Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 15:38:55
GPS LOC 39°29'40.3"N 115°53'15.3"W: Omega Base, Nevada
DESIG: OPTIMUS PRIME ::1987 Freightliner FLA-8864T::

“Optimus, you need to see this right now!” Ratchet’s voice cut through the sounds of welding metal and jackhammered stones.

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, deactivated the massive energy hammer he was using to extend the tunnel space necessary for their eventual groundbridge installation. Construction on Omega Base had been proceeding well over the last year, but a lack of expected groundwork and need to remain hidden from the dominant sentient species of this planet had slowed things down.

Optimus turned to his CMO, dusty air filtering through his battlemask. “Ratchet, what did you find?”

“Energon readings,” he said breathlessly. “I’m still working to sync up our system arrays to the local satellites, so data has been slow to come in. I read three signatures touch down in Texas two days ago, but there was a spike just an hour ago in California.”

“Decepticons?” Optimus asked, the feeling of frozen coolant leaking into his tanks. They should have had more time.

“Unsure but likely on the first set,” Ratchet answered.

“And the third?”

“That’s the strange thing, Optimus,” the stoic medical bot said, “The Doppler readings, they didn’t look compressed like something coming in from space. They looked like something already here.”

Optimus did not want to consider the chance. Did not want to hope that the conclusions they’d drawn from the remnants of Blitzwing and B-127’s conflict were wrong. Did not want to face the hope that, just maybe...

“Could it be…” Ratchet trailed off, seemingly as unwilling as Optimus to voice the possibility.

Optimus drew a heavy in-vent into his systems. “Remain here with Arcee and continue to monitor for energon surges,” he ordered. “I will investigate this myself.”

CHRONO READING 16/07/1987 13:24:24
GPS LOC 34°15'21.8"N 100°51'26.7"W: Motley County, Texas
DESIG: SKYWARP ::1972 Chevrolet Chevelle::

As far as backwater planets in a backwater solar system in an underexplored sector of the Orion Arm went, Earth could have been worse. Sure the local sentients were still landbound (necessitating their current reliance on wheeled alt forms…ew) and only just brushing up to individual wireless communication, but there was potential. The last Cybertronian scans of this planet were from before the war, and had indicated only extremely primitive carbon-based life. Just one of a billion liquid water-capable planets with enough carborganic molecular randomness to generate standard life. Just one of a billion statistical points indicating that Cybertron and its Transformers were the outlier of the universe.

Starscream considered that fact evidence of Primus’ status as a god. Thundercracker didn’t really care and Skywarp was not thinking about Starscream and Thundercracker right now.

Anyway, humans. They’d sprung up as the dominant species surprisingly quick by most timescales. Radio newscasts he’d listened to as he, Shatter, and Dropkick made their way towards the vague location of B-127’s distress beacon indicated their conception of a global modern era only went back about two thousand stellar cycles. A mere hundredth the length of the Cybertronian Civil War. If 200,000 stellar cycles of mostly tense armistice interspersed with a handful of century-long bloodbaths could even be considered a singular war. But that was above Skywarp’s pay grade.

Nope, Skywarp was here to do what he did best. Hunt down lone Autobots and remove them from the field of play. At that, his processor went to their latest kill a couple planets down. Cliffjumper. Why did it have to be him?

Before that train of thought could progress any further, Shatter pinged his and Dropkick’s HUDs. ::Human roadblock ahead. Signs of primitive weaponry. On your best behavior, boys.::

Skywarp swerved for a moment to peek what Shatter had spotted. His own quick scan of that “primitive weaponry” included several vehicle-mounted harpoon launchers that would absolutely hurt to get hit with. Maybe even take out a limb if aimed well enough. Perhaps Skywarp could rile Dropkick just enough to get a jumpy human to put one in him. Preferably through the speech synthesizer.

Overhead, the sky filled with a chorus of whines. Skywarp concentrated his sensors upwards and ohhhhhhh frag him sideways those aircraft were pretty. A combination of fixed wing and rotary models provided air support for the ground troops ahead. The three Decepticons immediately began scanning for new alt forms from the beautiful array of options the humans had presented them with. Dropkick immediately claimed the large, heavily armored rotary wing, leaving Shatter and Skywarp to race among themselves for the others. Skywarp’s eye was initially drawn to the jump jet model. V/STOL capabilities were a huge plus on planets without an established Decepticon presence, but traded low-velocity maneuverability for speed. His vehicular processor warned him this model couldn’t even break the local speed of sound.

All thoughts of the jump jet purged from Skywarp’s processor as he locked scanners on the fighter model. While the jump jet was all ponderous muscle, the fighter was lithe as a turbofox and absolutely bristling with speed and firepower. The operator of the fighter maneuvered with the grace of a dancer, maintaining careful circles over this abandoned stretch of countryside as it braced for conflict.

Skywarp, for lack of a more accurate phrase, couldn’t keep his optics off it. Almost unbidden, his HUD presented the notification, ::SCAN COMPLETE. TRANSFER SCAN TO ALT FORM SYNTHESIZER Y/N?:: Skywarp had never accepted a new alt form so quickly.

::SCAN TRANSFERRED TO ALT FORM SYNTHESIZER. LOCAL MODEL DESIGNATION “MCDONNELL DOUGLAS F/A-18C HORNET.” PREPARE FOR FRAME RESTRUCTURING::

As the Decepticon trio came within firing range of the roadblock, they put their new alt modes to work. Alongside their transformation into root mode was a complete restructuring of their frames, stretching and warping all systems from wheeled adaptations to the aircraft they all preferred. When Skywarp took his root form with the Hornet specs integrated, the weight of wings on either side of his backstrut was the most normal thing he’d felt since leaving Cybertron.

