’m having a two-state conflict since we left the Ark: either Mirage is alive, or Mirage was killed.”

“Interesting choice of words.” 

“Judging from the Protectobots’ reaction, they had a similar conflict. I asked Hound because he’s the control; he hasn’t been to the Ark since this weisskugelblitz appeared. His answer helped me parse what’s relevant to the current situation. And speaking of which, what are we looking for, exactly?”

“Immediately, it was to learn what Perceptor was working on. Now that I know…he was building a space bridge from the ground up, and now,” they sat down before a console and booted up a monitor, “I need to know why.”

“Because the Decepticons had monopolized the technology.”

“That’s a symptom; it’s not the cause. Historically, why didn’t the Autobots already have this from before the war?”

“Huh.” Rewind folded his arms over his chest and pondered this.

“Go on.”

“It’s classified. I don’t have access.”

“Classified, or nonexistent?”

Rewind cocked his head to one side. “I’m listening.”

“So you know how pinbeam communications work, yeah? Technically a single quantum nanocomputer existing in two states, here and there; for Autobot City, one part is in Blaster’s tower, and the other is at Moon Base One--”

“Not anymore,” Rewind corrected. “It’s now within the Citadel in Iacon.”

“Makes sense, seeing that we retook the planet. Anyway! Reason why I bring it up is that in six million years, give or take an epoch-spanning civil war, the pinbeam is all we have to prove of our own development. Thing is, there’s a delay for anything outside of a hundred-forty-four characters, or a low-res image. One-hundred-and-forty-four kilobytes instantaneous across over six-hundred light-years: groundbreaking for us, nothing short of magic to the humans, and yet infinitesimally primitive compared to the space bridge. Which brings me to where I’m going with this: Perceptor was building a space bridge from the ground up,” Jackie surmised, “because we never had the technology ourselves.” Standing, Jackie paced back and forth. “So here’s the hypothesis: the tech is proprietary, the remnant of a civilization that predated the Great War --”

“That would be the Quintessons,” Rewind informed, “they ruled Cybertron before the predecessors of the Autobots and Decepticons overthrew them.”

“Quintessons.” Jackie enunciated each syllable. “Theory then. The space bridge runs on proprietary software from the previous civilization, something the following civilization took for granted. The hardware’s easy enough to recreate, but the software? Rather than reverse engineer it, it was easier to just copy it over. Like…like a cracked copy of an operating system being installed onto new hardware. No one really thinks about how it works, just trusts that it does. And then we have Perceptor,” Jackie waved a hand towards the model, “who decided he had enough of relying on antiquated software and began creating his own OS.” A series of beeps emitted from their shell. “That’s coming from me. Why am I beeping?”

After three seconds, Rewind’s head snapped up. “That’s Morse code…an S.O.S.”

“And now I’m moving, why am I moving?” Jackie jumped to their feet and bolted. “It’s the exosuit -- it’s moving on its own! I’m moving on my own! Existentialism!”

“Carly!” Rewind shouted, following the now panicking AI. “Carly must be in trouble!”

“Oh! Well, that makes sense! Do me a solid and find Perceptor’s program -- I’ll be back later!”

Rewind slowed, watching Jackie bolt around the corner. “Easier said than done,” he muttered, turning back to the lab. “I’m an archivist, not a --”

«When the Council decrees that an alt mode has become obsolete, it will order a mass recall. Redundant Cybertronians are destroyed remotely via the detonation of obsolescence chips. By downsizing the population the Council is honoring the Guiding Hand -- principally Adaptus -- and reducing demand for finite energon supplies. Mass recalls should therefore be regarded as acts of both sacrifice and pragmatism. » 

The sudden playback of the stray datatrack alarmed Rewind, and he froze, replaying it three times to make certain he had comprehended the string. He searched the metadata for dates, original location, author, and returned with a jumble of glyphs that hinted at a cypher. 

And something -- no, someone else, unfamiliar to his memory, yet, pulled hard at his spark.

“What happened to us?” Rewind whispered, pressing a hand to his brow.

*

Outside Autobot City
2 kilometers from the Ark

Hound found Beachcomber surrounded by at least half an acre of lupins, ranging from a pale sky blue to rich violet. 

“A little late for these,” the xenobiologist observed, careful to stay along the path. What Hound didn’t say aloud was his databases were registering these as Kincaid’s Lupins, a threatened species. He hadn’t remembered planting these in their rewilding project and assumed that maybe someone else, even Beachcomber himself, had seeded them earlier in the year.

“They were here when I returned from the Ark,” Beachcomber admitted as though parsing Hound’s thought, passing a sachet to his friend. “I think it’s a sign from Gaia. She talks to Primus, I think. We’re on the right path.”

While his words were more esoteric than usual, the gesture was not; Beachcomber loved natural scents, and few of the Autobots could appreciate them at the level he and Hound did. Cybertronian olfactory senses were not as developed as the Terran organics; the majority of Cybes could pick up chemically induced scents, such as burning wood, ozone, or propane, but little else. The introduction of pollen at the level Earth boasted taught the Earthside Autobots that these tiny organisms could foul up a sensitive air filter with reactions that, for an analog, resembled allergies in humans. Optimus himself would sneeze if he got too close to white pine; Tracks got the vapors anytime he drove through a dandelion cloud. Never mind when Sunstreaker would scream for a full service detail after a spring drive, the same level of disdain Mirage would express whenever Hound and Trailbreaker came back after mudding. Beachcomber’s reaction was almost the opposite of an allergy. Humans spoke of taking a hike outside for a natural high; for the geologist, it was literally. 

“Definitely alaria marginata, ” Hound sniffed the sachet. “Going for tidal this time around… symphyotrichum subspicatum… okay, you’re trying to capture an ocean smell without the low tide decay… picea sitchensis…I’m guessing that’s driftwood chips. Wakame, aster, spruce. Not bad.”

“I was going for an umami scent. It has a sense of adventure, of exploration, I think. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. It’s been lonely without someone who appreciates this.” For emphasis, Beachcomber spread his arms wide, indicating the ridge. “I’ve been…conflicted…for some time, I think. Both clarity and confusion.”

“Bumblebee said you had an incident at the Ark earlier.”

“That…yes, it was…strange. We…myself, Skids, Swerve, Tailgate, Pipes…we all had visions. Different visions, and I’m afraid that theirs were much darker than mine.”

“The twins and the Protectobots also had something happen when they checked it out. Anyway, what happened to Pipes? He seemed to have caught the brunt of it worst of all.”

“Oh.” Beachcomber frowned. “He was right at the center of the blast. First Aid said his spark and vital organs were spared, that it was mostly surface and some structural damage. I don’t know, Hound. I do know that I saw…threads. We all had…these…threads. Different colors. Different lengths. Different numbers. It was…overwhelming? But then I felt a hand on my shoulder…and it guided me to see the good, the hope in it. That our Pipes will be all right, and Skids too. And they have all been blessed by Primus, that He guided their sparks towards their own peace. I…I wish I could remember what He looked like, but…but He did say to me that Gaia needed a Voice, because many humes have forgotten what She sounded like.”

Hound had never been much of a spiritual sort, agnostic at most, but he never punched down at another’s beliefs. Instead, he listened to Beachcomber’s account patiently, waiting for a moment to say something. “Well,” he settled with, “I’m certain if anyone could hear a planet’s persona, it would be you.”

“After all, what are the rocks and minerals but the bones of a planet.” Beachcomber picked up a stone and brought it to eye level. “Magma, the lifeblood; flora and fauna, plate tectonics -- a planet is a living being. We’ve forgotten about that with our homeworld during our war. And the humes are following suit.

“The thing is, Hound,” the geologist continued before Hound could get a word in, “Civilization is a mutation. Sometimes it’s beneficial, but often, untreated…it can be a cancer. And when we leave our systems, it becomes transmittable. An oncovirus.”

“Beachcomber,” Hound whispered, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “this is dark for you. What’s wrong?”

“On the contrary, I think there’s a happy outcome to this.” The smaller mech smiled, meeting Hound’s concerned gaze. “You see --”

The sachet made a lingering avgas-laced energon scent more prominent, and Hound’s gaze trailed over Beachcomber’s shoulder to the base of the volcano. “Were any of the Aerialbots here today?” he asked, frowning.

“They’ve been dealing with the Decepticon base, I don’t think so. Wait. There was a rogue Seeker that might have been --”

“--the cause of things,” Hound growled, standing. Looking down at his friend, he asked, “wanna take a look?”

“The Ark’s under quarantine,” Beachcomber reminded, distant. 

“Just around the perimeter,” Hound reassured.

Beachcomber stood, craning his head to meet the taller mech’s gaze. “Around the perimeter,” he repeated, adding. “No further.”

“No further,” Hound agreed. 

“Good,” the smaller mech nodded. “Because I fear you may end up like our Pipes if you go inside.”

*

NW 10th Ave Block, near Yakiniku Kunpu
Pearl District, Portland, Oregon

“Yeah, this ain’t good.” Powerglide landed solidly in root mode, hands up so that the people in charge of the scene could see that he was unarmed and his Autobrand blazened on his chest. Roadblocks cordoned the area around the restaurant, including the park across the street, with armored patrols for crowd control. To the nearest police officer in SWAT gear, Powerglide asked, “Got a call from Hy-Tech security that there’s a situation. What’s up?” 

The SWAT officer pointed to a broad shouldered man with captain bars and a riot helmet. “You’ll want to talk to him; I can’t say anything.” The officer then tilted her head to the right, indicating five or six news vans haphazardly parked fifty feet from the roadblock. 

“Good thing I just got waxed,” the flyer snarked as he made his way to the person in charge. 

“Well, that was quick,” the captain held up a hand to shake Powerglide’s; the Autobot reciprocated by outstretching his index finger, carefully folding his thumb around the human’s hand. “I’m Captain Burns, Counterterrorism Unit. I’m surprised the Autobots got wind of this so fast.”

Snuffing his original retort -- girlfriend’s hen night went so far south if they were on Cybertron they’re doing body shots off of Vector Sigma -- Powerglide instead opted for something more tactful. “Claudia Lysenko of Hybrid Technologies Security team reached out to me; her employer’s a good friend of mine.”

“So you know the hostages?”

“H--hostages?” Quickly shaking away the shock, Powerglide nodded. “Y-yeah. Astoria Carlton-Ritz, head of Hy-Tech, Doctor Carly Witwicky of the Northwest University, Autobot City Campus, and Captain Marissa Faireborn, Earth Defence Force. What do you mean hostages?”

“Hey, my main mech P.G.! How’s it hanging?” Tyrese came up on his right and tapped the Autobot on his hip in a good-natured gesture before holding a hand out to the police captain. “Good evening, sir, name’s Tyrese Otxoa, Hy-Tech Sec. The ladies barricaded themselves with the owner and staff in the kitchen; as soon as you give the all-clear, they’ll leave out the back.”

“Sir,” another police officer ran up to Captain Burns, “we have a confirmed ID: it’s HOA.”

“Homeowners’ Association?” Powerglide muttered, arching a brow. 

Tyrese snorted, then composed himself. “Human Optimization Allegiance. They’ve been a pain in the ass ever since the Initiative took root. Yeah, we’ve heard of them. Didn’t think they would go into full-blown urban guerilla, though.”

“Never heard of them,” Powerglide furrowed his brow. 

“Relatively new upstart,” Captain Burns frowned. “They’re a posthumanist group lobbying to relax ethics on cybernetic augmentation on humans, under the argument of informed consent.” To his subordinate, he said, “they’ve never gone this far to take hostages, though.”

“We’re thinking it’s a splinter group. Still trying to contact a representative for terms.”

“Check with Epsilon Holdings,” Tyrese ordered. “Mr Dante was snooping around earlier; he’s had some meetups with HOA in the recent past.”

“About that,” Captain Burns rubbed the back of the head.

“He’s the one who IDed the group,” the officer retorted. “Primarily because he’s with EMS dealing with chemical burns.”

“Someone’s targeting the Initiative as a whole,” Tyrese looked up at Powerglide. “Probably should inform Dr Fujiyama and Perceptor regarding this.”

“Percy left for Cybertron; I can call Bee to beef up security.” 

“Until we know what they want, we may be at an impasse,” Captain Burns rubbed his chin. “No demands yet, just speculation.”

“And they won’t listen to Dante?” Powerglide demanded.

The officer shook her head. “He’s had dealings with their official channels, nothing to do with the fringe. The official HOA is cooperating in the ongoing investigation with providing potential leads.” Flipping a thumb towards the news vans, she added, “What should we do about them?”

“Neutral response: still under investigation, no demands yet, we do not have confirmation of the hostages’ identities, and don’t disclose the group until we hear back from the parent organization.” To Powerglide, the captain shrugged. “I’m grateful you’re here, I just wish there was something I could have you do without exacerbating the scenario.”

“Could…I talk to Dante?” Powerglide rubbed his chin. “I mean, if he’s willing to talk, that is. I just want to know why he’s in the area.”

“We’ve already taken his statement,” Captain Burns stepped aside and pointed to the medic station. “As long as it doesn’t get antagonistic; we got the sense he’s a good ol’ ‘Murican son, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m well aware of his leanings.” Putting a hand over his spark, the Autobot said, “I promise I won’t instigate the ‘good ol’ ‘Murican son’.”

“Keller!” Burns waved another officer over. “Powerglide’s going to ask some questions to Mr Dante; if he says anything new, make a note of it.”

Powerglide chuckled with a nod. “Looks like we’re on the same page,” he saluted, letting Keller take the lead to the medic station, where Dante sat on the tailgate of an ambulance, a saline solution bottle in one bandaged hand and a cell phone against his ear in the other.

“Yeah, keep me posted, looks like the ‘Bots decided to get involved.” Hitting the end call button, the large man looked up at Powerglide with narrowed blood-shot eyes, the skin red and puffy around them. “Great. You.”

“Heya, Abe!” Powerglide greeted the man with false friendliness. “Heard you had some trouble tonight.”

“Miss Ritz, I presume?”

The Autobot kneeled to bring his attention closer to the human. “That’s Ms Carlton-Ritz to you, and no, her security did. Why are you in Portland, and how are you involved in this hullabaloo?”

“Not too worried about the missus, I take it?”

“I’ve seen her take out an Insecticon with nothing but a broken beer bottle and a string of curses; trust me, I’m more concerned about why you’re here harassing her.”

“Fine. I’m here to protect my investments, and I’ve been trying like hell to have a civil conversation with Miss -- Ms Carlton-Ritz since noon, and she has not once returned my calls.”

“So you flew out here, stalked her to her favorite restaurant on the West Coast, and somewhere between then and now, we have now posthumanist radicals firing tear gas into a posh Japanese grill and sake bar.”

“How many pristine Cadillac Fleetwoods are still on the road?” Dante countered. “She ain’t exactly subtle, and she ain’t the only high-powered exec who prefers A5 Wagyu.” He paused. “That’s a steak. We eat steaks.”

“I know what a steak is,” Powerglide groused.

“Anyway, I’ll tell you what I told the cops: I was working with HOA for a completely different project for our medical division, they had a schism about a year or so ago, and apparently the rogue group decided that radical, militant activism was a better idea than doing things the legal way. Seeing that they’re based in Seattle, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for them to have a cell here in Portland.”

“Well, they don’t seem too interested in you right now.”

Dante guffawed. “They’re amateurs. Probably realized that once I wasn’t in there, they’re scrambling to come up with an idea to get out of this mess.”

“So you think you’re the target.”

“Now that I think about it more, it’s possible. Sorry the ladies got involved.”

“I’m sure.” Standing, Powerglide tapped his comm. “Hey, Blaster, got your audio receptors on?”

“And turned to eleven! Whatcha got, P.G.?”

“See what you can find out about Humanist Optimization Alliance and any splinter groups based in the Pacific Northwest and beam it to --” he glanced at the police mobile unit’s registration number, “--Central Precinct Mobile Unit 6, attention Captain Burns, Counterterrorism.”

Been monitorin’ that myself -- I’m on it. Need an assist?”

“Naw, nothing the humes can’t handle; sounds like amateur hour -- huh?” 

Red tail lights braked hard and an unfamiliar two-seater kit car stopped before him, transforming to robot mode and standing a head shorter than him. “Powerglide! Great! Get me on the roof, pronto!”

Powerglide allowed a half-second to process the scenario before demanding, “Who the hell are you and why the hell do you sound like Wheeljack?” He cocked his head to one side. “Primus Below, he tried to clone himself, didn’t he?”

“Long story short: I’m Carly’s experimental exo-suit with one of Wheeljack's AI programs. Roof! Now!”

“First, there's an active police investigation going on, and second, there's more than one --”

“See these blinking things?” they pointed to the finials on either side of their head. “See they’re not in time with my voice? That’s Carly tapping her call button. As I’m currently bound by Asimov’s Three Laws, I cannot cross that line without assistance. Get. Me. On. The Roof. Bah! Forget it! I’ll just go around the back.”

“Wait!” Powerglide snapped out a hand but caught air as the smaller mech darted around him and nimbly navigated around the vehicles and roadblocks. To the closest officer, he quickly explained, “Apparently that’s one of the hostage’s exo-suit possessed by an AI created by our dearly departed mad scientist and I’m gonna do something really stupid for damage control.”

*

The kitchen’s double-doors were locked, bolted, and barricaded, with towels stuffed into the cracks. Ayane was on her cell phone, speaking rapid-fire in her native tongue, as Hana armed the three frazzled kitchen staffers on duty with chef’s knives, giving them instructions in an equally curt tone.

“Did you get a look at them?” Carly hissed. 

Marissa stayed by the window, using the back of a ladle as an improvised mirror. “At least three out there. Two around the back, watching the back door from across the street. I’m going to assume they have rifles.” To Astoria, she questioned, “what've you found?”