An unexpected feeling of gratitude washed through his processor. Lifting his optics back to the sky, he searched intently for the plane and pilot he scanned. Locking on, he traced the fighter’s graceful arc through the pale blue. So intently he almost missed the first part of Shatter’s exchange with the human representative.

The one manning the forward harpoon launcher spoke first. “Listen up! I’m Agent Burns, and this is Dr. Powell. We currently have a hundred guns pointed at your head. So state your business.”

Shatter, as their squad leader, answered. “People of Earth, we are Decepticon peacekeepers, patrolling the galaxy.”

Skywarp rolled his eyes. Not an outright lie, but certainly containing significant omissions and embellishments.

Dropkick didn’t quite get the subtleties. “Wait, what are you doing?” he asked quietly, “This is humiliating!”

“Haven’t you learned to tolerate local primitives by now?” Skywarp sniped. “Shut up before you get our plating shredded.”

“We believe a dangerous criminal from our world is hiding somewhere on yours,” Shatter continued as if her two subordinates hadn’t spoken.

The one with optical correctives - Dr. Powell - asked, “How is it that you think we can help?”

The mild hopefulness in the human’s voice sickened him. This tiny primitive truly had no clue what he was dealing with.

“We need your eyes,” Shatter answered.

“Wait, you want to access our satellites?”

Seeing as he was the resident techie, Skywarp took it upon himself to clarify, “Our scanners’ range is limited. Your infrastructure is primitive-” if rather beautiful in some cases “-but combined they could be quite powerful.”

“No way!” Agent Burns yelled, “Out of the question.”

Shatter said, “We have a common enemy, Agent Burns. There is a war raging among out species. If B-127 isn’t found, that war may find its way here.”

If Dr. Powell caught the implicit threat, he didn’t show it. “Perhaps we can find a way to help one another. We’ll talk it over with our superiors. In the meantime…if you could follow us.”

“Very well, friend Powell.” Primus, she was laying it on thick. “Take us to your leader.”

CHRONO READING 16/07/1987 13:24:24
GPS LOC 37°54'24.3"N 122°39'09.7"W: Brighton Falls, California
DESIG: Charlie Watson

With Conan dropped off at the vet and her mom no longer at risk of discovering that her busted up birthday present to herself was actually a sentient alien robot disguised as a Volkswagen Beetle, Charlie guided Bumblebee down the backroads of Brighton Falls to a secluded beach situated between two stretches of cliffs. Not many people came down here during the summer. The ugly brown sand of the Bay-side coastline was a turn off to tourists and locals alike, especially when there were nicer ocean beachheads just on the other side of town. As far as Charlie knew, the only time this sorry spot ever saw action was during crabbing season.

And seeing as it wasn’t even close to October, this beach was perfect for her purposes. “Okay,” she said over the ocean breeze, “We’re all clear.”

Excited to finally stretch out of vehicle mode, Bumblebee transformed in a flash. Which had the unfortunate side effect of throwing a bucket’s worth of sand over Charlie’s whole body. “Argh, rethinking the beach,” she complained.

Bumblebee’s shoulders crept up to his ears, embarrassment palpable even to Charlie’s untrained eye. Then, adorably, the massive robot leaned in close and began gently ruffling her hair to get the sand out of it. He was surprisingly lightfingered for something so big. The contact between them sent a soft spark of electricity through Charlie’s body, leaving her feeling warm.

“I’m good, thanks,” she giggled, then became serious. “Look, people can be terrible about things they don’t understand. If they find you, they’ll probably lock you up in a lab somewhere and cut you into tiny little pieces. It’ll be bad, trust me.”

Charlie hated the skittish posture Bumblebee took on at her words, and hated even more that she was making him feel that way. But the yellow robot had far too much curiosity for his own good given the present circumstances. She had to protect him even if she hated scaring him.

Too soothe his pained expression, Charlie placed her hand on top of his forearm. Bumblebee leaned in close as she said, “The only person you can show yourself around is me, okay?”

Bumblebee nodded and chirped an affirmative.

“So let’s practice,” Charlie said, taking a few steps back. “You ready?”

Bumblebee nodded again, little antenna waving excitedly.

“If you see anyone besides me, what do you do?”

Bumblebee answered her question by quickly transforming into the Beetle.

“Great, perfect,” Charlie said. “Come back now.”

Returned to robot shape, she said, “Okay, so let’s say we’re driving and all of a sudden…” Charlie put on a fake surprised face and shouted, “Oh shoot! Somebody’s here! Bee, hide!”

To accentuate the scenario, she scrambled behind a nearby rock. Charlie waited for the tell-tale sounds of the robot’s transformation, but only heard a few clicks and clanks. Peeking over her hiding spot, she was greeted by the absolutely hilarious image of Bumblebee attempting to hide behind a rock that only succeeded in blocking view of his head. Twin emotions of affection and consternation warred within her.

“You serious?” she asked, leaving her rock.

Finally catching on to what he was supposed to do, Bumblebee rolled over the rock and transformed.

“Bee, it’s too late! You’re already dead!”

Bumblebee transformed back, remaining in a hunched posture and hanging his head. Standing this close, Charlie felt like she could almost sense his emotions. Sad, frustrated, wanting to make her happy.

Charlie took a deep breath. “It’s all right. We’re just practicing. You’ll get it.”

She sincerely hoped she was right. For both of their sakes.

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 16/07/1987 13:24:24
GPS LOC 34°15'21.8"N 100°51'26.7"W: Motley County, Texas
DESIG: William Fowler

Before this week, the strangest thing former US Naval Aviator, current Sector Seven agent William Fowler had ever seen was a probably a dehydration-induced hallucination of the Virgin Mary during Navy Boot Camp, or the disturbingly wide range of hues Commander Burns’ scar could turn when he was angry with some brainless Congressperson or another.

Neither of those even compared to witnessing three seemingly ordinary cars completely disarticulate and reassemble into 20 foot tall man-shaped monsters before his very eyes. William had known such creatures existed ever since he was tapped for Sector Seven - Commander Burns made it his personal priority to tell the story of mankind’s first encounter with these aliens to every new recruit. But coming face to face with the creatures damn near took his breath away.

It made William grateful he’d been up in a plane instead of down on the ground with Agent Burns. From the cockpit of his minty fresh F/A-18C Hornet (temporarily on loan from the Navy as Sector Seven had insisted that all air support operations have one of their agents at the helm and Fowler just so happened to have combat experience in these planes and NAS Fort Worth was oh so conveniently the closest military airfield to the alien landing site and William was definitely not skipping his prayers tonight because getting back into the cockpit of a Hornet was a blessing from the Lord) he watched the trio of alien vehicles approach the roadblock and transform.

The one with the purple paint job immediately started eyeing the sky, (were they even eyes? Did aliens have their own word for them? Did they even see out of them the way humans do?) scanning between the sparse clouds. It seemed to find what it was looking for when it spotted Fowler’s jet.

Something shuddered within William’s chest, like the lowest string on an upright bass being plucked next to his ear. The alien robot seemed to be looking right at him. Not just at the plane, but at William in the cockpit. Fowler had no real idea if these aliens emoted like human beings, but the softness around those glowing orange eyes, even from this distance, almost felt like gratitude.

Fowler lost direct visual on the negotiations as his holding pattern swung him wide over the Texas countryside. Before he could wind himself up too far thinking about the implications of first contact with an alien species, Agent Burns’ voice crackled over the comms, “The extraterrestrials have not expressed hostile intentions. Negotiations will continue at Cannon AFB, New Mexico. Air support, assume escort formation.”

Escort formation? For whom? William began relaying specific instructions to his wingmen, regrouping and forming up in preparation for their flight to New Mexico. His questions were answered when the formation began their approach on the roadblock. Once again, the aliens began shifting form, but not into cars. Instead, they shifted into colorfully painted replicas of the very air support that was ready to gun them down not twenty minutes earlier. The realization of exactly what these aliens were capable of turned William’s stomach.

The blue SuperCobra and magenta Harrier took to the skies vertically, while the purple Hornet lingered behind. Once its fellows were clear, the fighter rolled down the highway back the way it came, using the tarmac as a runway as it built up speed. As it took off, William watched on the radar as the jet continued East, then looped around in a luxurious turn before moving towards the formation. Fast.
William barely had time to hear the telltale sonic boom before the purple fighter came screaming overhead, engine trails swirling in the atmospheric wind. It dropped into a steep rolling dive, then popped back upright and slowed down, slipping into formation alongside its alien comrades. William couldn’t blame it for having fun. The Hornet was the Formula One of military aircraft. It was made to go fast and fly tight.

“Unknown aircraft, please identify yourselves,” William said, hopefully sounding bored and not utterly terrified. He tried not to think about how sinister the names Dropkick, Shatter, and Skywarp sounded to English-speaking ears.

About 10 minutes later, William was done trying to stop himself. Acting on the assumption that the alien F/A-18 would be packing similar comms to its Earth counterpart, he scanned for the purple jet’s personal frequency. When locked on, Fowler asked, “So, Skywarp,” he began, hoping he didn’t sound too forward. “I assume its safe to say your people prefer to adopt local modes of transportation?”

The line was silent for a long while, and William figured the alien didn’t feel like chatting. To his surprise, the comm crackled to life with an unnervingly human-sounding voice.

“When available,” Skywarp said. “Local sentients know their own planetary conditions. No sense in, how would this translate, reinventing the jet engine?”

William chuckled slightly, surprised how close Skywarp’s translation was to the English idiom. Emboldened, he asked, “Might I ask why the Hornet?”

Another pause, but shorter this time. “I like fast aircraft. This one felt…right.”

“Doesn’t get much faster than the Hornet these days,” William said carefully. No need to let the alien know about the Blackbird or, God forbid, any of their spacecraft. “How long are you and your friends planning to stick around?”

“No longer than necessary,” came the response. Fowler was getting the impression that the purple fighter wasn’t particularly talkative. Whether that was a result of the tense situation or just the robot’s personality remained to be seen.

Wait, when did William start thinking they’d be spending time together?

CHRONO READING 20/07/1987 00:32:19
GPS LOC 34°23'28.3"N 103°18'56.6"W: Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico
DESIG: SHATTER ::McDonnell Douglass AV-8B Harrier II::

Among Decepticons, a care for your fellow Transformer was not an expectation. Silly notions of friendship and the common good belonged to the simpering philosophy of the Autobots. Decepticons valued ruthlessness, cunning, and ambition above all else. But that does not mean one did not keep an optic on one’s subordinates. The consistent failure of Starscream’s more overt bids for power spoke to their leader’s skill at the very task.