“Landline’s been cut.” Astoria handed her cell to Carly. “See if you can get a hold of Tyrese. I don’t like how Abe just showed up out of the blue…”

“As much as I would love to point the blame on him, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Carly scrolled through the contacts on the phone and pressed the call button. Barely half a ring sounded before the person on the other end picked up. “Tyrese! Yes, we’re okay -- we’re barricaded in the kitchen. No, Astoria isn’t brandishing any sort of improvised weapon, and not for lack of trying -- Powerglide? Good, tell him not to engage until we know who’s responsible -- HOA?”

“Homeowners Association?” Marissa mouthed.

Carly held up a finger. “They’re not -- radical splinter group? Wonderful. Okay, do they have a demand? No?” She scrunched up her nose. “That’s weird. Huh--they may have been targeting Dante? And he’s surrounded by police protection right now -- oh, sure, yeah -- yes, hello Officer -- Captain! Yes, Captain, I’m Dr Witwicky. Everyone’s safe for now. Captain Faireborn said she saw two possible snipers on the rooftop across from the back door. Sure, hold on.” Carly handed the phone to Marissa. “Captain Burns. He wants to talk strategy with someone of rank.”

“Of course,” Marissa took the phone. “Captain, sit-rep?”

“So it’s not Abe,” Astoria grumbled, pacing; Carly steered her away from the windows. “And they don’t have a demand, also weird. What if it’s not Initiative-related?”

“What else is he working on?” Carly asked. “Other business ventures, portfolio investments, current deals…?”

“There’s some cybernetic-biological medical stuff, strictly human-based, though. That could be the link with HOA and why they have little interest with you. Exosuit technology is already available and easily accessible. I don’t know, Carly.” Astoria stopped and, curling her fingers, cried out in frustration. “No demands!”

“All right, here’s the plan,” Marissa handed Astoria back her phone, then motioned to Ayane-san and her staff to join them. “There’s seven hostiles, and all of them have SWAT eyes on them and closing in. There is a bit of a variable involved --”

“Powerglide?” Astoria exclaimed, a little too brightly.

“Actually,” Marissa corrected, “‘Exo-Suit’ and someone named ‘Wheeljack’ came up.”

“Holy scrap, it actually worked,” Carly clapped her hands together. “Okay, I panicked and tried calling my exosuit. It’s a prototype, a little more advanced than the typical suit, I was building it with Wheeljack -- you never met him, Marissa, he was a dear friend and mentor of mine -- and oh my God, the beacon actually worked!” For emphasis, she pumped her fists and mouthed “Yes!”

“It’s automated?”

“Limited capacity, yes, but --”

“Powerglide had a conversation with it.”

Carly furrowed her brow. “Not that automated.” 

Everyone jumped as three sharp knocks vibrated the back door. “Powerglide’s distracting the snipers,” someone sounding hauntingly like Wheeljack announced, “Carly, I’ve got you covered!”

“Carly, don’t,” Marissa ordered.

“Get everyone to the safest spot,” Carly countered, “the best cover.”

“You said it was a prototype,” Marissa hissed.

Astoria placed a hand on Marissa’s shoulder. “Trust her,” she set her jaw and nodded. “Clear us a path, Doc.”

“Chotto-matte!” Ayane-san grabbed a large pot lid and handed it to Carly. “Just in case,” she added in English.

Carly picked up the intention and held the lid over her chest. “Arigato, Ayane-san,” she acknowledged, before bolting towards the back door. 

A couple of pings and shattered glass as two panes of the nearby window exploded; Carly slammed her shoulder against the door jamb and reassessed, looking back at the others and mouthed “okay?” Receiving confirmation with nods and thumbs up, she shifted her attention back at the door.

“One down,” not-Wheeljack reported, “the other’s repositioning. It’s now or never!”

Carly removed the chair and mop they had used to bar the door, then slid the bolt back and swung the door open, slamming it closed behind her as she jumped into the awaiting cockpit of the exosuit. 

As the armor snapped into place, she brought up her HUD. “Let me guess,” she greeted, “Language Model Digamma-Qoppa?”

“Call me Jackie!” Jackie affirmed, bringing her attention to the rooftop. “Second fella, on the fire escape. Wanna take a test drive?”

“What about Asimov’s Law?”

“You're driving now. I’m riding shotgun.”

Carly punched a fist into the opposite open palm; Jackie emulated the gesture. “Incapacitate, wound only if necessary. Let’s do it, Jackie.”

*

The snipers reacted, but not from Powerglide’s arrival. They each fired a shot before the one on the right turned to face the Autobot. Swinging the weapon around, they squeezed off a shot that ricocheted off Powerglide’s arm. Not armor-piercing…? 

The second sniper panicked, bolting to the fire escape. That one would find the waiting arms of Portland’s Finest; Powerglide had his optics set on the one standing their ground.

“You wanna talk about what’s going on?” he initiated, holding his hands out in invitation. “You’re using semi-jacketed hollow points; weak choice for a sniper, and especially facing off a Cybe. Seriously, what the hell is going on? I don’t like Abe any more than the next guy, but seriously, is it really worth the --” Another shot, this time striking the center of his helm. “Ow! Look, it may be superficial, but it still smarts, which is about the only smarts you got right now -- I’m trying to help you!”

The sniper tossed the rifle aside but stayed their ground, defiant, hands flexing.

“Seriously?” Powerglide rubbed his brow, more out of confusion than irritation. “Just come quietly, I’m sure it’s not nearly as --”

He did not get the chance to finish that statement, as the sniper threw their hands out, fingers splayed; lightning crackled along each digit and slammed into Powerglide’s chest, overloading his senses and rendering him unconscious.

Rolling their shoulders back, the sniper approached the now prone Autobot. Tapping an earpiece, they reported, “Target acquired. Counterterrorist unit is occupied. All yours.” 

*

The spooked sniper only made it fifty feet before he found himself facing off with a squad of armored SWAT officers. Having ditched his weapon before hitting the escape, he already had his hands over his head in surrender, sinking to his knees.

“I didn’t know!” he cried out, offering no resistance as the squad leader cuffed him behind his back. “I’m sorry! I was told it was a peaceful protest!”

“So much for Miranda,” Carly muttered as Tyrese jogged up next to her.

“I don’t know Miranda!” the sniper wailed; mask and goggles removed, he was revealed to be a freckled ginger with a snotty nose. “They said if I didn’t do it they’d hurt my family!”

“That’s gonna be a lot to unpack,” Tyrese looked up at the exosuit. “Dr Witwicky, looking sharp! They’re closing in on the back alley to get the others out to safety. Gonna be a bit of debriefing down at the station, though. Captain Burns wants to know if you’re up for a statement over coffee and donuts.”

“I still don’t understand what just happened,” Carly admitted. 

“Well, we can ask Mr Dante, seeing that they were likely targeting him,” Tyrese said. “You want to let your crew know what’s up?”

“Jackie’s already sent a report to Blaster.” She gestured to her helm. “Jackie’s the AI in the suit. He was Wheeljack’s lab assistant.”

“I guess I could be a he? Groove and Rewind got into the habit of using ‘they’ but I guess both work. Just that I know I’m not an ‘it’, and ‘she’ doesn’t seem to fit. Hmmm. Guess that’s the initial language learning protocol coming into play. Anyway! I’m Jackie, now Carly’s AI lab assistant. Pleased to meetcha!”

“Did they get the ones who threw the tear gas?” Carly then asked.

Tyrese nodded. “Once shots were fired they tried to scatter. Probably because if they were anything like that kid, they got in over their head. That is, if he’s not putting on an act. Captain Burns was right; they were amateurs.” The whirl of a helicopter approaching overshadowed the rest of the late night noise. “Guess the media’s picked up on this now.”

“Carly,” Jackie alerted through the internal comm, scanners active. “I’m not picking anything on radar.”

Carly looked up, Jackie’s HUD searching for a target. “I can hear it…? Doppler.”

Tyrese tapped his earpiece. “Claudia, military presence? Stealth chopper incoming.” He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Airspace is reported clear,” he met Carly’s gaze through Jackie’s visor. “Any ‘Con choppers?”

“Unless things've changed in a coupla years, Just Vortex,” Jackie enunciated, this time externally. “Woulda picked up an energon-laced exhaust. Hold on, switching to thermal…” their faceplate turned solid; Carly could now see a faint outline of a sleek, sharp-angled chopper descending overhead. 

“Cover. Cover!” she ordered, picking up Tyrese and bolting back to the mobile unit out front. Already, the SWAT and counterterrorism units had taken up defensive positions, the apprehended suspects and noncombatants already taking cover within the armored vehicles.

A series of subaudible pops heralded a series of canisters dropped from high above, a tactic far too fresh to Carly; the law enforcement personnel were already prepared, scrambling to fit their masks and getting the unprotected to safety.

Instead of tear gas, the canisters exploded in brilliant white as thick smoke rolled through the streets. While most were shielding their eyes, Carly, the exosuit’s faceplate already in darkened mode, picked up the chopper’s heat signature, and another, as the vehicle lifted a limp Powerglide from the roof of the building.

“Blaster! Get Skyspy on my coordinates! Stealth chopper, unknown origin, just took off with Powerglide!” she hailed.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t have flight capabilities. My vehicle mode’s pretty much a Fiero with a Cybe-tuned engine,” Jackie admitted.

“Let’s just hope Skyspy can pick up human stealth tech,” she sighed, following the retreating copter’s wake. “I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Astoria.”  

*

1km outside The Kolkular Exclusion Zone
Kaon

“Bravo leader checking in. No movement in the southern quadrant,” 

“Charlie leader here. HAZMAT assessment is still in progress; rapid decrease of preliminary readings within the current exclusion zone; estimate T-minus twenty-five cycles before area is within safe perimeters. Outside initial energy pulse and transmission, we’re not detecting any other signatures, lifesigns or otherwise.”

Chromia tapped her comms to respond. “Acknowledged. Alpha and Bravo teams, continue perimeter checks; Charlie team, finish assessment and fall back; we’re here to count potential ‘Cons, not to clean up. ”

“Chromia.” Fifty paces away and higher up on the Cradle’s rim, Rollbar pointed westward. She followed the minibot’s gesture and swore under her breath, hand on her pistol hilt. 

A heavy tank rolled forward, then reverted to root form, an equally imposing figure in violets and golds. Hands up to show that he was unarmed, the mech approached, gait slowing. “Peace, Autobot,” he greeted, a low, gravelly tone. “I am here to assist you.”

“Identify yourself,” she ordered, “and who you represent.”

“I am Axe, of the Circle of Light, from Theophany. I serve under Dai Atlas.”

“And what of your companions?” Rollbar demanded, pointing with his chin skyward. A bluff, Chromia realized; Axe appeared to be otherwise alone.

Axe folded; whether or not he fell for the bluff or decided it prudent to show his hand to prove his sincerity, it was hard to gauge. “Two others,” he admitted. “Two scouts. One airborne; he will return to me shortly. The other, an infiltrator; he has found an underground network leading into the structure, shielded from the radiation. His mission is to shut down the power supply.”

“Our orders,” Chromia retorted, “are for risk assessment, nothing more.”

“And our orders,” Axe drew himself to his full height, “are to halt whatever Shockwave is planning.”

Chromia smirked. “Hey, Rollbar, this guy is trying to intimidate me. What happens when someone tries to intimidate me?”

“You kick his aft and he buys you dinner,” Rollbar answered without skipping a beat, then added, “Ma’am.”

“I mean you no harm, nor do I wish to undermine your expertise,” Axe continued, tone even by sheer will, a twitch of his optic the only clue he was losing patience, “but we have the situation under control. If you will please; Dai Atlas --”

“Dai Atlas hasn’t been on Cybertron in over eight meganna,” Chromia snapped. “Where was he when the Decepticons rose to power?” 

“Our monastic order focuses on pacifistic solutions --”

“So you fragged right the Pit off when conflict arises. Got it.” Chromia countered. “Yeah, frag this; we got what we need. All units, wrap it up, we’re heading back.” Flipping on her internal comms, she then hailed, « Bravo leader, take two and stay behind, I need someone to keep an optic on these guys. »

« On it, boss. »

A half-click to the south of Chromia’s position, Crosshairs pulled away from his scope, gesturing first to Roulette, then Sureshot, before circling a finger over his head to indicate the rest of his squad and flipped his thumb westward. The remainder fell back to Chromia’s position, a series of well oiled safeties clicking back to standby, as the tapped two converged on their squad captain.

“Tail the big guy,” he ordered Roulette, then to Sureshot, “find those tunnels, let me know ASAP when you do. I’ll take the flyer. Do not engage, fall back if confronted.”

Neither questioned their orders, only nodded and broke away, keeping low and in the shadow of the Cradle’s lip.

*

The Cradle had been a magnificent if terrifying sight, a marvel of the Constructicons’ engineering skills, in the height of the Deepticons’ power. Now, it was a blighted reminder of the horrors of the Great War.

The creaking of the Cradle above would make anyone nervous; since Unicron’s attack, Kolkular sagged from the weight of the dome, losing at least a dozen meters’ elevation every quartex. Without intervention, the Cradle’s support cables were estimated to give out within two stellar cycles, rendering Kaon’s capital hub inhabitable for millennia to come.

The shielded transit tunnels under the Cradle were more or less in passable order, trails the knight-errant had attempted but failed to forget. Now, his leader had tasked him with dredging those memories back to the surface. After a trek through deteriorating hallways, he finally entered the primary command hub.

Monitors, currently transparent in their offline state, surrounded a wide tube made from bulletproof plastisteel. The massive throne, affixed on a control arm, was a panopticon for the years Megatron had ruled here, keeping tabs on his domain; during that, Shockwave managed the communications in Polyhex and Straxus, the troop construction at Warrior’s Gate in Darkmount. The control arm had been lowered into the sub-level, where the roar of a furnace echoed from below.

Thus explains the power surge, the knight-errant thought, and approached the outer wall. Raising his fist, he banged on the transparent wall, electrical sparks arcing around the impact area.

“My brother by the light of Primus!” he bellowed, stepping away from the wall and, kneeling, drew his great sword from its sheath on his back. Laying it across his lap, he waited a quarter cycle before continuing his litany. “Why do you continue to follow a path towards Chaos when you are blessed by His Will? Why do Shockwave’s bidding?”

Receiving no response, he resumed his vigil, giving ample time for a retort before continuing. “Tell me, brother, how do the Decepticons fit into Primus’ Grand Plan for us? Enlighten me with your Wisdom: Shockwave is an affront to Primus’ Will, and yet you --”

The panopticon flared in a blinding light; the knight errant shielded his optics from the initial blast. The walls held, but not without issue: the metal groaned, the panels rattled in their housings, a few of the monitors hissed and darkened as the liquid crystals within leaked from cracks and evaporated.

When the light died down to less painful levels, a Seeker in orange, yellow, and white floated above the throne lift, fiery gaze leveled to the grounder who dared instigate him.

"’In the spark of an enemy, there will be salvation. And in the darkest hour, there will be a light,’" the knight errant recited. “Thank you, brother Sunstorm, for taking this moment to speak with me. My apologies for provoking you, but our -- and by extension,  Primus’ -- situation has become most dire.”

The Seeker glowered, but said nothing; he didn’t strike out, which was promising, thus the knight-errant continued. “Are you aware of the exterminations of our colonies? Why we’re returning to Cybertron?”

“I had encountered,” the Seeker growled, “one of these ships. Cybertronian, neither Autobot nor Decepticon. A progenitor ship, from the Exodus epoch.” He lowered his head in challenge. “Lord Shockwave is mobilizing what is left of our forces, and from the lieutenants, we shall choose a representative to petition the High Council. As per the Novus Conclave, the Autobots must acknowledge our place at the table.”

Now the knight-errant stood, a clean, fluid motion rising from the balls of his feet and straightening his knees. Sheathing the great sword, he asked, “Is that why he sent the signal?”

“If the progenitor ship reaches Cybertron,” Sunstorm continued, “they will exterminate us all. Both Lords Shockwave and Darkmount understand this and are willing to set aside past aggressions to broker terms of a ceasefire, for a united Cybertron front to face this adversary.” 

The Seeker now cocked his head to one side. “You call me ‘brother’, and invoke the Light of Primus. Few knew outside of the Decepticons knew of my affiliation to our God. Tell me, ‘brother’, be you one of the Light of Primus, or had you once stood in arms by my side?”

“My path to Primus led me away from the Decepticon cause,” the knight-errant admitted cautiously, “whereas yours kept you by Shockwave’s beck.”

“A traitor,” Sunstorm sneered, aura flaring.

“I chose to follow Primus, above all,” the knight-errant turned to leave. “I recognized far too late of Megatron’s folly. Goodbye, brother Sunstorm.”

“Halt.” It was not quite an order, but in no ways a plea. “You have me at a disadvantage. Who are you…who were you?”

The knight-errant complied, head turned just enough for an optic to glint from the periphery of his helm. “Paladin-Aspirant Drift of the Circle of Light, formally of Theophany. Who I was no longer matters.”

A surge of heat fell against his back, and Drift unsheathed the two smaller swords at his hips, and, with a casual series of wrist flicks, severed the coolant lines running along the ceiling, spraying the room with suppressant foam. A klaxon blared with a sickening warble from millennia of disuse as he calmly exited the room, the blast doors closing immediately behind him. Once out of sight of Sunstorm, Drift sheathed his swords and dropped the collected knight act; bolting forward at full speed, he vaulted over the damaged equipment and uneven terrain, keeping a scanning gaze for active defense systems, trip wires, and pitfalls. 