So Shatter always kept herself appraised of Dropkick and Skywarp’s general bearing. She didn’t worry about either of them trying to usurp her; Dropkick was too dimwitted and Skywarp did his best to avoid responsibility. That had remained a consistent part of his character even as he matured from a shortsighted prankster to the reserved engineer of the last century. No, Skywarp didn’t draw much attention to himself anymore. Always disappearing behind Starscream and Thundercracker’s antics, servos fidgeting with some half-assembled upgrade or another at the back of the Nemesis bridge. Shatter could hardly remember the last time he held more than a twenty line conversation with anyone.

Until this mission among the humans. Faced with the tall order of integrating advanced Cybertronian data systems with Earth’s primitive communications infrastructure, Skywarp had practically come alive. Ordering the humans around, extracting explanations for the operating parameters of their clunky equipment, making them bring him this and that resource or else handing out fabrication specs to make the exact parts he wanted.

Skywarp was uniquely in his element here. It made Shatter glad he was on her team, even if she did have to guide him away from his more…risky ideas. Such competence- and her ability to direct it so effectively- would not only put them ahead of schedule on crafting a usable energon detection system for Earth, but make her look exceptional in the eyes of Decepticon high command. Establishing Earth as a discreet Decepticon outpost and capturing Optimus Prime’s most precious scout would be more than enough to get her off the Seeker patrols and onto more high-level strategy teams. She couldn’t afford to let anything go wrong.

Which made her wary of the human Fowler. Skywarp’s communications were not as discreet as he assumed. Shatter had heard every word of his first exchanges with the jet-flying agent, and while he hadn’t revealed anything sensitive, their conversations continued beyond the flight to the human military base. Never anything that would reveal the Decepticons for the planet conquerors they were, but more than Shatter considered appropriate.

It didn’t help that Fowler was so, well, helpful. Any time Skywarp needed something, Fowler was the first to jump. Skywarp didn’t understand some esoteric piece of human technology? Fowler either answered or found someone else who could. Pit, just the other cycle Shatter overheard Fowler assisting Skywarp with some information regarding his current alt form!

And now she was rolling down the tarmac from a quick spaceflight to retrofit a new sensor onto one of the human’s satellites when she spotted Skywarp in his own alt form, Fowler underneath, fiddling with his landing gear.

Approaching slowly, she heard, “Now, funny thing about the Hornet is that it wasn’t designed as a Naval aircraft initially. Usually a Navy plane has its wheels situated further back than an Air Force plane, to keep the tail from banging onto the runway during high speed landings. So when they were changing the design of the original YF-17 they kept the gear housings where they are but added this funky little knee joint back here--” Fowler’s words were accompanied by the sound of metal clinking. Was he taking a wrench to Skywarp? “-to extend the touchdown position to where it needs to be. Downsides of such a complex mechanism is that it-”

“Contains more stress points than a simpler system,” Skywarp finished.

Fowler extended a clenched servo and gave Skywarp’s undercarriage a light punch, which made Shatter’s coolant lines start to boil. Why was Skywarp allowing himself to be so vulnerable with this human?

“Exactly!” Fowler exclaimed. “So you gotta be careful bringing your wheels to a slow stop after takeoff. Braking them too suddenly will bend the planing link and that can cause all kinds of nastiness when you come back down to land.”

“Is the damage extensive?” Skywarp asked.

“Nah, not too bad. Lucky the machinists had a moment to fabricate a new planing link for you. Should be right as rain from now on.”

“What is rain?”

That question launched Fowler into another round of word ejecta while Shatter seethed. Not only was Skywarp allowing this human close enough to damage vital systems, but he was allowing the human to graft replacement parts onto his frame?

Skywarp was forgetting himself. This was not the Decepticon way. And Shatter would make certain to remind him of it.

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 15:04:22
GPS LOC 34°23'28.3"N 103°18'56.6"W: Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico
DESIG: Seymour Simmons

Not in all his years had Agent Seymour Simmons ever believed Jack Burns would work with aliens. After the way the man told that story involving B-127 over and over again with burning, hateful passion, watching his reservations take a backseat to the Decepticons’ overtures of sharing advanced technology made Seymour smile just a little. Even Jack Burns had to play the game sometimes.

Of course, Agent Burns wasn’t an idiot. One didn’t near-singlehandedly create a government agency dedicated to monitoring and deterring alien invasion without being smart and strong-willed. No, Jack Burns had a plan. Even without a whisper from his superior, Seymour was certain that as soon as these aliens had taught their techies and engineers enough they could figure out Cybertronian systems on their own, each and every one of these Transformers would be decommissioned and disassembled with great prejudice.

Dr. Powell was the actual idiot. The man was a brilliant scientist, but was too enamoured in the book he would eventually write detailing his experiences as the man who negotiated first contact with an alien species. As if the government would ever let such a thing be published. But Powell couldn’t play the game for shit, and everyone including the aliens knew it.

The time was coming up soon. An energon surge was detected on their scanners not three days after the system went online, sending a full compliment of agents and the three Decepticons running for California. Simmons could read the possible outcomes like a book. Either the Decepticons would capture B-127 and Jack would have his revenge by proxy, or they’d all rough each other up enough for the humans to easily finish them off. A win-win for humanity courtesy of an alien grudge.

But not fifteen minutes after a few of Agent Simmons’ headaches dispatched for Brighton Falls, California, another one took its place. Seymour watched with resigned consternation as a wide-eyed underling rushed into the office, looking around for anyone of rank before lighting on him.

“Whatcha got?” Agent Simmons asked the poor lackey. Guy looked vaguely terrified.

“A-Agent Burns tasked my team with monitoring for any additional energon readings,” he said. “And…”

“And what?” Seymour demanded, already feeling a twinge behind his right eye.

“It’s faint, but definitely energon. Northbound on I-5, just outside of Kettleman City. Should we alert Agent Burns?”

“Negative,” Agent Simmons commanded. “Agent Burns is dealing with his own alien pursuit; there’s no point in distracting him with this. Contact the closest field office and get me Commander Metcalf at NAS Miramar on the phone. And find the closest available pilot! I better be airborne in 20 minutes!”

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 17:56:03
GPS LOC 37°53'44.7"N 122°38'10.5"W: Brighton Falls, California
DESIG: BUMBLEBEE ::1967 Volkswagen Beetle::

Not having memories sucked. Okay, to be fair, Bumblebee had some memories. He remembered meeting Charlie, and watching The Breakfast Club, and being confused when she didn’t want to show off her diving skills to her fleet, (is that what humans called their agemates? Great, another thing Bumblebee didn’t know) and the feeling of her sparkrate thrumming against her backstruts so hard he could sense it through the carseat while they were running from the vehicle with flashy lights. (A face like Bumblebee’s but not crossed his mind during that chase; someone who would probably enjoy a vehicular form with flashy lights, but he had no idea who’s face it was)

He remembered the feeling that swelled around his spark when Charlie uncovered the holographic transmission of a red-and-blue Transformer. Longing-sorrow-guilt-love-safety. Bumblebee had the vague, insistent sense that he was on this planet to do something, and to do it for that Transformer. But he had no idea what that something was.

By the Allspark (wait, what’s an Allspark?) Bumblebee wished he remembered. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so stupid. Wouldn’t have sniffed out the inert energon in those weird skinny sticks, (Charlie had called them ‘Dad’s golf clubs,’ whatever that means) wouldn’t have activated it with his spark aura to make usable energy, wouldn’t have alerted these scary people now training giant harpoons and guns at them.

Because Bumblebee’s memories didn’t work right anymore. It was like he was relearning everything all over again, his fried memory cells only defragging old information after he recorded similar data onto the undamaged storage. Which is why he now knew how energon phase changes happen, and why he knew that getting speared by one of those harpoons would hurt really bad.

The man behind the harpoon turret had done this before. Bumblebee remembered his eyes. Eyes that would send that projectile through his windshield without a care in the world for the fellow human it would impale in the process.

Bumblebee’s sensors were laser-trained on Charlie. He’d been learning a lot of new English words by listening to the radio she’d installed in him. Based on her sparkrate, in-venting, and exterior coolant systems, the human emotion she was experiencing at this moment was terror. That simply would not do. Nobody was allowed to hurt Charlie. Not on Bumblebee’s watch.

Careful of the human in his driver’s seat, Bumblebee transformed, one arm wrapping protectively around Charlie while the other dredged up a forgotten protocol that sent armor whirring across his faceplate and a meter-long blade sliding from the top of his wrist. They were not taking him without a fight.

“It has a hostage!” one of the soldiers said, clearly misreading the situation.

“Fuck off with your hostage shit!” Charlie spat back. “Just put your guns down! He’s not a threat!”

“That alien crashed here and took out an entire platoon!” The scarred man shouted. His words sent flashes across Bumblebee’s optics. Fire-bullets-begging-Blitzwing-pain-pain-PAIN. Blitzwing ripped out Bumblebee’s speech synthesizer. And Bumblebee had ripped Blitzwing apart.

“Let me guess who shot first?” Charlie retorted.

The scarred man didn’t bother to answer her question. “Stand. Down!” he demanded.

Bumblebee almost considered it. If only to get Charlie out of the crosshairs. But her warnings flashed through his memory cells, telling him of what some humans would do to obtain more advanced technology. He found an echo of that sentiment in… a war? The details remained frustratingly opaque, but that explained the knife hands. They’d rip Bumblebee apart if he let them.

But he couldn’t fight them all. Not without Charlie getting hurt. Their only option was to move, and move fast. Tension coiled through all Bumblebee’s articulation points, the surge of vitality from the energon building in his frame. Then, he sprung. Holding Charlie close, Bumblebee took one, two running steps before leaping over the scarred man and his mounted turret. They twisted together in midair as bullets whizzed, several pinging off the wide sections of his chassis as he transformed back into vehicle mode. Wheels were always faster than pedes, and speed was the name of this game. They needed to gain enough distance to be out of range of--

Pain jolted through Bumblebee’s frame as a harpoon dug deep into his trunk. It worsened as he was forced into an abrupt stop. And then it was nothing but pain when her forward momentum sent Charlie hurtling through his windshield. He felt it shatter into a million pieces as she seemed to fall into the horizon. Even as her body was wracked with impact, she still reached a servo for him, his name spilling slowly from her lipplates. He was about to lose her forever. Either she wouldn’t survive the impact, or she would and he’d be carted off to a lab and never see her again.

Unacceptable.

Half-transforming around the twisted metal impeding his frame, Bumblebee’s helm and one arm unfolded from beneath the front of his vehicle mode. She wasn’t too far away. He could catch her. Hold onto her forever and not let go. Because she was kind, and stubborn, and funny. She was patient with his naivete and antics. She gave him a voice. With a tremendous stretch, Bumblebee’s servo brushed hers.