Stealth had not been at his forethought; he barely dodged the shot from a sniper rifle. Drawing the sword at his left hip, his optics darted to where the shot had originated. He altered his path, zigzagging his gait, before leaping over the debris the sniper was using for cover. 

Confirming the brand -- Autobot -- on the yellow and red mech’s chest, Drift flipped his sword hilt first and slammed the pommel into the sniper’s dominant elbow joint. The sniper swore, dropping the rifle.

“I’m an ally,” Drift stated, shouldering the swearing Autobot into a firefighter’s carry and resuming his retreat out of the Cradle, “and if I weren’t, you’d be dead. Right now we need to vacate! Axe, Wing, recover any other Autobot stragglers and fall back to Iacon! We got what we need!”

“Who the frag are you?” The Autobot struggled; Drift pressed hard into the wounded joint as a warning.

“Please don’t argue -- I’m here to help!” The exit was in sight, a large bay door off-kilter from its track. “Please tell your crew we need to fall back before the Cradle’s self-destruct kicks in!”

“Self-destruct -- frag! Crosshairs, Roulette, the damn fool triggered the Cradle’s self-destruct! Get the frag out of range!”

Not entirely a falsehood , Drift considered a rebuttal and decided against it. “Apologies for disarming you -- when we clear the exit, think you can transform?”

“You’ll be carrying my aft outta here if I can’t, dumbaft!” the Autobot snapped.

“Okay, I deserve that. Name’s Drift; what’s yours?”

“Helluva time for introductions!” 

“No time like the present!” In one smooth movement, Drift set the sniper on his feet and dropped to vehicle form. “Let’s move!”

Iacon, Cybertron

“You’ve never been to Cybertron?” Daniel asked.

Raoul shook his head. “Never had a reason to until recently; between work and life I’ve pretty much been…well, not homebound, that’s for certain. Planetbound, perhaps. Anyway, when your mama called me, I figured I should just take the bull by the horns and try something new. Cross a much needed to-do off my bucket list, savvy?”

“Did you go over the oxygen treatment strategies?” Daniel handed Raoul an informational datapad. “The embassy and residences are kept at Earth levels, but outside designated areas you’ll need to either go through an oxygenator chamber or wear a portable oxygenator --”

“He gets his smarts from his mama, doesn’t he?” Raoul interrupted, directing the comment to Spike.  

“You’re addressing the first human with dual planetary citizenship here,” Spike chuckled, clapping his son’s shoulder. “He takes his honorary diplomat status very seriously.”

“I’m betting this,” Raoul chuckled, maintaining his gaze with Spike as he waved a hand at Daniel, “is a kid who knows how to abuse diplomatic immunity.”

“This is a kid who had two Primes read him bedtime stories,” Jazz chuckled. “I’m gonna go plausible deniability here and get things handled with the Conclave mess; actually, I just had the most brilliant of ideas.” Snapping his fingers, Jazz then pointed both index fingers at Raoul. “How ‘bout you an’ I do a little cultural exchange program?”

“Whatever you have in mind, I’m game,” Raoul wasted no time. “Hit me.”

“Daniel, Wheelie, let’s get settled into the suite,” Chip suggested. “We’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

Daniel was about to protest, but yawned instead. 

“Get some rest, there is always tomorrow,” Wheelie saluted his friend, “our ‘homework’ will in no way lay fallow.”

Spike gave his son's hair an affectionate ruffle, then, after watching Daniel and Chip enter the embassy suites -- Wheelie leaned forward, whispered something to Daniel, then split away from the humes -- he and Raoul followed their Autobot companions out into the Iacon evening. The city lights blanched out most of the stars, the barest of crescents of Cybertron’s surviving natural moon high overhead in the west and, close to the southeastern horizon, a brilliant blue star illuminated the sea.

“Wow! Cybertron!” Raoul spun in place, staring up at the lit spires and towering skyline. “Never thought I’d be able to visit! Imagine where I’d be had I not met Tracks that one fine evening!”

“You’d still be stealing cars, Raoul,” Tracks strode up to Jazz, Spike, and Raoul.

“And now, I steal their hearts,” Raoul laughed, running up to embrace his dear friend. Tracks dropped to one knee and returned it tenderly. “Missed you, ya metal cowboy.”

“Just in time!” Jazz snapped his fingers together. “Tracks, I’ve got a brilliant idea and could use an assist.”

“May I remind you that I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Tracks retorted, picking Raoul up and affectionately setting him on his shoulder. 

“I assure you, gorgeous, it’s pure diplomacy and right up your alley,” Jazz chuckled. “If only we had Blaster, it would be quite the trifecta.”

Raoul caught the hint. “A pale second,” he admitted, exhuming an MP3 player from his kitbag, “but just as well curated, I assure you.”

“Aren’t you the least bit jetlagged?” Spike asked.

“Something about the promise of a night life,” Raoul smiled, twirling the device on its lanyard, “with fine grooves and finer friends gives me quite the second wind.”

Spike glanced back at Elita One, who was focused on a discussion with Kup and Springer, and rubbed at his collar, further loosening his neck tie. “Okay, you go on ahead; I don’t have the stamina for clubbing, and I still have to prepare for a call to Council first thing in the morning.”

Saying their farewells to the others, Spike followed Chip and Daniel as Jazz, Tracks, and Raoul turned the hallway to the concierge office. 

Elita gave Jazz the barest of nods before setting her shoulders, turning to meet Springer’s gaze. “Go, now,” she ordered. “Jazz will meet up with you with his own team on a later flight. We need to work fast.”

“On it,” Springer nodded, tapping Kup’s shoulder as he led the charge back on board Sky Lynx, where Broadside, Cavalier, and Perceptor remained waiting.

“Good luck, lass,” Kup clapped Elita’s arm in support before following the younger mech. 

She nodded, then turned to face the incoming security detail. 

“Prime,” Firestar greeted, tone grim. “You’re aware of the situation.”

“I will submit to whatever inquisition the Conclave wishes,” Elita nodded, “but first, I will speak with the desecrator.”

Inferno chuckled; it was not a joyous sound. “Right this way, ma’am,” he stepped aside, holding out his hand in an “after you” manner. 

Firestar fell in step with Elita, with Inferno flanking the two, as they proceeded to the detention facility underneath Government Center’s Security block. After three checkpoints, not including the complicated protocol Red Alert had installed specifically for security clearance, they entered the facility’s flight-risk block. The protocols had been beefed up after Hound’s visit, upon his request; Red Alert had no issue agreeing, ramping up the barrier settings so that a solid energy pane separated Tarantulas from the rest of the world.

“Ah, Elita! You’ve received my message!” The arachnoid sat in the center of the cell, one leg crossed over the opposite and pincers clasped around his higher knee. “Thank you for taking the time to --”

“Where did you take them?” 

“Straight to the point. I had hoped we could exchange pleasantries; allow me to start: as stated in my message, I am Tarantulas, and I’ve come a very long way to prevent the destruction of our race.”

“By stealing our comrades’ bodies?” Inferno shook his fist at the prisoner. Firestar clamped a hand around his wrist, a warning.

Tarantulas was unfazed by the outburst. “Actually, you’re spot on. You see, I had to intervene. The Quintessons had every intention to obtain your brethren, specifically your fallen leader.”

“And what about the others?” Inferno protested; this time, neither Firestar nor Elita admonished him.

“Oh, they’re important too. Necessary, even. Always have been. Had the Quintessons succeeded, they would have destroyed the mausoleum. Taking the major players out of the equation, and they no longer have a reason to destroy your hallowed halls. You're welcome.” Tarantulas raised a hand and waved it dismissively. “Now, give us some purported privacy; what I have to say is for Prime’s audio processors only.” He gestured in the general area of the ceiling. “And your security director, of course. He will fill you in on what details he can glean.” 

The five-click pause unnerved the security detail. “Elita,” Firestar said quietly.

The Autobot leader, optics locked on Tarantulas, nodded. “This will not take long.”

“Understood, Prime,” Firestar nudged her taller partner and together they exited the block, the door sliding securely behind them.

Tarantulas watched the two security mecha leave, then chuckled. “Hot-headed, but loyal to a fault; I knew someone else like that. No matter: to business:

“As I have stated, I’ve come a long way to discuss matters with you. You see, I’m from a future -- no longer your future, that is still malleable -- but a perhaps future adjacent, what would have happened without intervention. I could go into further explanation -- oh, how I want to go! -- but while I am away from my ship, time is limited. 

“Tell me, how’s your experimentation been going?” He rubbed his hands together, lowering his head, challenging. “Yes, I know about your ‘special power’ and how you’ve been testing the limits, testing your control.” He cocked his head to one side. “I know about the Quill.”

Elita scowled. “What do you know about it?”

“Not ‘how’. I like that. You understood my implication. As I said, I’m from a future that stems from a common point: that common point? Unicron’s awakening. Alpha Trion and his connection to Vector Sigma; his Artifacts, the Covenant and the Quill…not only do I know of the Quilt, I know you’re the Quill, Elita.” He chuckled, more to himself. “The Quill edits reality, revises the narrative. And where it’s not the only way to do so, it’s one of the most elegant ways to do so, the most contained. Not like the clunkiness of time travel and workarounds with causal loops.”

Her expression reverted to something more neutral. “You have me,” she said slowly, “at a disadvantage.”

“Ah. Alpha Trion never took the time to explain, did he? How to word this simply? You’re not revising your past. Instead, you snip clippings from other threads, weave them into your own.”

She recalled the twisted slag that had been someone else that she had sacrificed to save her own Optimus over two decades ago and shuttered her optics. “And you?” she asked, voice husky.

“Me? I’m merely an observer of divergences. It’s what I specialize in. I suppose you could call it meddling. But where I jot notes in the margins and highlight some key points, you are a true editor. No, I make causal loops and let someone else clean up my mess. I…encourage…changes, but they’re within the thread itself. You’re able to access the entire braid. Apologies, I am devolving into analogies.” 

He uncrossed his legs, planted his feet, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I am asking you, Elita, for your aid. This thread is fraying, and it’s all connected to what’s transpiring right now. You’re patching it the best you can: reviving Ultra Magnus and Thundercracker is a start, but you can do more. I can assist you, show you how to observe and splice from other threads without corruption. Without damage. We have the same goal: we’re saving our race from extinction, not just in this universal stream, but throughout all of our braids, every thread we have ever existed and will exist. And the cause of that extinction boils down to one common denominator.”

“The Decepticons,” Elita suggested, testing the depths.

Tarantulas cackled. “Ohoho! You’re thinking too small. The Decepticons are the least of our worries! In fact, they’re just as much victims in all this as the Autobots when it comes down to the grander picture. No, the ones who annihilated the colonies on Nouveau Juneau, Paradron, Dominius, Theophany, and many, many others -- they have two goals: to reclaim Cybertron, and to prune the deviations to the original pattern. Me. You. The Conclave, the future High Council. Every Cybertronian with free will and independent thought.” Now, he stood, holding out a hand. “Elita, I can help you understand and develop your abilities where Alpha Trion left you woefully underprepared. All I ask is that you help us fight Legion and their march towards entropy.”

Elita remained silent for well over a cycle. “On one condition,” she lifted her head, set her shoulders. “Tell me what you intend to do with their bodies.”

“Ohoho!” He rubbed his pincers together. “I’m so glad you asked! Repairing them is the easy part, especially with the technology we have at our disposal. What we cannot do -- “

“-- is to revive their sparks,” Elita finished, realizing she had done just that, not a full solar cycle past.

Tarantulas nodded enthusiastically. ”I have already calculated the plots within the oscillating model to obtain enough spark material to regenerate from zero point without destabilizing the stream of origin. We only need someone who can prune just enough to graft a clipping. From there, it will take root and bloom on its own.”

“What do you intend to do with them?”

“Bring them back, of course! Do you understand what entropy is, Prime? It’s chaos spreading out, losing energy, succumbing to death, the perfect order. Yes, I sow chaos, but it is the chaos of life, of free will, the chaos of emotions and all that makes us unique. I do not wish to change your brethren, least of all your beloved Pax; no, we need them to be their wondrous, individualistic selves!” 

He lowered his voice, a melodramatic stage whisper hinting at conspiratory acts. “You know as well as I do the Novus Conclave -- specifically Traachon and Tomaandi -- want to sweep the Great War chapter under the rug. They intend to instate their form of bureaucracy and are doing everything in their power to convince the delegation that it is the best course of action: ignore what remains of the Decepticons, hunker down, and hope to Primus that it’s enough to withstand the oncoming storm.”

“It won’t be enough,” Elita admitted.

“No, it won’t,” Tarantulas leaned back. “You’re not a fool. That is why Xaaron puts his trust in you. Why I’m putting my trust in you.”

“I cannot leave Cybertron,” she reminded. “It would cause an uproar and put those loyal to Optimus in danger.”

“Nor should you -- after all, the Quill should be as close to the Covenant as possible for our plan to succeed.”

“Still, you will need to stand for your crimes.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Now Tarantulas stood. “I should stand before a trial -- Thank Solomus for due process! -- except…” he cackled. “...Remember that bit that I’m from the future?”

His form flickered, then blinked out, leaving behind a small, cylindrical device in the center of the cell.

*

Debris Base
Klo
Upsilon Scorpii (Lesath) System

The Xantium was a retrofitted cruiser from Cybertron’s expansion era that never saw interstellar travel until the start of the Great War, when Zeta Prime ordered its crew to garrison the observation base at Lesath II into a fully operational military facility. The massive ship had remained in orbit, as the central hub and primary planetary defense.

Over the millennia, focus shifted from maintaining the surface base to focusing on the Xantium ’s upkeep; while still serviceable, the base served as more for storage and punishment details as it slid into disrepairs. 

Thus, earning its derogatory name of Debris. 

During the past couple of decades, half-sparked attempts at repairing and refitting the base beyond basic defense maintenance. The efforts ramped up when the civil war turned hot once more as the Autobots needed a jump point between Earth and Cybertron. By the time the Xantium was ready to assist, Unicron had made the push against their homeworld; once all systems were green, the Chaos Bringer had been destroyed, and the Cybertron Civil War ended with it.

The garrison returned to a painfully boring holding pattern, until now, a little over a Cybertronian stellar cycle later, when word reached base command that they were mobilizing their intel satellites for full spectrum deep-space scans of hostile activity within one-hundred parsecs radius.

Afterburner, from his guard tower, kept an optic on the maintenance crew reinforcing the Libration One Point orbital tether to the Xantium’s dock.  

His brother and shift partner, Strafe, who was paying more attention to his rifle rebuild than his assignment of listening to the radio chatter of incoming ships, cleared his throat. “Hey, Afterburner, ever wonder why we’re here?” 

“Because Scattershot and me had a disagreement with some Junkions at the Nova Cronum construction site and we all got sent here together. You’re welcome.” Afterburner caught the streak of an incoming utility shuttle.  

Strafe looked up from his rifle. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, why are we here? Not here on Klo. Here, as in, existence? Why are we here?”

“Helluva time to have a philosophical discussion.”

“And it wasn’t a disagreement,” Strafe corrected, “it was full out fisticuffs over a spanner.”

“They were using the wrong damn spanner in the first place! Frikkin’ Nosecone told them it was the wrong spanner, he offered them the right spanner, and they ignored him. I was backing a brother up.”

“So we’re out here to get into fisticuffs over spanners.”

“Oh, here? Here, we’re allowed to do that.” Afterburner shrugged. “It’s kinda fun, come to think about it. Here, you can get into fisticuffs over spanners all day and then meet in the mess for a quart or five afterwards.” A pause. “We got incoming -- anything on the radio?”

Strafe had his rifle chambered ready at “incoming”; his shoulders slumped the second part of the question. “Lemme check,” he muttered, returning to his seat and toggling the switches to catch standard frequencies. “Modified Sirian light transport gunship…don’t get many of those around here. Huh, Kethys via Autobot City? Likely one of ours, then.” Flipping through a flight list on his datapad, Strafe tapped a link, then dialed in the ship frequency. “Flight Seven-Four-Alpha-Kappa-Gamma-Eight-Niner, this is Klo Watch Tower Chi-Zeta; declare captain, pilot, and commanding officer you report to.”

“Watch Tower Chi-Zeta, this is Spiral-Class long range recon courier Little Revenge ,” an even, lightly accented tenor replied, “Port of Origin: Kethys, Sirius II; currently contracted to Autobot City, Sol III. Skyfire of Vos, pilot and navigator; Artemis of Iacon, co-pilot and crew chief. We are to report to Springer of Petrex or Kup of Tesarus upon arrival.”

Afterburner snorted. “Since when do they assign nerds to the Wreckers?”

Strafe drew a thumb across his throat in warning. “You’re outta luck then,” he replied, “they haven’t arrived yet. You can maintain orbit until they do, or dock with the Xantium, though a warning that the captain is hella surly with the current events.”

“Maintain orbit,” another, this one with a husky contralto, ordered. 

“Watch Tower Chi-Zeta, we will maintain orbit in pace with the L1 tether,” Skyfire reported. “We will remain on standby until our commanding officer arrives.” 

 “ Little Revenge , standby and orbit plans approved and logged. We will keep you posted on updates. Chi-Zeta out.”

“No, really, why would they need an astrophysicist?” Afterburner demanded.

“I don’t know, navigation, perhaps?” Strafe's tone was sarcastic.

“He’s a pacifist assigned to the Wreckers!”

“Is he an absolute pacifist or a conditional pacifist?”

“What does that matter?”

“A whole lot. An absolute pacifist refuses to fight no matter what; a conditional pacifist will fight only when it’s absolutely necessary, like self-defense or to protect others. And before you complain, I know he’s a conditional pacifist.”

“Still, no type of pacifist is assigned to the Wreckers!”