An unfamiliar prompt appeared on Bumblebee’s HUD. ::ACCEPT FUSION Y/N?::

Yes. Always yes.

DESIG: Charlie Watson

Charlie was falling. First out from Bumblebee’s driver seat into the circle of the robot’s yellow-plated arms. Then over the blockade as he made their escape. Then by herself through the windshield when they’d been yanked to a stop. And now into… she wasn’t sure what exactly. Everything was dim and vague.

Oh fuck, did I just DIE? Charlie thought. But this didn’t seem like death. A distant part of her awareness still registered the present pain of falling through shattered glass. But her awareness had been stretched beyond of her own brain, somehow. Into… wherever this was. It felt safe. Maybe she really was dead, and her brain was just sparing her the memory of impact.

She wasn’t alone in here. There was something else, racing across the dimness towards her. It glowed a brilliant blue, like the light of a thousand stars distilled into a single point. She knew this light. This…spark. As its corona brushed against her awareness, another mind touched hers. One that was bright-curious-scared-wanting-safe. That spark had a name she knew.

Bumblebee?

The spark moved closer, inviting her to reach out, take it into her hands and--

DESIG: ???

They landed on the pavement, one knee and hand sending up sparks as they steadied their skid backwards. They came to rest at a bend in the mountain lane, optics with far more hues available than a standard kit trained on the enemy at the top of the road. They slowly rose to their feet, eyeline falling somewhere in the middle of what either were used to.

When they spoke, it was harsh, marred by pain and static but loud enough to be heard. Human rage gracing the features of a metal faceplate. “We. Have had. Enough.”

Of one mind, they charged towards those that would tear them apart. Towards those who would hurt them for their own gain. Those who would keep chasing them unless they made it clear, right here and right now, that they were not something to be messed with.

The soldiers opened fire, but bullets that would have dug into a regular Transformer or ripped through a human simply pinged off of smooth, unjointed yellow armor forged to astronomical densities. Twin knives sliced out of the bulky metal on their wrists, meter-long switchblades narrowing to a wicked point. They put them to swift work disabling the harpoon gun that had hurt Bumblebee one too many times.

They whirled around to focus optics on the scarred man, and abruptly confronted the limits of their unity. Bumblebee was ready to impale the man who had caused him pain and threatened Charlie. Charlie balked at the suggestion of taking a human life. The disagreement lasted a bare moment, but Charlie won. Their blade snicked back into its sheath just in time to deliver a pulled punch that nonetheless knocked the scarred man out of the fight.

They turned on the other soldiers, armor taking the rain of bullets as only tiny scratches as they advanced on the frantic platoon, sniping their guns to uselessness with a tiny plasma pistol transformed into their right hand. Something pinged on the corner of their HUD, a posterior sensor alert. Bumblebee, who had spent his whole life instinctively responding to HUD data, tried to turn around and face this unexpected threat. Charlie, who had spent her whole life with only the perspective her two human eyes granted her, did not. Tension rocked their nascent connection, paralyzing them for only a split second but long enough for a jet-powered pede to smash into their back. They caught a glimpse of lurid magenta before their helm slammed into the pavement and all sensation was lost.

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 19:41:22
GPS LOC 37°26'58.1"N 121°10'11.3"W: Patterson, California
DESIG: OPTIMUS PRIME ::1987 Freightliner FLA-8864T::

Not for the first time, Optimus envied B-127. The little yellow mech was not only the single most positive soul the Prime had ever encountered despite the horrors he’d been onlined into, but his tracking and reconnaissance skills had been the envy of the Autobot army for centuries. It was why B-127 had been trusted to scout and defend Earth as the new Autobot stronghold. Seven days into what should have been a two day mission, Optimus was greatly missing the presence of his youngest soldier.

It wasn’t for any lack of care that the pursuit had gone sideways. The initial energon reading had been faint, and describing the human satellite network coverage as patchy would be generous. Ratchet was only able to pinpoint the surge to somewhere on the California coastline, leaving Optimus with a lot of ground to cover with his inbuilt detection systems.

When he crossed from Nevada into California, a blotchy reading had appeared due south. This was another issue with tracking Cybertronians on Earth. The whole planet had a faint background buzz of energon. This wasn’t new information to any Autobot; part of the reason this planet was chosen was the natural presence of inert energon in the planet’s crust. Beryllium and copper in the right amounts and crystalline arrangement to be converted to usable fuel by any Cybertronian.

And while that made Earth a suitable habitat for Transformers, (in spite of the Pirmus-awful humidity that affected some areas. There was a reason they built Omega Base in the desert) it made tracking individual Cybertronians difficult. But it was the strongest signal Optimus could locate at the time, so he hauled himself south towards the outskirts of Los Angeles. What he ended up finding was not another Transformer, but an abandoned copper mine with just enough beryllium in the surrounding silicates to form energon. Useful in the future, but not what he was looking for.

With a heavy in-vent, Optimus took the secluded location as a chance to transform. Spending days on end in alt mode was getting harder and harder on his suspension as the centuries crept on. He checked his energon detector again, ponderous digit on the seam of his battlemask, but there was no change in the readings for a hundred-mile radius. If there were any Transformers currently on the California coast, they were out of his sight.

Optimus tried not to hope. Which, if he’d said that out loud to any other Autobot, would have earned him a browstrut raise. His whole thing as their Prime was to protect and inspire hope. But there was nuance to the topic. Maintaining a general sense of hope was a good thing. It was the reason they all could get off their berths cycle after cycle and planet after planet. The hope that one day this war would be over, that the Allspark would be found, that they could rebuild as a species even if Cybertron was dead and cold.