“What the hell are you two arguing about?” Scattershot returned from patrol, giving Strafe a playful backhand against the helm.

“Skyfire’s been called up to the Wreckers and we’re trying to figure out why,” Afterburner reported.

“ He’s trying to figure out why,” Strafe flipped his thumb toward Afterburner before returning to his rifle maintenance. “I’m minding my own business.”

“Speaking of pacifists,” Scattershot chuckled, “what’s Lightspeed and Nosecone up to, other than organizing spanners in the workshop?” 

“They’re being nerds,” Afterburner retorted.

“They’re on deep-space scanning,” Strafe amended. “The attacks on Paradron, Athenia, and Dominius were a bit too close to home, so they’re setting up an early detection net.”

Scattershot gestured madly at the tether. “We load up the Xantium and we head those gasholes off at the pass! How difficult is that?”

“You did hear Shockwave’s broadcast, yeah?” Strafe countered. “There’s still ‘Con presence Cybe-side. We can’t split the party until there’s some plan in place.”

“And when’s that gonna be? When the fraggin’ Novus Conclave gets their thumbs out of their collective tailpipes and quit the bureaucratic brittlescrap?” Afterburner protested. “Tomaandi and Traachon pretty much slept through most of the Great War and suddenly they’re back to pretend to give a frag about Cybertron? Hah!”

“Screw this, you two can scream your battle plans into the void, I’m gonna take this inside,” Strafe stood up. “Just had a thought that may curb my boredom.”

“One hundred parsecs -- that’s three-hundred and twenty-six light-years in every single direction!” Lightspeed pressed his palms against his helm as he stared at the monitors. “Do they realize how archaic these telescopes are? It’ll take at least a quarter-megacycle to scan each coordinate! That’s…” he ticked off his fingers as an abacus “...sixty-four thousand, eight-hundred squares, which means… quarter that, sixteen-thousand, two hundred…that’s over two stellar cycles, Nosecone!”

“Then we better get to it,” Nosecone clapped his teammate’s shoulder as he took the chair next to Lightspeed. “I’ll help you; that’ll be half the time. Also, I think we’d be able to cover a sidereal hour with each pass; that will cut our time down by at least fifteen-fold. Besides, that’s if we only had one satellite. How many do we have in operation?”

“Depends on who’s practicing orbital defenses. Last I checked, Scattershot is currently wrangling exospheric patrols.” Lightspeed folded his arms on the desk and slammed his head down into the cradle. “He’s target-practicing, I know it! I don’t care if he’s using blanks, they’re still gonna misalign the instruments!”

“The alert was base-wide, brother; Scattershot wouldn’t do anything destructive when we’re on active duty. Let’s start with planetary zenith, zero to one hour altitude, zero to one hour azimuth --”

Strafe entered and tossed his datapad before Lightspeed. Taking the empty seat at the comms station, he said, “Newcomers have an astrophysicist on board; he might be able to give you a hand.”

“I thought you were on deck with Afterburner?” Nosecone asked.

“He and Scattershot decided that they’d rather get themselves worked up about twiddling their thumbs,” Strafe booted up the receiver. 

Lightspeed arched a brow. “An astrophysicist, you say?”

“Yeah, for some reason, Skyfire’s on board that ship.”

“Skyfire? Really!” Lightspeed’s mood lifted. “Okay, I’ll reach out to him as soon as I finish the satellite diagnostics and calibrations. No, wait, I’ll do that while those run. Give him the head’s up first.” 

“They’re not cleared to land,” Strafe grumbled. “They report to Wreckers, and their Cee-Ohs haven’t arrived.”

“So they don’t answer to Impactor?”

“Wait, back up,” Nosecone held up his hands. “Skyfire got called up to the Wreckers? I thought --”

“Yes, that avenue of speculation has been thoroughly driven into the ground. And no, they’re under Springer and Kup.”

“Oh good, some semblance of sanity within those ranks.” Lightspeed pushed his chair closer to Strafe, handing him a flash drive. “See what he can do with these configurations. I can take direct comms at my station if needed.”

“You good, Strafe?” Nosecone asked suddenly, head cocked to one side. “You seem subdued.”

“Okay, so have you ever just looked up at the sky and wonder, ‘hey, why are we here?’”

“All the time,” Lightspeed muttered, tapping out a quick search code.

“I know you do, but me? I don’t get all philosophical but tonight? It was weird, just…why are we here?”

“Afterburner and Scattershot had, without consulting me, defended my honor over a spanner,” Nosecone answered dryly. 

Strafe bit down a retort, clenched his hand, and nodded. “Yes, that is why we’re here on Klo. But I mean existence! Look, I had this strange sense of…I don’t know, like I was recalling something I don’t remember and now I feel like we jumped a track. That didn’t make sense. Okay, let me try this again. Like we got on the wrong transport? I mean, it was the right one according to our orders or our tickets or itinerary or whatever, but you know it’s like ‘I’m supposed to be going to Iacon and the sign says Iacon and my itinerary says Iacon but this isn’t how I remember Iacon’? Primus, this isn’t making any sense.”

“Wow, you really are having an existential crisis,” Lightspeed regarded his usually hyperactive brother. “What brought this on?”

“It was a feeling…like indigestion. And then…well, something kinda --”

“Observation Tower Phi-Zeta, this is Skyfire of Vos, responding to your request,” the hail returned; the neutral, even tone Strafe had encountered earlier was replaced by one more invested in the topic. “I would be happy to assist!”

“If you’re gonna nerd out, you’re keeping it on speaker,” Skyfire’s companion ordered.

“Only if you promise not to help,” he bantered; his companion chuckled but said nothing more. “Apologies about that. So what did you need, Lightspeed --”

Strafe sat up, ramrod straight. “What did you say your name was again?” he interrupted. “Not you, Skyfire. The other one. You. What’s your name?”

A collective silence filled both the observation hub and the comms, then: “Artemis of Iacon,” she replied, caution lacing her tone.

“Did…did you ever work security? On board…a ship? Hop ship? Under Ultra Magnus -- Red Alert? Someone else…” Strafe snapped his fingers as though attempting to summon names from thin air.

“Strafe, what’s wrong?” Nosecone whispered, concerned. 

“I know her and I’m trying to remember how!” he countered.

“Ultra Magnus,” Artemis said slowly, choosing her words carefully, “was my commanding officer on Earth, but…I don’t know a Red Alert, nor did I serve on a hop ship. And…I’m sorry…Strafe, was it?...I don’t think we’ve ever met.”  

* 

Chaar

Every step deeper into the bunker -- no, catacombs -- sent a jolt of apprehension up Scourge’s spinal strut. As much as he wanted to plead with Galvatron to leave, to rethink the strategy, to simply dominate these lesser Decepticons and continue on their path to conquest in the most direct path possible, his unwavering loyalty and deep-seeded fear kept his protests down.

It did nothing to curb the visceral wrongness of the situation.

The catacombs led into a large room that came off as more of a mortuary than a laboratory. Slabs with decaying mecha followed the perimeter of the room, body-size drawers half-opened as though someone had rummaged through them, searching for a particular tool or part. In the far end, within an alcove that appeared much newer than the rest of the room, was a complex jumble of cables and consoles, screens monitoring functions of an unknown.

And that unknown was terrifying.

Scourge kept his head on a swivel and his attention in his periphery; something about the shadows was screaming ambush, and it was his master’s gleeful posture and expression that kept the Sweep commander from drawing his weapon. 

“We are not waiting for the others,” Thunderwing stated; it was a question in theory.

“No, I think not,” Galvatron chuckled. “The troops don’t need the anticipation of pomp and circumstance; they need a firm hand and ironclad leadership. They need a reminder of who is in charge, who will lead them to victory.”

“And that would be you, my lord,” Thunderwing bowed his head in reverence.

Lord Galvatron, he mocks you! Scourge wanted to warn; again, his words caught in his vocal processor. Something stirred in his spark, the urge to disappear, to be somewhere else, to even jump back a few meters to avoid whatever this suffocating dread was pressing down upon him.

Thunderwing, aware of Scourge’s discomfort, granted the smaller mech a sharp-fanged grin. “My lord, I can smell the fear from your subordinate. Has he wronged you? Did he do something to displease you?” He laughed. “Perhaps he will be a sacrifice…?”

“Scourge’s loyalty is unwavering. His fear makes him alert.” Galvatron replied, a warped sense of pride lining his statement. “It makes him an efficient tracker.”

“And quick to bolt,” Thunderwing countered, optics never leaving the goateed mech. “You are the first to hide when the battle comes to you.”

“M--my lord!” Scourge protested, a plea for Galvatron to defend him.

Galvatron, instead, threw his head back and laughed. “Come now, Scourge! You certainly haven’t become so skittish as to know how to stand your own ground! Let us continue -- I am certain Shockwave would be disappointed not to be a part of this in person, but he has his hand full right now.” Again, he guffawed at his own joke. “No matter -- in a few megacycles, the Decepticons will experience a glorious resurrection!”

“Yes, my lord,” Thunderwing nodded along, granting Scourge a knowing smirk, “glorious, indeed.”

*

The communications hub was little more than cables affixed to any available surface, leading to consoles and antennae hookups in a fashion that made sense only to the one who hooked it up. In the center of the ceiling was a domed lens surrounded by smaller projectors. 

“We were never meant to meet on Cybertron,” the skeletal-faced mech snarled, adjusting dials and checking their outputs against a list of settings. “That was a ploy to throw off the Autobots, to get their guard up to expect us to attempt slipping into their airspace while they receive their own colony delegations.”

“And what if they are actively searching for this…” Cyclonus weighed his words carefully and settled on “...assembly?”

“Well, that would be on Shockwave, wouldn’t it?” Bludgeon shot Galvatron’s second a challenging glare before continuing his work. “No, Shockwave is a favorite of Lord Megatr --”

“Galvatron,” Cyclonus corrected. “Lord Galvatron.”

“Of course. Lord Galvatron,” Bludgeon agreed without skipping a beat. “Shockwave would not risk a breach so careless.”

“Are you privy to the nature of the assembly, other than a potential morale boost to our ranks?”

Bludgeon snorted, a strange whistling noise through his nasal cavity. “Refortification, most likely. Redistribution of officers. Recognition of services, and examples of what will happen to those who fail the cause -- I do hope we get to watch Starscream’s coronation again. I did enjoy that immensely. Overall, we will be reminded that there will be no margin of error this time around.” The Cygnus Decepticon paused, then met Cyclonus’ gaze. “How loyal are you to your Lord Galvatron?”

“ Our Lord Galvatron,” Cyclonus corrected, “and my loyalty is absolute.”

“Ah. I see. And I take it you and your companion are his elite?”

“Unquestionably, yes.”

Bludgeon nodded. “And…when we gather…Shockwave and Soundwave, Megatron’s own elite…not to mention Thunderwing and Straxxus…when they join us, where does that place them?”

“What are you implying?” Cyclonus kept his tone even, but narrowed his optics. 

“Loyalty,” Bludgeon resumed his work, “is subjective. Especially amongst our kind. I do not trust those who swear absolute loyalty; to do so leads to ulterior motives.”

“You dare goad me?” Again, the Armada commander tempered his words.

“While I do enjoy a sparring round with a worthy opponent, and perhaps we shall entertain that notion under more optimal conditions, that is not my current intention. No, Cyclonus, I am merely trying to understand you, understand the Dark Spark that gave you new life. Which leads me to wonder if your loyalty is truly your own,” Bludgeon once again met the other mech’s heated glare, “or if it was programmed, for if not loyalty is not freely given, if your will is not your own, then could it truly be loyalty?”

“This is ridiculous. Of course my will is my own!”

“Then tell me: Unicron cannot create something out of nothing, nor can He bring sparks to existence. Who were you, before Cyclonus?”

“It no longer matters. I am Cyclonus.”

“Are you one person, or an amalgamation of other dying sparks, melded together to create a mockery of Primus?”

“I am Cyclonus.” Now the taller Decepticon frowned, setting his shoulders. “I am loyal by my own will to our lord Galvatron.”

“Hypothetically,” Bludgeon gave Cyclonus his back as he returned to the console, “if, say, Galvatron and Megatron existed as separate entities…where would your loyalties lay?”

“They are one and the same.”

“Which is why I said hypothetically. I tend to philosophize, you see, especially in this particular scenario. It has been weighing on me for the past couple of stellar cycles.” 

“Hypothetically,” Cyclonus now took on a mocking lilt, “my loyalty is to our lord Galvatron, as Megatron is no longer --”

Cyclonus didn’t finish his sentence as a fist slammed hard at the base of his skull, dropping him to his knees. As he cradled his head, fighting to regain control of his off-balanced gyroscopes, he lefted his head to regard who had snuck up behind him.

“My lord,” Bludgeon pressed a fist to his spark and bowed. “It is good to see you up and about.”

“Are we still on schedule?”

Cyclonus froze; he had heard that voice, that tone before, just recently, whenever Galvatron was lucid, sane, tempered to a razor edge, but -- “My Lord,” he croaked, vision recalibrating, “what have I done to displease--”

A rough hand grabbed his chin and forced optic contact. “I will discuss matters with you in due time,” the powerfully built green and violet mech growled, dropping his hold before standing, “right now, I have an army to lead.”

Bludgeon waited for the exchange to conclude before answering. “We will converge within the megacycle. With the power boost from Kaon, you will be able to address our troops anywhere within the Spur, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Megatron chortled. “Gather the others in the promenade; I wish to brief everyone present before our grand resurgence.”

“And…Galvatron?”

Megatron harrumphed. “We will sort the chain of command at assembly.”

Cyclonus rose to his feet, but kept his head lowered, calculating. He had barely taken a step before the newcomer addressed him without a glance.

“Will you run and tell your addled master what has transpired?” Megatron growled, “or would you instead remain here alongside Bludgeon, to receive our brethren and be part of a unified cause? Be the proud and loyal Decepticon you believe yourself to be?”

Cyclonus froze, contemplated the teardown, then lowered himself on one knee. “By your command,” he said, a quiver in his tone, silently pleading Galvatron for forgiveness he knew would never come, “my lord.” 

“Excellent choice,” Megatron approved, taking the lead to the courtyard.

Chapter Text

Here's a little—whatever. A little thing. A disclosure. An insight. Revisionism—I've always been fascinated by it. By the idea of a writer going back and altering things. Make no mistake: an edit is a profoundly aggressive act. As Froid once said, we grieve for the murdered word. If you want to get the measure of an author, don't look at what they've left on the page.... look at what they've taken away.
—Rung of Rivets Field, Primax 1005.19 Gamma

The Ark, Mt Saint Hillary

Hound and Beachcomber gave the main entrance a wide berth, keeping it in their periphery as they rounded to the annex buildings, where they found Omega Supreme, in the same position Hound had found him back on Cybertron, sitting on the ridge, overlooking the  lake below. 

“How long’ve you been here, old friend?” Beachcomber asked, waving in greeting.

“ONE-POINT-TWO-SEVEN MEGACYCLES,” Omega answered earnestly, optics remaining on the horizon, now peppered with the evening constellations. “COMMUNICATOR: OFFLINE.”

“Plausible deniability if the Conclave attempts to call you back,” Hound nodded. “We’ll let you be, Omega.”

“SOLITUDE: DESIRED.” the guardian looked down at his visitors, a faint smile barely visible through his visor. “BUT COMRADES: WELCOME. QUERY: PURPOSE?”

“Something strange happened here a few hours ago,” Beachcomber took the lead in the narrative.

“INITIAL ASSESSMENT: GRAVITATIONAL ANOMALY.” Omega nodded.

The smaller off-roader returned the gesture. “Yes, and now Hound has picked up something suspicious; we were just scouting the area, no intention of entering since Hot Spot initiated the quarantine.”

Omega’s gaze returned frontward, then he stood, a slow, deliberate movement, before turning to his right and stepping back. He indicated with a wave of his hand to one of the annex buildings behind the main medibay. “SUGGESTION: SERVER ROOM.”

“‘Server room’?” Beachcomber repeated, just as Hound snapped his fingers.

“Because Prowl was the type of administrator who had backups for backups, and taking into consideration Wheeljack and the Dinobots --”

“-- he would have set up a server as far away from the main base as possible!” Beachcomber finished that thought. 

“We pull that drive and bring it back to base,” Hound explained, “the uncorrupted data would give us a better clue about what happened.”

“That is, if it’s uncorrupted.”

“This is Prowl we’re talking about. What’s the human saying? ‘He’d wear a raincoat in the shower’? He likely installed fifteen antiviruses from three different systems.”

“If that’s the case --” Beachcomber began.

“--I know where you’re going, and yes, I do have access to the server rooms. Surprisingly, I am one of the people he trusted with a key.”

Waving to their friend of few words in gratitude, the two headed to the annex complex. They had expected to enter a dusty crypt, much like the mausoleum ship; instead, the annex was air conditioned to near freezing, circulating fans roaring loudly. Servers lined along the east and west walls, a single desk with a monitor and tower in the center of the room. 

Beachcomber grimaced. “This smells way too chemical in here.”

“And too fresh,” Hound muttered. “Someone’s been here recently.”

“Who else would have access?”

“Still alive? Jazz, perhaps.” Hound shrugged. “He’s a hard nut to crack, though it’s no secret he and Prowl were tight.” Frowning, he added, “Keeping the place like Prowl left it might be his way of closure?” Turning his head to face the smaller off-roader, he asked, “Maybe we should ask Magnus to do this --”

An eerie howl blew through the ventilation system, amplified by the fans. Both Autobots snapped their attention to the nearest fan above their heads.

“That’s new,” Beachcomber whispered once the wail faded. 

“What was that?”

“Probably a geothermal vent.”