It was when hope became too specific that it became dangerous. Hoping for one outcome, becoming attached to a vision of the future that likely wouldn’t happen only set one up for entitlement, disappointment, and resentment. Optimus had learned that lesson a very, very long time ago. He had not repeated it since.

But there was another part of the Prime, deep down inside his spark chamber, that just couldn’t shake the feeling that B-127 was alive somewhere out there. And it was up to Optimus to find him. If only he had a damn clue where to go next.

Leaving the mine, Optimus traveled north on the I-5, trying to cover the areas he missed on the drive down. The sun was setting as he reached the outskirts of Modesto. At first it was just a little flicker at the edge of his sensors, but as he continued the haze resolved into three… no, four discrete signatures. And they were moving.

The Prime did his best to calm the fluttering of his spark. All this reading did was confirm Ratchet’s original analysis: four unknown Cybertronian lifeforms. Further extrapolation based on previous intel didn’t make it look good for B-127. Any incoming Autobot would have attempted communications by now, even if it was just a generalized ping. The three signatures moving West were likely Decepticon seekers. But that fourth reading; the one that didn’t show the usual signs of incoming planetfall… that was the real mystery.

Optimus pondered the possibilities for another few minutes, half his processor on the problem and half on the road. The highway was empty save for him. A major interstate. Between two of the busiest cities on the West Coast. Empty.

The realization almost braked him cold. Quickly scrubbing through recent memory, Optimus confirmed his suspicions. The last car he’d seen was more than 10 miles back. He slowed down, radar systems strained to their maximum. Overhead, two large fixed-wing aircraft passed low in wedge formation. His sensors pinged multiple ground vehicles were approaching from in front and behind.

The centuries-old tactician in his processor approved. It was a well-planned ambush. But well-planned didn’t mean foolproof. Optimus let his tactical systems run in the background as he prepared for first contact. Whether that would be with words or weapons was up to the humans.

The hauler and the convoy both rolled to a stop some ten yards apart. Optimus heard an amplified voice call out, “My name is Agent Seymour Simmons of Sector Seven, a government agency tasked with detecting and deterring extraterrestrial threats. We know what you are, Decepticon. No point hiding it out here. Keep your weapons to yourself and nobody has to get hurt.”

So the Decepticons were on this planet. Optimus privately thanked this Agent Simmons for the new bit of data confirming Ratchet’s hypothesis. It also meant the Seekers were ignorant of Omega Base’s existence. If they had suspected a significant Autobot presence on Earth, they would not have bothered to make ties with the natives. Likely they were planning to strip this planet of its resources as they had countless others.

In his years, Optimus had learned a thing or two about interspecies interactions. The closer something looked to one species’ idea of sentience, the easier it was to connect with it. On many planets it was easier to conduct negotiations inhabiting a local alt mode. Here, where humans had a surprisingly similar body plan to Cybertronian root mode, there was little point remaining, in their eyes, as a construct.

So the Prime transformed, drawing himself up to his full thirty feet of height, servos out to the sides but not assuming the human gesture of surrender. Amplifying his voice past his battlemask, he said. “My name is Optimus Prime of the Autobots. I speak on behalf of my faction when I say we are strict opponents of the Decepticons and all they represent. I should hope you are mindful of this distinction going forward.”

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:20:21
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: Charlie Watson

Charlie woke up to a holding cell of four gray walls and a fear in her mind that didn’t belong to her. She tried to bring a hand up to her ringing head, only for it to be stopped halfway by the handcuffs encircling her wrists. A distant, phantom sensation crawled up her right ribcage, like the memory of someone slowly dragging a knife through her skin. She gasped, dry mouth sending her into a coughing fit making the pounding in her head all the worse.

Bumblebee was in trouble. This was his pain she was feeling, and only faintly. Whatever they did before getting knocked out kept them linked even when they were no longer one. However terrible Charlie felt the pain, no doubt Bumblebee was going through much worse.

On instinct, she reached out along that connection, searching for the feeling of his spark against her hands. While she couldn’t reach him completely, Charlie did manage to slip just a little back into that liminal space between their minds. Are you there, BB?

A voice, so familiar yet previously unheard, answered. Charlie? He sounded young, and in pain.

Where are you? she asked.

I think we’re both on some kind of military base, he answered. You don’t feel all that far awa--AGH!

Charlie felt the blade sink into Bumblebee’s upper legstrut between the armored plating, all the more acutely for their current closeness. She felt her physical throat gasp again at the pain, hands writhing against the restraints. She caught an impression of someone talking to Bumblebee; not so much hearing through his audials but receiving the data as he processed it. The voice was asking for Optimus Prime.

Hold on, BB, Charlie all but yelled. I’m going to find you, I promise!

They’re not gonna stop, Bumblebee said, his voice weak. They already know my speech synthesizer is shot. They’re just overclocking my processor so I don’t put up a fight when they hardline me.

Despite the technical terminology, Charlie understood his meaning perfectly. If Bumblebee couldn’t talk, they were going to try and pry the information directly out of his memory.

“Can I get you anything? Water?” A voice pulled Charlie back into her body. Standing before her was an unassuming man in a labcoat and glasses. She hadn’t heard him come in.

Charlie blurted, “They’re torturing him! You have to let me out of here!”

The man in the glasses blinked a few times. “Uh, I’m sorry?”