Hound sniffed the air. “That if it were that close, you’d think we’d smell something over the antiseptic.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” the larger mech cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow, “I’d say that’s something in pain…”

“Some…thing…?”

“Like an…electrocoatl…oh no. That…that isn’t possible.”

“‘Electrocoatl’? Not exactly a native of Earth, and a little too large to sneak on board…Hound?”

Had Hound heard Beachcomber, he made no indication; instead, Hound beelined to the back of the room, running a hand against the far wall. “Prowl, you spawn of a glitch, what did you do?” he whispered, fingers stopping on a panel slightly higher than the rest of the wall. 

“Hound?”

“Before you and the rest of the second wave joined us,” Hound muttered, applying pressure to the panel. Something clicked in place, and the wall sank into the floor. Red lighting flickered to life along the ceiling, revealing a stairwell heading downward at least two hundred feet before veering right. He grimaced. “Well, let’s back up: how much did you know about the original Ark mission?”

“You were searching for another source of energon,” Beachcomber answered, following his friend. “Paraphrased.”

“We had coordinates to an energon source.” Descending the stairs, Hound looked over his shoulder once to see if Beachcomber was following him; when the smaller mech did, he continued downward. “This…this is above my pay grade, honestly, but there’s a reason why we didn’t leave Cybertron during the Golden Age. Not because of the peace. It’s because all the titans had left during the Age of Expansion. We had to learn how to recreate FTL travel. Once we were able to reverse engineer a spacebridge and figure out how to build a fold engine…well, that’s when the Great War pretty much broke. If we were to go anywhere outside our system, we’d need to take shortcuts.”

“I’m not an engineer, Hound. I don’t know what that entails.”

“I’m not either, and I don’t know the details; that’s something to ask Hoist, maybe…or not. I’d imagine it wouldn’t be something he’d be proud of.” Hound bowed his head. “Think about our interstellar capabilities. What’s the quickest way for us to go from Earth to Cybertron?”

“The Jupiter Station?”

“Technically, yes, but if we didn’t have the gates?”

“Interstellar craft, but…” Beachcomber frowned. “Before the spacebridges, we would have relied on those like Cosmos, Omega, Skyfire, and…Sky Lynx….”

“The common denominator,” Hound nodded. “Again, I don’t know how -- that would be a question for the engineers -- but…back then, interstellar travel required a sapient transport. It wasn’t until we got a reprieve from the war about a decade ago, and with help from the humans, before we could figure out how to use nonsapient FTL.”

The two remained silent as they turned the corner; the hallway descended further, the metallic walls relenting to natural pyroducts, the lighting mounted with hooks and exposed wires. 

“Who was it?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” Hound vented hard. “Rails. He…was…Sky Lynx’s brother. He gave his spark for us to make it here. By the time we came to, he was gone.” The larger Autobot turned his head just enough to catch Beachcomber in his periphery. “Or so we thought, it seems. It’s the only reason I can think of for --”

Another haunting moan echoed through the converted lava tube. 

“--that. Rails!” Hound called out, picking up into a run down the stairs that soon transitioned into a steep slope. “Rails, hang on, it’s Hound! I’m coming! Beachcomber --”

“I’ll call base -- sorry, the signal is horrible down here.” Beachcomber backtracked for a better vantage.

“If Omega asks,” Hound raised his voice just enough to catch the other’s attention, “tell him the truth. It’s likely he may have been drawn to Rails’ distress.” 

“You got it.” With a salute, Beachcomber returned to the surface as Hound continued deeper into the chamber.

While he was one of Optimus’ senior officers, Hound’s specialties were exploration and xenobiology. He had attended the briefing, aware of the quiet call for volunteers to avoid a panic -- or worse, a decrease in morale -- and that hard call, when he, along with the rest of the senior officers, surrounded the cold, greying shell of the serpentine titan, deep within the lower decks of the Ark. 

The corridor exited into a voluminous cavern, the ceiling and walls a natural curve, though the floor was a brushed metal installation with what had appeared to be a transit rail platform. 

“What the hell were you up to, Prowl?” he muttered. This was something that couldn’t have been done by one lone administrator, and certainly not under the watch of Optimus --

-- well, that wasn’t exactly true. Optimus trusted his inner circle, and allowed them space to conduct their own projects, experiments, and research. After all, many of them had been scientists, explorers, academics first before the war, and became soldiers out of necessity. As long as it did not harm the native population, did not disturb the local ecosystem, or risk the safety and well-being of the crew, and they were keeping everyone in the loop of what was transpiring, they had free rein.

But this level of construction…granted, between Grapple, Hoist, Huffer, and Wheeljack, it’s entirely possible this could have been pulled off. The issue is that they all would have mentioned something, or gave it away had it been a secretive mission; Hoist and Grapple were too honest, Huffer and Wheeljack, too loose-lipped.

Hound snapped his attention westward as another howl thundered from that direction. He ventured to the edge of the platform and peered into the darkness. A faint, sickly glow of biolighting emanated from within. Without hesitation, Hound hopped off the platform, avoiding the tracks. 

“Rails? Hey, it’s me, Hound. Please, let me know what’s wrong.” A plethora of concerns welled up: what if Rails wasn’t dead when they entombed him? What if he held a grudge against them? What if --

Stop it, Hound chided himself. Ratchet wasn’t the type to make that sort of mistake. No, it had to do with the anomaly. It had to be.

Venturing forward, Hound held out his hands in the universal sign of peace. “We’re calling base for medics. We’ll figure this out, old friend. Can you talk to me? Give me a sign that -- “

“HHHHHHURTSSSSSSSS….”

Pushing all other questions aside, Hound broke into a run towards the light. 

“SSSSSSSSTOP!!!”

Hound stumbled at the sharpness of the order, just as a shimmer warping the light a few feet ahead of him.

“HHHHHHHOLD….”

“What can I do to help?” Hound demanded, activating every sensor he could to get whatever information he could glean. “Rails, you’re in pain!”

The screeching of locked driving wheels not quite aligning with the tracks overloaded Hound’s senses. “Don’t try to move!” he ordered. “Help is on the way!”

“HHHHHHHOUND…” shapes danced in the shimmer, and for a moment Hound thought he had recognized Prowl’s form. “WHHHHHHERE’SSSSSS PROWLLLLLL…?”

Well, that confirmed one suspicion. “I’m sorry, Rails,” the tracker sighed. “He died about a stellar cycle ago. The Decepticons attacked Autobot City -- our embassy here on Earth, while it was under construction. He was one of the casualties.”

“So that’s what happened,” Prowl’s voice emitted from what sounded like a low-fidelity speaker. “Don’t question me yet, Hound. Just do exactly what I say: there’s a console to your right. Boot it up, log in using the administration access -- I purposely left this in my system in the case this would happen -- and it will grant you access to Rails’ vitals. There is a pain management protocol -- run it, it will do the rest. It’s all we can do right now until we get things under control. Now, other than me, who else did we lose in the battle?”

“Let’s back up because it’s been one hell of a day already,” Hound retorted, doing as instructed. “I’d chalk you up to whatever the hell happened up at the Ark today, but it’s clear you’ve been up to this for longer than that, which makes me wonder if you’re responsible for what happened.” 

“What do you mean I’m--” the faintest sound of typing on a mechanical keyboard accented the question. “--ah. No, that wasn’t my doing, but I’ve got a good idea who did it. Or someone trying to pin him; this is a bit too sloppy for his doing…not important right now. Rails first; what happened to the Ark second. Everything else follows through. Continue on about your day.”

“We’re dealing with an AI based on Wheeljack wandering around in an experimental exosuit, Beachcomber had a religious experience while the rest afflicted by the weisskugelblitz--” Hound ennunciated each syllable to make certain he didn’t stumble over the pronunciation “--had existential crises, and --”

“Back up. That’s German -- ‘white ball lightning’?”

“That’s what Jackie -- Wheeljack’s AI clone -- called it. Said it blew out, whereas a --”

“--Schwartzkugelblitz would suck inward. A microscopic white hole and black hole anomaly. I like that. To return to your last observation: yes, I have been involved in Rails’ restoration for the better part of a decade. Six years, nine months, ballpark, if you need to know. Purely an advisory role.”

“Then you would know about the Raiden Initiative.”

“Of course. The electrocoatl CNA is closest to the bullet train design. That’s where your Prowl got the idea about resurrecting Rails in the first place, to assist in the Initiative.”

“‘My’ Prowl? So you’re--”

“--that will require a lot more time to explain, more than what we have available. Long story short, I’m so far ahead in your future, at least three universal oscillations happened. Currently, it’s 2025, Earth Common Era, and I’m sitting in a liminal nexus point which, much to my chagrin, has a pub built into it.” This, he delivered with an air of disdain. “This is complicated and I know you have little patience for anything outside of playing in the mud with the natives.

“Sounds like Rails is finally asleep again,” Prowl interjected before Hound could protest. “Follow up with pain management every twelve hours. It will keep him comfortable until I can figure out what to do, especially with this new data I’m downloading from the server.”

“Speaking of which,” Hound took the opportunity, “we need that data to know what happened during the past twenty-four hours. Are you able to unlock the terminal so that we can --”

“No.”  Prowl’s retort was razor sharp. “I will get the data you need. Everything else is need-to-know.” Another flurry of keystrokes; Hound picked up a husky female demanding “Oi, prick, you gonna order something?” from the transmission. 

“I’m working,” Prowl stated, then, to Hound, “I’m going through any sensitive data as to not compromise any security or diplomatic ventures--” He cut himself off with a curse. 

“Prowl? What’s going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” The tone, Hound recognized, was one that meant that it should very much concern them. “I’ll compile what you need and send it upstairs for download, as well as any information that I am aware of that would help you in your investigation.”

“Will I be able to communicate with you again?” Hound asked.

“If I’m not available, the console has an app where you can leave me a message. It’s secure; you can send sensitive data through it. In the meantime, find a way to save Rails. You will need him.”

“Of course we need him! We spent the last two decades thinking he had died and --”

“It’s no use dwelling on that now, nor it’s no use blaming your Prowl for keeping it secret. He had his reasons. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

“One more question.” Hound held up a finger, though he was certain the Prowl on the other side could not see him. “How did he build this? Our Prowl, that is, if you can’t cross over.”

“It’s not a permanent fix, but I have a code to temporarily reverse the effects of shadowplay.” There was a pause. “You would have called the practice ‘robo-smashing’.” 

*

Beachcomber made the call to Hoist who, even over the comms, was shaken by the news. “I’ll scramble a team and be there ASAP,” the engineer stammered. 

“Hound suggested Magnus if he is available,” Beachcomber relayed. “Only if he’s up to it, that is.”

“I don’t think that will be an issue. He may welcome the change of pace.”

Signing off, Beachcomber looked up at Omega Supreme, who had now paced the length of the complex, upset but maintaining some composure. “Is there anything I can do to help?” the off-roader asked, climbing an outcrop and sitting cross-legged, back straight.

Omega stopped, turned to face the tiny mech, then, in a slow, deliberate movement, he mirrored Beachcomber’s position, sitting at ground level so that they faced one another. “FEELINGS: CONFLICTED,” he admitted. “EMOTION: ANGER. DIRECTION: PROWL. REASON: SILENCE.”

“He should have kept us in the loop, I agree,” Beachcomber agreed. “I hadn’t known about Rails, nor his sacrifice. I don’t know why we weren’t briefed.”

Omega Supreme growled, shoulders slumping. 

“Friends,” Hound greeted, joining Beachcomber on the outcrop. “He’s resting; Prowl had a pain management protocol set up, it needed to be reengaged. I don’t know what else I can do until Hoist comes by. Anyway, from what I can tell, Prowl’s been working towards resuscitating Rails for a while. The only reason I can think of why he didn’t divulge it was to not get everyone’s hopes up. Other than Prowl, the only ones I can think of who would have been involved would be Ratchet and Wheeljack.”

“But we didn’t even know about Rails,” Beachcomber protested.

“No, I imagine that many of the second phase Earthsiders didn’t, Hoist and Grapple excluded.”

“They’re on their way. Hoist was definitely perturbed.”

“I would be surprised if he wasn’t; he was adamantly against the initial project. The problem is anyone who may have anything to do with it is no longer with…us….” Hound rubbed his chin. “Huh. Something that came up while I was investigating…who do we know that was robosmashed?”

After a pause, “ANSWER: CONSTRUCTICONS,” Omega snarled. 

“Are you all right?” Beachcomber asked sincerely.

“NEGATIVE.” Omega glared downward and to the side. 

“I’m sorry, buddy, if I’ve dredged up hard feelings,” Hound apologized. “You and them were both from Crystal City before the War.”

“ANGER: MANAGABLE.”

“Remember: you’re amongst friends,” Beachcomber said. “We’re working towards saving Rails; we should focus on that.” 

“AFFIRMATIVE.” Omega clenched his three-taloned hand, then jabbed the tip into the ground as though that would bleed off the hurt and rage.

“First, I wish Prowl was alive, if only to demand answers,” Hound muttered; he was still not convinced that he wasn’t dealing with an automated message system that Prowl programmed in the event of his death to factor in everyone’s potential questions and responses. “Second, I wish Ratchet and Wheeljack were alive so that we can figure out how, but after we take care of Rails. Fourth -- no, third -- huh.”

“What is it?” Beachcomber asked. 

“Prowl’s message,” Hound leaned forward, elbows on his knees and folding his hands against his chin. “Somehow he was able to get the Constructicons to work for him, at least temporarily. He called it reversing shadowplay…but we knew it as robosmashing.”

“NO.” Omega rumbled.

“I know you’re a ‘bot of few words,” Hound pleaded, “but please, if you know something about this, if you have any insight, I would welcome it with all my spark. Yes, I felt complicit in  allowing Rails to sacrifice himself to get us here, but if we can save him, or at least ease his suffering, it’s the least I can do to help him. Please, Omega, tell us if you know something we don’t.”

Omega once again stabbed the earth, learning forward with grim resolve. “THE CONSTRUCTICONS HAD BEEN MANIPULATED INTO THE DECEPTICON RANKS,” he admitted. “MEGATRON HAD USED ROBOSMASHING ON THEM TO TURN THEM TO HIS SIDE AND DESTROY CRYSTAL CITY IN THE PROCESS.”

Even though Omega attempted to keep his voice low, Hound now understood why the titan avoided talking in full sentences. His voice was a raging thunderstorm at his normal volume; at a whisper, it still held the force of howling gale. Hound was quick enough to tune down his audio receptors; Beachcomber was not so lucky and instinctively clapped his hands against the sides of his head.

Realization dawned on Hound and he sat back, staring up at the sky. “Four,” he muttered, “I wish Sparkplug was still alive. Hell, I wish all our friends were alive. But…it just occurred to me that Megatron had attempted that to us about a year after we woke up, just before your wave joined us,” this, he directed to Beachcomber. “I wonder if Carly would have access to that information.”

“NO.” Omega repeated. “CONSTRUCTICONS: LOST CAUSE.”  

“Well, little good we can do on that front anyway,” Hound shrugged. “They’re already halfway to Charr by now. We’ll have to get Hoist up to speed and hope he and his crew can do something without overtaxing our already overworked doctor.”

“Would Carly had known about Rails?” Beachcomber asked.

Hound shrugged. “If Prowl was involved? Look, I don’t think people realize it, but both Prowl and Jazz both could go morally grey really fast if it would be the benefit of the cause; Jazz is just better at masking it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Prowl pulled out a CNA string from Rails, handed it to the Initiative, and told them it was a specimen from the Ark’s genetic storage of Cybertronian fauna closest to Japanese bullet trains. Oh. Oh no.” The green Autobot placed his head in both his hands. “This is just getting worse the more I consider this.” 

“Consider what?” Hoist questioned, rolling up to the ledge with Magnus, sans trailer, behind them. “Grapple and the others will join us soon; they were in the middle of cycling Metroplex’s energy management systems and didn’t want to leave it unattended.”

“Situation?” Magnus demanded as they returned to root mode.

Hound hopped off the ledge and joined the newcomers. “Rails is still alive. Prowl had been keeping him sedated for I don’t know how long, and -- I’m still trying to parse the details.”

“That is why I’m here,” Magnus reassured, taking the lead. “Hoist, what do you know about this?”

“We had become desperate,” Hoist had resigned to this moment, sadness lacing his words, “and if the first wave were to leave Cybertron on their mission, we needed to figure an FTL solution fast. Wheeljack had suggested we scavenge the Immersant Mountains for…well…I suppose he was not above a little graverobbing. That’s when Prowl asked for volunteers. We only had two interstellar-capable Autobots amongst our ranks at that point.”

Beachcomber, picking up the rear, looked back at Omega, who caught the unasked question.

“STASIS.” The titan shook his head, then, after a beat, “STILL GRIEVING.”

“Rails and Sky Lynx,” Hound said. “Sky Lynx flat out refused, in part because I don’t think he cared much for Prowl. Rails…he was the gentler of the two. The altruistic one. Primus dammit, Prowl, why did you do this?”

“If we were to continue,” Magnus answered, regardless of how rhetorical Hound had been, “as a faction, as a race, sacrifices had to be made. Prowl knew that.” A pause. “Do not mistake my observation as condoning his methods. Understanding, yes, but there should have been another way. We just did not have the time.”

“Right now, our focus is Rails,” Hoist ordered, forcing a professional composure. “Hound, you and I will assess his condition and report back to First Aid. He will send Grapple and the others with necessary supplies.”

“I will see what I can pull from Prowl’s mainframe.” Magnus glanced down at Beachcomber. “I think we have this under control. Please wait outside.”

Beachcomber met Magnus’ gaze, cocking his head to one side. “You were afflicted as well,” he observed. “I can see the you who came through. How could this be if you haven’t been to the Ark since the anomaly?”

“As soon as I figure that out myself,” Magnus admitted, “I will let First Aid know.”

“Could this be Metroplex’s doing?” Beachcomber continued, breaking away from the other three Autobots.

He had not expected anyone to reply; Magnus did anyway. “Some cultures worshiped titans as gods, messengers, or heralds. I do not think even the titans knew the extent of their own abilities.” Another pause. “I am not usually this esoteric, but the past day has seemed to be…” He furrowed his brow. “I am sorry, I cannot even begin to describe what transpired…or how I…feel…about it.”

“I would chalk it up as divine intervention,” Beachcomber smiled reassuringly, leaving the annex and returning to where Omega still sat, arms now crossed over his knees. “I’m sorry if we dug at old wounds, Omega.”

“APOLOGY: ACKNOWLEDGED,” the giant lifted his gaze to the sky. “AND ACCEPTED.” 

“I’ll leave you be, then,” the small off-roader saluted, heading away from the base and closer to the treeline. At this point, he was uncertain of his use here, and while questions bubbled over, he would find no more answers tonight.

“Hey.”

Beachcomber’s head snapped up. He did not recognize the voice; there was even a good chance it was an auditory hallucination, especially after what had transpired recently.

“Nope, not a figment of your imagination. Over here.” A cougar stalked out from the underbrush, silent, holding Beachcomber’s gaze as its fur ruffled, muscles rippling, before cybernetic patches folded out from seams that split following the joints and skeletal structure. It was still a felinoid, but now glaringly Cybertronian. 

“Who…is that…Pretender tech?”

“Catilla. We prefer the term Chimeracon, but close enough.” the feline Cybe replied. “Got some intel for your leader. About Soundwave, about the weird Seeker and the fractals. About the Mazes and how they’re affecting the connecting universal streams. About the Quints, the Decepticons, Shockwave and Straxxus; hell, I even know a bit about what’s threatening Cybertron and its colonies. Things are about to get very interesting, very fast, and if we don’t adapt, we’re gonna get wiped. So!” Catilla raised his head in challenge. “Take me to Bumblebee.”

Grand Oratory
Diplomat Quarters, Government Center
Iacon
One hour after EarthArrivals 

“So, who’s the skulking little one?” Mirage questioned as casually as talking about the weather; outwardly, they were calling in the proverbial troops, arranging for a fast venue installation, standing over a couple of datapads on a console surface.

“A real wild child,” Jazz chuckled, “has the table manners of a Dinobot but he’s on the level. Bonus: he absolutely knows we know he’s there.” 

“Where did he come from?”

“Rod and Grim found him on Quintessa; Percy thinks he’s a survivor of some survey team.”

“Hmm.” Mirage gazed at a point just beyond the monitor. “And why is he here?”

“Bonded with Danny; they’ve been inseparable since Unicron’s attack. Not gonna lie; I’m thinkin’ he’s searchin’ for some clues to where he came from, given the current events Cybertron-side.”

“And you trust him?”

“Yep.” Jazz made a popping noise to emphasize the affirmation.

Mirage nodded. “Good enough for me. So going back to your grand plan…?”

“The TL;DR of it: we’re giving Prime some more time to gather her defense.”

“This is Elita we’re talking about,” Mirage smiled grimly. “She’s plotting an offensive.”

Jazz chuckled, shaking his head. “Too true, my brother, too true. And how’re you? Been a while since your band’s been split up.”

Mirage’s laugh was equal parts fondness, amusement, and longing. “You know Hound: any chance to get his treads dirty, he’ll take it. He loves Earth, and who am I to discourage him out of his element? Though to tell you the truth, he’s not the one I’m worried about.”

“What, you don’t trust me watching Teebs’ ample backside?”

“You? Without a shadow of a doubt.”

“But…” Jazz drew out the syllable.

“You of all of us know about Traachon and Tomaandi mobilizing the Elite Guard to counter Xaaron’s SpecOps in this,” Mirage frowned. “It’s a power struggle that shouldn’t be happening, and Trailbreaker --”

“--Trailbreaker is a mediator, and a damn good one at that,” Jazz interrupted, clapping Mirage on the shoulder. “There’s few bots out there who can disarm a confrontation with a smile and a joke, and our boy is the best there is at that. And I assure you, my brother,” he turned his head, meeting Mirage’s gaze, “he’ll have everyone singing in harmony by last call. Speaking of which --” snapping his fingers, he turned to the other media station, where Raoul and Tracks were programming the DJ console, “Tell me you’ve got Missing Persons. ‘Destination Unknown’, club mix. Perfect start: total darkness, cue the intro, and when it reaches the crest--”

“You light it up and we go swinging!” Raoul clapped his hands together and pointed finger-guns at the white and black mech. “‘Where do we go from here --’”

“‘--when you don’t know?’” Jazz sang along. “C’mon, my man, don’t keep me in suspense -- give us a playlist so I can give you a light show!”

Mirage took the opportunity to glance from his periphery at the Minibot partially obscured by hardware and consoles. 

“If Jazz vouches for you,” Mirage muttered, “and you truly have our best intentions at spark, then tell me: what’s your goal?”

The Minibot cocked his head to regard the noble. After ten clicks, he said, “I hadn’t meant to raise the warning bell; Jazz is right in that I only mean well. Daniel and I were tasked to assist Mom; she and her comrades request an aplomb. There is little time we have to spare; there’s new sparks caught in a cruel affair.”

How Wheelie had addressed Carly did not go unnoticed, but Mirage chose to let it slide. “The Raiden Initiative. Yes, I’m aware of that.” The noble furrowed his brow, crouching before the minibot. “I believe you.” Tapping his cheek, he added, “Your dialect…where are you from?”

Wheelie’s gaze darted away, and he stepped back. “I know you were told where I had been found; Dinobots had stepped near a battleground. I led them to find Hot Rod and Kup; we rescued them before teaming up.”

“Quintessa -- the Quintessons.”

Wheelie nodded. 

“Why were you on Quintessa?”

“I do not remember that far back; I’ve no luck when I try to backtrack.”

“Amnesia?”

Wheelie shrugged, then nodded again.

“All right…I believe you.” While unnecessary, Mirage felt the need to reassure the minibot. Still, the need for more intel needled the back of his processor. “Tell me what you need. I may be able to pull some strings.”

Wheelie paused again, contemplating the sincerity in Mirage’s offer, then his tone dropped to a whisper. “We need access to Wheeljack’s study, I run support to back up my buddy.”

Mirage now chuckled. “You remind me of Bumblebee when we first arrived on Earth, how he befriended Spike, and their unfaltering loyalty. Here.” He transmitted his personal comm address to the little mech. “Call me when you’re ready; I’ll make certain you’ll have no issue getting in.”

The message accepted, Wheelie responded with a third nod before skulking back into the shadows.

“Any luck?” Jazz asked when Mirage returned to the party planners.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mirage rebutted, picking up Jazz’s implication. When Jazz responded with a knowing look, Mirage added, “I’m stuck on his dialect. That…doesn’t come across as…forcibly structured?”

“I mean, it’s not something me and Blaster don’t slip into when we’re feeling frisky,” Jazz admitted.

“No, the two of you are more freeform…slam poetry, I believe the humans call it?”

“Ah, you’re talkin’ about his rhyme in time? Yeah, it’s a little more…formal?”

“Maybe we can find a linguist amongst the delegates, but for now --”

“A shame Smokescreen’s shipping out tonight; I don’t suppose we have access to a fog machine?” Tracks joined the two other Autobots, directing his inquiry toward Jazz.

“Certain I can scare one up,” Jazz replied, rubbing his chin, then clapped his hands together. “All right, folks, let’s kick this show in gear!”

Mirage took that moment to catch the unspoken queue, as he made a call to arrange a special type of security detail for the night’s festivities.

Tidal Wave
Cloaked, somewhere outside of the heliopause of the Scorpii Lambda System

“Any word from the away team?” Leobreaker purposely entered the bridge with heavier footfalls than he normally would have preferred; still, the lagomorph Chimeracon he addressed flinched at the question before returning to his station.

“Carnivac reports he’s on board Trypticon,” Stampy reported, shoulders still rigid, “en route to Charr, and Catilla is on his way to the Ark; it may take a while, he reported. He’s taking the scenic route.”

“And Tarantulas?” 

“That,” the smaller mech shook his head, “I can’t answer.”

“Keep frequencies scanning on known Decepticon bases,” Leobreaker ordered. “We know Shockwave’s up to something.”

“Kaon just had a power surge,” Stampy replied, “but it’s now quiet. Darkmount and Polyhex are both quiet as well.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s all quiet now. But what of the Autobots?”

“Tarantulas wasn’t concerned about them,” the leonid mech replied. “They’ll keep to themselves as they hash out their chain of command and low-key worry about whatever Shockwave is scheming. Just keep me posted if anything mobilizes from Kaon, Darkmount, or Polyhex.”

“Yessir,” Stampy nodded, resuming his monitoring.

“I’m checking on the cargo,” Leobreaker continued, turning back to the outer hold. “I don’t trust Chop Shop, and I certainly don’t trust the new guy.”

“Yessir,” Stampy repeated, and the larger mech left the bridge, heading to medibay, three floors down. There, the hulking Insecticon was organizing his tools for the umpteenth time, perturbed by the standing order not to disassemble the five bodies on the far slabs, let alone his current teammates.

“What is with this incessant waiting?!” Chop Shop snarled, spinning a saw blade in its housing to test its bearings.

“Ease off the throttle; we’re all on standby until Tarantulas comes to,” Leobreaker stormed past the hulk, approaching the slabs. “Any updates, Doc?”

The newest member of Mayhem, and the only one with a traditional Cybertronian vehicle mode, sighed as he set down the datapad on his desk. “They’re fixed up and ready to go. All they need are sparks…or at the very least, seeds for the sparks. There’s just enough viable sentio metallico to germinate. Just as your leader requested.”

“No one really leads us,” Leobreaker corrected. “You’re free to go if you want.”

The red and silver mech threw his head back and laughed, a sardonic bark that echoed harshly, “Oh, please! Where would I go? I mean, I couldpossibly request asylum with the Autobots, but the moment they so much as scan me, they’ll figure out I don’t quite match their physiology. And the Decepticons? I might as well be giving myself up for dissection.” He flicked his hand in casual dismissal. “No, I don’t have the freedom to leave, Leobreaker. And Tarantulas knew it when he coerced me to come along.”

“He didn’t coerce you --”

“Don’t split wires with me,” the medic pointed a tapered finger at the larger mech’s face. “He promised me he knew how to find my partner, bring him back. Not as some shadow of himself, not with synth-en, not with dark energon.”

“And…you believed him.” Leobreaker harrumphed. “That’s on you, Knock-Out. First rule of Mayhem: never trust Tarantulas when he makes a promise.” He cocked his head to one side. “But you already knew that.”

Knock-Out leaned against the largest of the five slabs, palms pressed on the edge, head bowed, before glancing to the side, at the serene face of who most would consider the greatest leader of the Autobots. “The opportunity may have also piqued my interest,” the red and silver mech admitted. 

“We just have to make certain Tarantulas succeeds in securing the fateweaver.”

“Primus Below, that just sounds so…esoteric.”

“I’m Eukarisian. That’s what we called them.”

“And I’m --” Knock-Out frowned, then pressed a hand to his helm. “Wait. I just tried to say two places at the same time.”

“Focus on the now,” Leobreaker ordered. “You’re experiencing a side effect of having your fate revised.” 

Knock-Out scoffed. “‘Fate’ is a superstitious construct. What I’m experiencing is a falsified memory. A hallucination. It’s this universe reminding me I’m not from here.” He returned to his desk and reclaimed the datapad. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t consider me some sort of infection to be purged.”

Chop Shop, silent throughout this conversation, now chortled. “Naw. More like a cancer. It can neither purge nor assimilate you, not without outside assistance. Which is where these mythic ‘fateweavers’ come into play. Amiright, Leo?”

“Crudely put, yes,” Leobreaker replied begrudgingly.

“Leobreaker, Tarantulus is up!” Stampy hailed. “I already gave him the update about Carnivac and Catilla.”

“About fragging time,” Leobreaker grumbled, tapping the nearest comm link. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Elita has agreed to our terms,” Tarantulas stated, taking over the comms from Stampy. “And with Catilla and Carnivac en route to their next assignments, we’ll have sensors with all the major players. We can commence with the next part of my plan.”

“Great. Finally.” Leobreaker threw his hands upward in mock celebration. “So when is the fateweaver gonna get started?”

“About that,” Tarantulas chuckled. “Elita will remain on Cybertron. A…complication…has come up--”

Upon the utterance of “complication”, both Chop Shop and Leobreaker bristled; Knock-Out chortled. 

“--simply put, she’s been placed in ‘diplomatic protection’,” Tarantulas continued. “Roundabout way of saying ‘house arrest’. It appears we may have some clandestine agents we’ve yet to identify.”

“Roundabout way of saying ‘Shockwave’,” Knock-Out retorted.

“I will not deny that he is at the top of my list of culprits, but I think there may be others, both within Iacon Proper and amongst the Decepticons. No matter, it’s not your concern; Knock-Out, continue onto the next phase. I have the coordinates programmed into the Aeon Maze; if you’re as good as you say you are, you’ll have no issue.”

“Protoform’s play,” Knock-Out tossed his stylus over his shoulder; it bounced off Chop Shop’s head and clattered to the floor as the lithe mech strode out of the lab.

“Remind me why we need him,” Chop Shop growled, testing a handheld pneumatic drill on a surgery tray.

“You try finding a brilliant surgeon without a code of ethics,” Tarantulas snapped. “His narcissism is the least of my concerns. I’ll be in my lab; do not disturb me unless Tidal Wave wakes up.”

“My pleasure,” Leobreaker grumbled. Once he killed the transmission, he muttered, “though I think we’ll all know when that happens.”

*

The Autobots would be perplexed about the device Tarantulas had left. Security would speculate it had been a teleportation device, which would lead to their director becoming even more paranoid and doubting himself for missing such a device. In truth, it had never been him on the Mausoleum ship, not physically. In this time and thread, solid light avatars only existed in the hypothetical, some formulae and designs on someone’s datapad. And who knew? His cast-off might cause the seed to germinate further. 

It honestly didn’t matter to him about leaving tech; this thread was doomed anyway unless someone intervened. Might as well give them a little hobby to --

--huh.

As he had mused over his discarded holomatter device, his backburner thoughts had been going through the similar technology: holographic projections, the Pretender suits and Chimericon improvements, then potential scientists and inventors not currently in his employ or medical facility who could have developed the technology --

-- and realized that he had missed a potential threat.

Fortunately, his systems were still parsing data from his drones: on board the Nemesis, within Iacon Proper and the Polyhex Ruins, and now the ones now scuttling through the Ark and Metroplex thanks to Hound and his crew, caught unaware of their service to the greater…well, “good” may not be the most accurate moniker…

“What,” Tarantulas rubbed his chin as he sat in his desk chair, “are you up to now, Scorponok?” The data from the Nemesis led the Mayhem founder to conclude that Scorponok (the original one, not the Predacon simpleton Tarantulas had to suffer from during their time in the Pleistocene epoch) was on Earth (current timeline, not two million years ago, give or take a millennium). Thunderwing may have the public’s eye on him regarding the Pretender technology, but Scorponok was the creator --

--something crashed behind him; jumping from his chair and priming his weapons, he cautiously left his office, entering the attached laboratory. 

The Maze gate had been activated, casting an electric blue glow and harsh shadows within the lab. 

What in the Pit?! Rather than succumb to the equal parts dread, anticipation, and maligned hope that lapped at the edges of his consciousness, Tarantulas settled on “I know you’re there!”, cycling his auto-gats online.

First, silence. Then, a datapad toppled from a cabinet. Tarantulas spun on his heel to face the noise, facing a large mech with a truck alt mode, hands raised with palms out on either side of her head. 

“Um, hi?” the mech chuckled nervously. “So, yeah, we can explain.”

“‘We’? Who else --” Tarantulas stood down, shoulders slumped. “No.” Now he shook his head vigorously, waving his arms over his head. “No, you should not -- cannot! -- be here. How -- why are you here?!”

“Oh, well, you left your equipment running,” she retorted, now gesturing around the room as though encompassing the explanation. “You know how technically we’re supposed to be in a radio quiet zone after eight PM and I had picked up a signal so we followed it because we didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention and especially -- “

“Who’s ‘we’?” Tarantulas reiterated, enunciating each syllable.

“Ah. Yes, well…” another mech, this one, much smaller than their cohort, with a grey-green avian motif, stepped out from behind their sibling. “...you see, I knew that you preferred your privacy, and --”

“You should not have been able to access the Maze! How did you access it?! No, don’t tell me; you need to leave now!” Readjusting his guns offline, Tarantulas stepped forward, waving his arms as though shooing away roboclucks, then stopped. Half a syllable escaped before he shook his head again and advanced, herding the much larger mech and her sibling away from the back of the lab, where his more sensitive equipment was stored. “Go, before any more of your cohorts --”

Another crash, this time from his right, preceded a soft, deep “whoops," followed by, “Sorry.”

“Don’t!” Tarantulas spun around, jabbing a pincer at the stygimoloch Dinobot, who froze like a deer in headlights. “Don’t! Move!” Now to the avian mech, he snarled, “It’s bad enough she’s --” he pointed to the largest of the three -- “involved, but also him?! What were you thinking?!”

The Dinobot protested, “It wasn’t their idea! I just tagged along!”

“Hello, I was the one picking up your wi-fi use,” the ute retorted, fists now on her hips, then glanced around. “So…where are we?”

At the same time, the avian said “Tarantulas, I assure you, we only had your best interests in mind--”

“Shut. Up. All of you. Shh!” Cradling his head, then rubbing his temples, Tarantulas groaned. “I am still trying to figure out how you were able to cross the Maze without adverse…effects…oh. Oh!” 

The abrupt shift of the arachnoid now cackling startled the larger two mecha; the grey-green avian cocked their head quizzically to one side at a severe, almost impossible angle. “We…were not supposed to traverse the doorway?” they asked.

“You should have had an adverse reaction within ten meters of it!” 

“Like a perception filter?” the largest asked.

“No! Yes! Stop asking questions! Nausea? Vertigo? Hallucination? The maddening screaming of a billion extinguished sparks just inside your audio receptors? Did you not experience any of that?”

“I mean, I just thought it was the leftover sinigang,” the Dinobot muttered, rubbing the back of his thick neck. “And it was more like mild indigestion than existential dread.”

Tarantulas paced before the stowaways, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “First off,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “this isn’t Earth. We’re onboard a sleeping titan called Tidal Wave. We are in heliosynchronous orbit roughly two-hundred AUs from Lambda Scorpii A--”

To this, the avian’s finials perked up, optics growing impossibly large.

“We’re in space?” the largest squealed, bringing her fists close to her face in glee.

Her smallest sibling pressed their hands together. “Not just that --”

“No.” Tarantulas cut off the avian mech, who reacted defensively, holding up both palms. “Nightshade, you will not entertain that train of thought. This is not your universal stream! Yours branched from an earlier iteration of it, but a.) it’s not the same universe, b.) it’s not even the same timeline, and c.) --”

“Ugh, the tech is so primitive!” the ute, visor now engaged and glowing with a stream of glyphs, groaned. “One-fifty-six millisecond ping?! I’m gonna fall asleep at this rate!”

“Hashtag, stop downloading whatever it is you’re downloading!” Tarantulas snapped. “Jawbreaker, don’t! Move!”

The Dinobot froze again, just as he was about to investigate an open crate, then swung his head to smile broadly at the arachnid mech. “You remembered my name!”

“Right now,” Tarantulas vented a long, drawn out sigh, “I am torn between figuring out why you are immune to the Maze’s side effects -- which I do now have a hypothesis forming -- and needing to push you back through before one or all of your other meddlesome siblings come through looking for you!”

Nightshade held up a talon. “Oh, I explicitly told them to stand guard while I investigated the power surge.”

“Like how we were supposed to?” Jawbreaker questioned, pointing to himself, then Hashtag.

“Let’s be realistic,” Hashtag countered, still skimming whatever data she was downloading, “Thrash would have seen us disappear and convince everyone to go home for backup.”

Points connected in Tarantulas’ contingency mindmap before he threw his hands in the air in frustration. “That’s it! Back through the Maze! Now! I’m going to have to scuttle that base because of the three of you!” 

“It was your equipment being online during radio quiet!” Jawbreaker protested. “We were just trying to help.”

“Don’t care! I don’t need your help! Out! Now!”

“Fine, you’re welcome that we actually give a scrap about what happens to you and all that,” Hashtag grumbled, grabbing Jawbreaker’s hand. “Let’s go, Jaybee.” 

“But --” Jawbreaker glanced at Nightshade. 

“We were,” Nightshade restated, “only trying to help, Tarantulas.”

“What did I tell you? I don’t need help!” A pause as curiosity once again flooded Tarantulas’ thoughts. “Nightshade. Wait.”

Nightshade’s head rotated eerily too far over his shoulder to regard the arachnoid. 

“I…may have a use for you,” Tarantulas muttered. “Scuttle the base you found, but remove the core from the Maze unit. You can figure out the rest. If I do not hear back from you in a decasol, I will consider you compromised, and you will never hear from me again.”

Nightshade’s steady, unblinking gaze remained fixed on the elder scientist for the better part of a half-cycle; then, they nodded, following their brother and sister back through the archway in the back of the lab. 

Tarantulas darted to his primary console, pulling up the status of all his open gates. Of all of his base locations, Primax 1122.11 Alpha had become the most…complicated; prior to that, it had been Primax 1005.19 Gamma. There had been side effects of jumping both timelines and universal streams; he was aware of the risks, he prepared as best he could, but…complications. Minor, he believed: primarily double memories, easily filtered with simple code. During his travels down a complicated branch of Primax 1005.19, he found that the affliction was given a name: mentis mutati, usually reserved for when city speakers mantled titans. It differed from trauma induced by cortical psychic downloads and mnemosurgery; the former caused feedback to the victim -- err, patient -- and the latter destroyed the surgeon from within, and both were limited to ordinary spacetime.

“Never thought you’d have a soft spot for protoforms.”

Tarantulas hissed, spinning to face Knock Out, who was leaning against the door jamb, slowly twirling a dataslug on a lanyard by a finger. “What --”

Knock Out snatched the dataslug out of the air, then held up his hands as a peace gesture. “Not going to lie, I’m mildly interested about how they got here without purging their fluids from every drainage port, but that’s not the reason why I’m here.” He held out the dataslug between two fingers to the arachnid. “I was able to rebuild the spark matrices within a certain degree of completion, all well above ninety percent.”

Tarantulas took the proffered slug. “Who was the lowest?” he demanded, optics narrowed.

“The Praxian,” Knock Out scoffed. “Just as you suspected. I’ll admit, I was surprised how easy Big Rig was to rebuild. His was almost one-hundred percent.”

“I assure you, it’s just one big cosmic popularity contest,” Tarantulas harrumphed. “Now, leave me. I have much work to do. Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” Setting the slug down, the arachnid then handed the lithe mech an antiquated pad. “I was able to procure as much of the signature as I could before Airachnid and Sylas got…carried away.”

Knock Out quickly perused the map on the screen, optics flicking back and forth with fervor. “There’s not enough for a complete rebuild,” he growled.

“There’s also,” Tarantulas allowed his irritation to seep through his words, “plenty of data I gleaned from other streams where the…connections…were just as strong as your cluster. It should be more than enough to fill in the gaps. Now go; I need to concentrate.”

“I’m sure,” Knock Out grumbled, storming away. He paused for a moment, muttered, “The Acid Wastes…?” then continued back to medibay.

“You’re welcome!” Tarantulas snapped over his shoulder, then waved a hand over a sensor on his console to pull up a mind map program. Grabbing a stylus, he wrote “MAZE” and circled it, then added five branches: STASIS (NOISE), GROUND, SPACE, TIME, AEON. 

Mazes were intended to work around the laws of physics without overtly breaking them, utilizing the in-between the layers of spacetime by jaunting out of metric and into the hyperbolic. The first iteration was intended as a stasis prison, but something went sideways -- and every other way. Everything was the same, but segmented, that objects could be seen inside and out, the colors too alien, not to mention the noise, the infernal, spark-shattering noise that penetrated inside and out.  

Of course, being the sado-masochist that he was, Tarantulas embraced the horror and took it running, experimenting on how to navigate, to use it as a bridge between space, then time.

Once he figured out how to navigate the x, y, and z, -- the premise for classical groundbridges and intrasystem travel -- then incorporate t -- necessary for travelling by warp gates, spacebridges, or fold engines -- Tarantulas had pondered, “what if we were to add another spatial dimension -- dubbed w -- and cube the temporal dimension?”

What happens is that one can eschew the concern for causality. Suddenly, all the threads, braided into clusters, and the clusters flowing into streams, were now accessible to his curiosity and whim.

Anyway, enough reminiscing. Back to the focus: why did the Terrans not experience the initial effects of --

--ah!

“Start recording,” Tarantulas ordered his terminal. “The Chimeracon technology utilizes a polymer that mimics organic tissue, which allows for some protection from the electromagnetic radiation when traversing the Maze; previously I had considered this to be a simple cloaking device, a dampener, as it were, to shunt the electromagnetic fields; instead, with the introduction of the human element -- refer to notes on Verity Carlo, Primax 1005.19 Gamma -- that made me revise my hypothesis, that organics had an innate immunity -- or at very least resistance -- to the effects of the Maze. 

“Until now, this hypothesis held strong. With the latest data -- the Terrans from Primax 1122.11 Alpha poking their olfactory sensors where they don’t belong -- I will once again have to revise.” He tapped the stylus against his mandibles. “The Terrans are Cybertronians who emerged from a previously unknown hotspot…on…Earth….” 

He looked down at his pincers, clacking them together. “Sidenote: I had initially believed that the Transmetal mutation gave me some resistance to the Maze.” Again, he tapped his mandibles with the tip of his stylus. “Using what data I had gleaned from Waspinator regarding Starscream’s possession, I was able to jaunt my consciousness into Blackarachnia during the quantum surge. While this tidbit of trivia may neither be important nor even connected to Maze resistance and immunity, I wish to investigate this further at a later date.

“Back on topic: why the Terrans? They are, physiologically, Cybertronian, thus theoretically should react as a normal Cybertronian when traversing through any iteration of the Maze. But, it is confirmed that they have their own unique mutation, one that connects them to Earth, and, more accurately, to humans. Jawbreaker mentioned consuming a human dish -- human-made, not made from humans, reference pink alchemy -- before arriving; perhaps it is their ability to process biofuel without refinement or modifications? Regardless, that mutation can be traced back to the Emberstone, an artifact attributed to Quintus Prime --

“Sidenote,” he shifted gears, “The Transmetal 2 driver. Originally a Vok datasphere. What are the possibilities that it too could be traced back to the Emberstone? And, if the Emberstone was found on Earth in Primax 1122.11 Alpha, could it have been planted there in other threads?” 

Setting the stylus down, Tarantulas walked away from the console and ventured into his inner lab. “What,” he growled, studying the gate frame, now glowing in standby mode, “are the chances that we missed the Emberstone during the Beast Wars? Computer!”

A chime sounded, followed by a feminine voice acknowledging the hail. “Awaiting parameters.”

“Pull files from the Primax 0984 and Primax 0496 datatracks: the schematics for both golden disks, the Transmetal 2 driver, the initial energon survey from the Darksyde prior to crash landing on prehistoric Earth, scans of both Golden Disks, and scans of structures filed under ‘Bio-Dome’ and ‘Brigadoon’. Pull files from the Primax 1122 files: ‘Emberstone’, ‘Terrans’, ‘Witwicky Cavern System’. Finally, pull files from Uniend 1213.11 Zeta datatracks: ‘Emberstone’ and ‘Quintus Prime’. ” Tarantulas furrowed his brow, rubbing his pincers together. “I do hope you follow through, child,” he muttered under his breath, “because I’m certain there is something incredible connecting all of this.”

Xantium
Launch Deck
Dock 7, Bay 4

While Artemis and Sandstorm had left the Little Revenge to deal with the official pomp and circumstance of reporting for duty or some brittleslag of the sort, Octane stayed behind, pretending to be invested in the post-dock checklist. Skyfire had ducked into the lower deck, saying something about refitting the nav board for long distance travel.

Before his boredom could lead him outside the ship and into the throes of bloodthirsty Autobots looking for fisticuffs, the lanky Decepticon opted to join the much larger mech, and, in the process, found every rivet not flush with the floor plating. Seven stumbles later, he was in the bow of the transport, just below the bridge, where Skyfire, donning his battle mask, was cutting through the ceiling with an arc torch.

“Does Arty know you’re cutting through the bridge?” Octane shouted over the torch roar. 

Skyfire, as though expecting company, calmly doused the flame and pushed up his mask. “Well, if I’m to run navigation,” he admitted, “and seeing that I can barely enter the bridge short of crawling on my hands and knees, I figured I would take the decasol to create a more efficient station and egress. I’ve already ascertained where the load bearing struts and essential systems --” he gestured above their heads, where he had marked out where he could cut and where to avoid with variously colored fluorescent markers “-- and where I should install the custom boards needed to calculate our routes.” Skyfire tilted his head to one side. “I suppose you’ve stayed behind to avoid any unnecessary drama?”

Octane shook his head with a chuckle. “As much as I would love to jump head first into that, yeah, probably best to lie low until Arty can explain that I’m the sexy boytoy the crew keeps around for amusement.”

“You know that’s not true --”

“Hey, let me have my perverted fantasies while I’m behind enemy lines,” Octane laughed. “Seriously, Wreckers are the boogeymecha talked about to keep us grunts in line. No offense, but you slept through the Pova Massacre and The Battle of Darkmount Pass.”

“I never meant to discredit the horrors on either side; yes, I am the first to admit that I am naive and often bank on the hope that one’s character would speak louder than their faction. I’m sorry if I came across as callous.”

“You are far too pure for this war,” Octane shook his head, amused. “Too pure, in fact, to recognize that you’re making alterations to a vehicle we’re technically leasing.”

Skyfire looked up at his handiwork in progress and rubbed the back of his neck, just before replacing his mask. “Right now,” he weighed his words carefully, “I’m hoping the situation at hand will warrant ‘asking forgiveness later rather than permission now’ in our favor.”

“Now that sounds like Arty’s bad influence!” Octane cackled. “And speaking of bad influence, Kup’ll be coming onboard to ‘inspect’ the cargo hold. I’ll handle the tour. Also, I hope you’re paying attention to where the storage areas are, especially in this area. Arty ain’t gonna appreciate reaching for a holdout and coming up with a fistful of astrological charts.”

Skyfire’s mask hid his grimace. “First: I take full offense to you purposely insulting my profession, which was in no doubt your intention, and second: I’ve been informed of the locations of all the --” he refrained from saying “smuggler holds” “--extra cargo spaces.” He went to turn the torch back on and paused. “It’s…interesting…how paths divert during conflict. Before the war, I remember Artemis wanting to enter law enforcement.”

“The best criminals often do,” Octane shrugged nonchalantly, leaving the hold with a wave over his shoulder. Skyfire watched him leave silently, contemplating Octane’s departing words, just before the triple-changer tripped on something above and slid down the stairwell with a series of curses. “I’m okay!” he shouted.

Had it been anyone else, Skyfire would go to check on them, but Octane exaggerated his clumsiness, even amongst…well, friends may be a stretch. Perhaps comrades? Too familiar? Maybe allies. Cohorts? 

A direct message alerted in his feed. At first he thought it to be from Artemis, whether unloading frustration or asking for backup, but the address was a series of coordinates.

Earth. Nothing more exacting than that, nor would it be on general subspace message text packets. Assuming either Autobot City, or a request from some colleagues at the Hat Creek Array, he went ahead and opened the text.

And froze.

THERE WERE TWO MOONS WHEN WE ARRIVED.

Two…moons…? First, who sent him the message? Second, what could it mean? Definitely someone who wanted it to get to him quickly; it was less than a kilobyte in size, so it was meant to get to him fast, and being that the address was Earth via subspace, it was sent within the past couple of hours. When we first --

-- oh. The realization was a stab to the spark. He fought the emotion welling up and focused on the meaning of the message. 

When we first arrived. The initial survey mission, the one he had lost his way, where he crashed during the sudden squall, likely causing the avalanche that buried him under nearly half a kilometer of snow and ice. Skyfire granted himself a reprieve from his task to mull over his memories. Those recollections were muddied, damaged by time, exposure, and trauma, but he sifted through the raw data to the best of his ability --

-- he found the galactic coordinates of the original expedition, his notes on the system, and while almost ten megayears had passed, it was still recognizable as a slightly younger Solar System. Both Neptune and Saturn had more moons and were missing their rings; Jupiter, with a much more impressive ring system but missing its Red Eye; aside from that, all the planets were still in their correct order and --

-- and Earth had two moons. 

“What are you trying to tell me, Starscream?” Skyfire whispered, easing into a sitting position to contemplate the mystery. The Precambrian era Theia impact had been studied into the ground -- literally -- and only kicked up enough debris for the singular satellite, and that was the largest impact during the Late Heavy Bombardment. Attempts to pull up the raw data on the second moon only yielded corrupted and missing data. The only hard data he had was that before his icy entombment, there had been two moons; when he was freed, nine million years later, there had been only one.

Huh.

Perceptor would have arrived on Cybertron by now; Skyfire composed a quick message: Would Teletraan One have kept atmospheric and geological data upon arrival and during stasis while on Earth? Specifically, I am searching for evidence that could hint at a hypothetical secondary satellite that existed approximately nine million years ago.

The response came much quicker than expected, switching to real time transmission. « My interest is piqued; unfortunately, I do not possess access to those archives currently, but allow me some time to gather what data I have. » A five click pause before Perceptor continued: « I am currently on Klo with Springer’s squadron. A change in plans had arisen. Shall we meet later to discuss any findings? »

« It is not a priority, » Skyfire returned. « I had a recollection of two moons around Earth when I first surveyed the system. It is likely a glitch in my memory, but I wish to rule out any possibility before running a complete defragmentation scan. »

« I concur; this is something I do not believe you would have easily chalked up as memory deterioration. A secondary natural satellite…hmmm. »

« What, » Skyfire weighed his next words carefully, « would the possibility be that it wasn’t a natural satellite? » 

Perceptor was quiet but the comms open. « It would be egotistical, » he continued after a lengthy pause, « to assume we were the first intelligent species to discover this planet. Do you still have access to your original mission manifest? »

« Unfortunately, that was in the damaged sectors; all I have to rely on is my memory that we were on an energy survey. There is, » Skyfire hesitated, and started over. « There is one other who may have that information, but … » He was about to deter that train of thought, but recalled the initial message: THERE WERE TWO MOONS WHEN WE ARRIVED. « Perceptor… we weren’t the first intelligent life to have discovered Earth. And Starscream figured it out. Recently. » 

« And if he wasn’t keeping this close to his chest, then it must be dire, » Perceptor agreed. Another uncomfortable pause.  « Do we include him in this? It's your call. »

« No. » Skyfire surprised himself by how swiftly he shot that down. « No, I do not trust him, no matter how concerned he is by this. » He then channeled his metamour’s bitterness. « No, I know what he is trying to do; he is not in this for the scientific endeavor. He wants to weaponize this, use this to his advantage. »  

« Should we inform Autobot City? »

« I may be overreacting about this, » Skyfire admitted. « I’m sorry, Perceptor, I realize my emotions may have gotten the better of my logic. I apologize for distracting you. »

« Truthfully, I welcome the distraction, » Perceptor replied. « And you may have legitimate cause to be concerned. While I do not currently have access to Teletraan 1’s databanks, I am aware of the mission brief regarding the initial launch, and that the navigation was using antiquated star charts originally from the Academy of Science and Technology, specifically on energy readings of systems of stable main-sequence stars. » 

« We need to talk, then, » Skyfire agreed. « Name the place. »

« I’ll come to you. » 

*

“Who the hell is this?” the yellow and violet Autobot demanded, pointing the harpoon that replaced his lower arm at Artemis. “He with you, Kup?”

“She, and yes, she’s with us,” Springer pushed away the larger Autobot. “Knock it off, Impactor, we’re all on the same side.”

“Not when they’re sending Elite Guard to sniff our tailpipes to find out what we had for breakfast,” Impactor snarled, sizing Artemis up and down. “Mid-frame grounder, no onboard weapon allotment. Better have something good to bring to the table if you’re rolling with us.”

“Don’t answer him,” Kup warned the femme.

“Don’t ‘don’t answer him’ me, old mech,” Impactor snapped. “And what the hell? You gave up the retrograde myriads ago!”

“Gotta squeeze out the last bit of mileage outta this jalopy,” Kup countered. “All you need to know is that she’s with us and she’s got spark.”

“She’s not gonna be rolling with you, anyway,” Springer added. “Art’s got her own mission; she just reports back to us.”

“Oh, a rogue agent to boot! This is rich, Kup - shut up, kid, I ain’t done with the geezer yet.” He pointed to Springer, then returned to Kup. “Next you’re gonna tell me we’re gonna allow ‘Cons in our ranks.”

“Ex-’Con,” Artemis corrected; Kup groaned.

Impactor swung his heated attention to her. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You see, what was your name? Don’t matter. You see, we don’t allow ‘Cons here, ex or otherwise. Can’t trust them. Not one bit.”

“Didn’t ask you to trust me,” she countered. 

“Shut up, lass,” Kup warned.

“No, frag this. I didn’t come here to play nice. I came here to get a job done. Do you have anything to do with that job? No? Then get the frag out of my way.” During this exchange, Impactor attempted to talk over her; she raised her voice to return the favor. “You’re going to deal with the fact I was assigned to this mission and better yet, you’re gonna be grateful it’s me risking my aft on this job and not you.”

“Well, I was going to say you’re the only one in this room who dared to snog Ultra Magnus, but that works too,” Springer shrugged after a fifteen click silence.

“I’m not gonna live that down, am I?” She shot Springer a glare that bordered between a warning and amusement.

“Braver mech than me,” Springer retorted. He waved his hand dismissively. “Look, Impactor, you hate it, I get it, but you got the same communique as the rest of us, and if you want to go lick the skidplates of Tomaandi and Traachon --”

“Oh, hell no! Frag those two to the Pit!”

“Good, we are all on the same page,” Artemis nodded.

“I don’t like you,” Impactor reminded. “You better have your own team because --”

“I do, matter of fact,” she put her hands on her hips. “And my own ship. So outside of outfitting and recharge, you don’t have to deal with me.”

“Except I am right now.” Back to Kup, Impactor demanded, “Why the frag is she still here? Get her out of my sight.”

“I’ll see my way out,” she turned her back and waved. “Dock 7 Bay 4, the retrofitted Sirian transport, A Little Revenge. Make sure she’s topped off and ready to fly by the end of decasol. I’m gonna check in with the quartermaster and scare me up a drink.”

“Lass,” Kup warned.

“I’m not gonna get myself blitzed into oblivion,” she promised. “Learned my lesson last time.”

“Making friends already?” Sandstorm questioned as she joined him outside the office, falling into step with her as they traversed the corridor. 

“Right now I’m fine with the ones I already have,” she grumbled. “The sooner--”

“--we find Rodimus, the better, yeah, you keep reminding yourself that,” Sandstorm interrupted. “And I’m not gonna pretend that it isn’t important, either. I know it is. But…is it worth getting involved in a political slagstorm?”

Artemis regarded the Paradronian Autobot with a raised brow, inviting him to continue.

“I mean all this. Look, I’ll admit it: yeah, I’m running away. Why? Because they want me on that council. And I don’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be Speaker at all, it was just my scrap luck that Paradron was attacked under my watch.”

“Is that why you’re running away?” she questioned.

“No. I want payback. And payback won’t happen with meetings and conferences. Yeah, I…I haven’t been forthright. Can…can we talk? Really talk? Because right now the only Autobot I trust is you.” Before she could open her mouth, he added, “All right, Skyfire first, but you’re a close second, and first when it comes to payback.”

“I’m touched,” she smirked. “Hit me.”

“So you know where I come from, yeah? Paradron’s -- well, was -- a peaceful colony, but…it’s not by choice. We come into the world being taught we’re all in this consensual democracy and we all get a chance to fulfill our civic duty and…well, then you learn the truth. Or at least I did, and I didn’t like it.” 

“I’m invested. Go on.”

Sandstorm cocked his head to one side, curious. Artemis explained, “I have a background in poly-sci; it was a requirement in law enforcement at the Academy. But this ain’t about me. Continue.”  

“Okay, now I want to know about that, but that can wait. Seriously, I appreciate you hearing me out on this.”

“You can appreciate me being a willing accomplice to whatever anarchy you’re planning right now.”

“I knew I liked you for some reason. Anyway, I’m a bit what the Paradron elders would call a throwback, and if I didn’t watch myself, I’d find myself in corrective therapy.”

“‘Corrective’ -- Primus Below, don’t tell me.”

“Too late, and yeah. We show any sort of deviant behavior -- you on a good sol, in other words -- and we’d be shuttled to a camp on the lake for a mandatory holiday. No offense.”

“None taken; I’ll be the first to admit I’m rakishly abrasive.”

“The thing is, all this talk about the Novus Conclave and the dissolution of the Rule of Primes? I think they’re taking a page out of the Paradron playbook. They’re going isolationism once the High Council takes control. And that…worries me. Especially right now. And…I think they want me there to cast that vote.”

“Which is why you’re doing your damnedest to avoid returning to Cybertron and instead throwing your chits in with three mecha with various degrees of Decepticon connections.” Artemis caught Sandstorm’s confused gaze. “Sky was ‘Con for all of a sol and change.”

“Starscream?” Sandstorm questioned and when Artemis nodded with a frown, he flashed a thumbs up. “Say no more. But back to Rodimus. What’s going to happen to him once we rescue him? It’s not like we can just find a ship and bomb around the galaxy trying to stay one step ahead of the law or something.”

“As appealing as that sounds right now, I see your point. And as someone who isn’t up on faith, I’m banking a lot on that.” She bowed her head and cupped her chin. “Oof. I don’t like relying on people to do some sort of miracle. I want to believe that Elita can keep the Rule of Primes in place, at least until we get Rod back, but at the same time, I…I don’t know, Sandstorm. What I’ve agreed to do? It goes against everything that’s me. I’m doing this for Rod, because I know he’s the best thing to happen to our people. But…to accept that means to accept that it’s preordained and…what do you think?”

Sandstorm had not expected the question. He contemplated it, mirroring her stance. “Rescuing Rod is important, but…I think it’s a stall tactic. Not a bad one, per se. But a stall tactic, nonetheless.”

“I…have a hunch,” she admitted, a sneer threatening to emerge at the corner of her mouth, “that we’ve been conscripted into a game of capture-the-flag.”

“And only a select few knows who exactly is carrying that flag,” Sandstorm nodded. “So we’re more or less on the same page.”

“Yeah.” Planting her hands on her hips, she stared up at the ceiling. “I think it’s best that we focus on our own mission and keep any interactions outside our crew to a minimum.” She harrumphed. “Less likely to get into fights.”

“Less likely for someone to find said flag,” he agreed. “What’s the plan?”

“The Ell-Arr will be ready to launch by decasol’s end. You and Sky check in with the quartermaster; the Xantium’s going to be home base once we’ve launched, so grab a hab.”

“What about Octane?” This he asked as though concerned about being overheard. 

“He suggested he stay with the Ell-Arr until Springer and Jazz can explain him off; after my row with the Xantium Cee-Oh, I’m in agreement.”

“I thought you said we should keep a low profile.”

“That was after said row.” She vented and they continued down the corridor towards the quartermaster office. Tapping his shoulder, Artemis said, “Go ahead. I need a drink.”

“As long as we’re not having to drag your aft to a bunk afterwards,” Sandstorm jabbed, then added, “Or out of the brig!”

She laughed, raising a hand in salute as she broke away from her newest comrade. “I promise I have no intention of you dragging my aft to a bunk or out of the brig.”

“Don’t think I didn’t catch that!” Sandstorm shouted after her as they parted ways.

She found the cantina after five cycles, one level down from the crew quarters, the cacophony of shouts and laughter alerting her that she was going in the right direction.

But the wrong time. Artemis had an iota of hope that it would have been an off-hour and sparsely occupied if at all. Instead, as she stood at the threshold, observing what appeared to be an impromptu fighting ring -- the tables and benches pushed up against the wall, a press of mecha surrounded a spot where two Autobots, both helis, threw punches at one another. Judging by their movements and posture, they were having just as much of a good time as the crowd, beating the energon out of one another.     

The urge to call dibs on the winner quelled by the memory of her argument with Impactor and the need to stay within the lines for now, Artemis studied the crowd. She only recognized Broadside amongst the press; nearly as large as Skyfire, and easily the largest mech in the cantina, he failed to notice her from his spot; they had never crossed paths on Autobot City, so it was no stretch of the imagination that he wouldn’t know her from Prima. 

“Primus,” she cursed under her breath, “who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”

Someone on her right held out a flask to her. “No need to get that desperate,” the graphite black Autobot grinned, with a warmth in his optics she was unaccustomed to from strangers. “All you gotta do is ask.”

Take the drink, she thought to herself; the notion felt warm and inviting, yet alien, much like the sense of the liminal space whenever she shuttered her optics. You won’t regret it.

OCCILATIONS

Maccadam’s Old Oil House
Iacon (formally the Functionist Hub)
Cybertronia Secunda
Meredi System, Benzene Cluster
3rd Cycle 3819 (circa 2025 C.E.)
Primax 1005.19 Gamma
Zeta braid, subcluster bet-tsadhe

Prowl studied the information on his console, rubbing his chin in contemplation. 

This was not an optimal turn of events. He was torn between “let that universal stream tackle its own issues” and “apprehend Tarantulas before he manages to collapse the entire multiverse”, and it didn’t help that some of Infinitus’ influence had seeped through the cracks.

No. Between Infinitus’ scheme and Tyrest’s -- or rather, Solomus’ -- machinations, the spacetime fabric had sustained significant damage, but it was the mad titan who took advantage of the situation. 

And now, he had to figure out if it was worth the risk to ask for the aid of a highly volatile Wrecker, now publican of this establishment. 

Sighing, he bowed his head and lifted his hand, a beckon as though ready to order. 

The blue-black mech approached the table, hands on her hip and head cocked to one side. “Ready to order now,” she snapped, “or are you just here to use my wi-fi?”

“You take things far too personally, Artemis.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “I need to discuss business with you.”

“I’m working,” she retorted, throwing his own statement back in his face.

He looked up at her, his left optic still vacant; he had decided to keep the wound as a reminder, not just to himself but to let others know he carried the burden to do the right thing for the good of the populace, no matter how much it made him a pariah. “Please,” he drew out the request.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she vented hard before sliding into the booth. “What?”

“I need your experience and expertise on this matter,” he began, slowly, gauging her reaction. “You won’t like it.”

“I didn’t like it when you walked in here,” she retorted. “The only reason why I don’t kick you out is because you haven’t started trouble.” A pause. “Yet.”

He laced his fingers together and pressed them to his chin. “How far,” he said slowly, “are you willing to go to annihilate Furorarx, once and for all?”

As he had calculated, her optics flashed angrily, almost otherworldly, illuminating the golden markings along her temples and cheeks. Hissing a curse, she shook her head and glared sideways. “We already destroyed him,” she countered, but she was trying to convince herself of that.

“I thought the same about a former associate of mine,” he admitted, sitting back in his seat, “and while it may be coincidental that they both took advantage of Getaway’s blatant abuse of the Warren, I don’t want to consider what could happen if they were to collaborate.”

“Gashole doesn’t collaborate; he dominates,” she corrected bitterly.

“He attempts to,” Prowl corrected. “You, Surveyor, and Lockdown are proof of the contrary. And yes, I know you’re going to bring up Surveyor’s disability. Even taking him out of the equation -- and I won’t -- that still leaves you and your nemesis.”

“Rival,” she corrected again. “I kill my nemeses.”

“I’m going to refute that; they all died outside your control.” He cocked his head to one side. “Shall I elaborate?” He did not wait for her response as he held up fingers to tick off the names. “Furorarx was dismantled by Tyrest; Getaway was devoured by Whirl’s…pets; Kaon --”

“Kaon was never my nemesis,” she snapped, jabbing her index finger on the table surface. “I wanted him and Vos to face actual justice. Hell, I would have loved to have seen the entire DJD face a court of law.”

“Yet you vouched for their messiah at his trial.”

“I asked for clemency. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here. We wouldn’t have a home.”

“Saving millions after slaughtering billions. Would you give Starscream the same leniency after his sacrifice?” 

He had expected rage; her expression instead softened. Concerned that she would actually answer his intended rhetoric with Feelings, he continued. “But we’re not here to argue that, nor the semantics of nemeses versus rivals. I need to know everything you know about Furorarx. Furthermore,” he met her optics, “I need to know everything about Skaði of Vos.” 

“Then it’s only fair,” her jaw set calculatingly, “that you tell me who you’re hunting and why.”

Axiomia Nexus
Primax 1118.07 Zeta, subcluster bet-tsadhe
1st Cycle 1 (approx.)

Hurting was becoming a regular sensation. Hot Rod picked himself up from the dusty floor, taking a moment to ride out the throbbing in his joints.

“That bought us some time, at least.” Starscream muttered behind him. At least Hot Rod presumed it was Starscream; his voice was the same countertenor range, but less shrill, somehow softer. “Are you all right?”

“I think this is going to be par for the course,” Hot Rod pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself off before turning to face his reluctant partner. Arching a brow, he asked, “You’re a different Starscream.”

“I suppose so,” the red and white flier spread his arms and glanced down at himself with bright blue optics. “When the Director absorbed me -- the aspect that had been helping you -- I jumped to the nearest shard. I’m not certain how long I’ll be able to maintain this away from my collective, but…” he smiled -- an optimistic expression that seemed so alien to the Autobot -- “...well, better make the best of it, right?”

“So,” Hot Rod examined the walls of the room, the consoles long since abandoned with dim lights fading in and out with what little power still coursed through the systems. “Did we make it to Axiomia?”

“That, I could not tell you,” Starscream approached one of the monitors and, wiping away the grime, typed out a series of commands on the keyboard. “It is Cybertronian, at least.” Scanning the directory contents, he rubbed his chin. “Hmmm…yes, this does appear to be Tempo’s transit control. Auxiliary power is throttled from this end, let’s see if we can get some more lighting in here --” a metallic whirl and a heavy thrum filled their audio processors, and the sconces on the walls grew from a sickly glow to a warm illumination, revealing a room built from interlocking clockwork gears. The whirling settled into a gentle clicking, and Hot Rod and Starscream took a moment in wonder at the intricate machinery around them.

“For lack of a better observation to settle on a well-worn adage,” Starscream whispered, “it’s poetry in motion.”

“If it wasn’t so dusty,” Hot Rod waved away the disturbed motes. “When was the last time anyone had been here?”

“At least three myriads, if this terminal is accurate,” Starscream stepped away from the console and now studied the walls. “Oh! Look at this!” Radiating with sheer joy, he followed a slowly revolving conveyor track of tablets. “This is Old High Cybetronian! These are--!” He took one from its hooks and held it gently in both hands. “Yes! These are historical records of the Exodus, during the Golden Age! Hot Rod, do you know what this means?!”

“I never took you as a historian.”

“I’m a geophysicist by trade,” Starscream’s optics skimmed the glyphs on the tablet surface, “but as Cybertron goes, geophysics and political history are interwoven with one another. Of course I would have invested interest in--!”

Something shuffled across the floor with just enough discordance to clash with the clockwork ticking. “Shh!” Hot Rod held up a hand in warning. 

“Too late for stealth,” Starscream whispered.

“Diplomacy it is,” Hot Rod nodded, then aloud: “Hello? Vector Prime? Sorry for the intrusion, but we’re trying to find our way home --”

“Rodimus?”

The silhouette cut in the archway was one that haunted the Autobot’s dreams, the manifestation of his guilt, even before Hot Rod registered the voice. 

Except that there was no malice, no anger, no hostility; instead, there was some surprise, a bit of curiosity, and a lingering exhaustion. 

Before the Chosen Ones towered a mech that was unmistakably Megatron.

Megatron, that was, with an Autobrand emblazoned on his chest.

“Whadidja find?” Hot Rod’s own voice called out from behind the anachronism before them.

“You.” Megatron pointed to Starscream, “with me. You,” he directed to Hot Rod, “stay here, don’t touch anything, I’ll be back to deal with you.”

With that, he grabbed Starscream’s arm and hauled him out of the room, slamming the sliding door shut.