Their names are Shatter, Dropkick, and Skywarp, Bumblebee told her. Decepticons. Bad guys.

You remember all that? Charlie asked.

It’s been coming back in kilobytes. Self-repair seems faster than before. Any further conversation was cut off by a fresh round of pain.

“You’re working with the bad guys!” Charlie shouted. “They’re hurting Bumblebee and they’re going to--” she had to stop as a heavy pressure rebounded through her skull. Something was wrong. “No no no Skywarp you fragging afthole you DO NOT TOUCH THAT-” Charlie felt like all her strings were snapped as Bumblebee forcibly cut himself off from her. She collapsed forward onto the table, barely able to breathe.

Dimly, she felt the man in glasses lift her back into her seat, two fingers to her pulse. He may have been speaking but she didn’t hear it. After a moment, her processor… brain rebooted enough for her to say, “They’re hurting him, and it’s hurting me. Decepticons are evil. Do you really wanna be the guy who gives our planet over to alien invasion?”

The man in glasses finally began to look concerned. “This…connection? Does it have anything to do with what happened earlier today?”

“I don’t know shit,” Charlie answered honestly, voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t let them find out.”

The man leaned in, obviously intrigued. “Find out about what?”

Now, Charlie didn’t have much experience in exfiltration. But Bumblebee had centuries’ worth. Her restraints were two cuffs linked by a chain, which passed through a ring embedded in the table below. She had about eighteen inches of line total. That was plenty. Swift as a snake, she raised her right hand as high as it would go, grabbed the back of the man’s head, and slammed it into the table.

While he was stunned, she kicked out a leg to keep him from slipping to the floor. She needed the key ring on his belt. Snagging it, she unlocked her cuffs and was halfway out of the room before the man could even shout and give chase. Good, he was following her as she followed that sensation of Bumblebee she now carried. Nothing less than the might of whatever shadowy government organization this was stood a chance of defeating these Decepticons. Charlie had to make him believe her.

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:20:21
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: SKYWARP ::McDonnell Douglas F/A-18C Super Hornet::

Dropkick was having far too much fun. Frankly a disgusting amount of fun as he slid his blades into all of B-127’s squishy parts. The yellow Autobot had come online slowly, completely knocked out by…whatever Skywarp saw as they flew over the ambush site. It happened so fast, his sensors could only register a bright flash, a fast-moving yellow figure making light work of the human soldiers, and then another bright flash as Shatter drove it into the dirt. When the dust settled there was only what one might expect to see - an unconscious Autobot and an unconscious human.

That didn’t stop Skywarp from immediately putting his statistical systems to work crunching probabilities on what he just saw. But even several hours later they had yet to spit anything plausible back out.

The poor mech was strung up by his armstruts, dangling a foot off the ground and helpless against Dropkick’s “enhanced interrogation techniques.” A staticky, hacked out cry jolted Skywarp out of his processor. He winced at the sound, taking back everything he wished about offlining Dropkick’s speech synthesizer. Not when this was the result.

“Where is Optimus Prime?” Dropkick demanded for the tenth time. He accompanied his vocal query with a matching HUD message, but neither had yielded results. They’d figured early on that B-127 wasn’t going to give up any information without a fight.

Shatter watched smugly, glutted on her earlier victory. Skywarp, as was usual with these two, hung back until he was needed. Watching this was almost as upsetting for him as Cliffjumper. Not many mechs talked about how things were before the war, Skywarp included. It was too painful to remember most of the time. Back when he and his trine-sparks actually got along. Before Starscream discovered power. Before Thundercracker took refuge from the pain in apathy. Before Skywarp discovered that bigger booms make bigger holes and holes too big can kill. Back when he was just one of the High Guard, spending his days in the retinue of Zeta Prime and his nights frequenting Maccadam’s in hopes that the one red-and-silver bartender with the giant olfactory piercing was on shift.

“I am going to pry the data out of your helm whether you like it or not.”

Dropkick’s words sent Skywarp jerking off the wall he’d been leaning on. “Put your line back in, I’ll do it,” he insisted. Unbidden, a conversation with William fluttered through his processor.

So, what exactly did this B-127 do?

He’s a scout with close ties to the opposition’s leadership. Extremely dangerous, especially for one so young.

Okay, I know your idea of ‘young’ does not match mine. How many years are we talking?

Roughly 200,000 years old.

That’s not young, Skywarp.

It is when you were the last Transformer to ever come out of the Forges.

Huh?

It’s a very long story, but without wasting too many words on it our planet’s ability to make new mechs was…lost to space. We have yet to find it.

So…there haven’t been any new members of your species for two hundred thousand years?

No.

Wow.

You seem like you’d prefer to say more.

It’s just… from a human perspective, it seems like the cost of your war has outstripped the benefits.

That is a human perspective.

It felt wrong, somehow. B-127 was the last Cybertronian. To let someone as callous as Dropkick into his processor felt… well it felt like it would be a betrayal.

His eyes flickered over to Shatter. She’d be wanting a more practical explanation. “You know how Dropkick hardlines. He’s liable to completely destroy the information or offline B-127 by accident, and we all know Lord Megatron wants him alive.”

Shatter made the appearance of considering his words, but Skywarp knew she’d already made up her mind. “Very well,” she said. “Dropkick, give Skywarp some room.”

Skywarp endured the glare he received from Dropkick, then turned to B-127. The expression on the helpless Autobot’s faceplate made Skywarp’s denta clench, throat swallowing around nothing. Pulling his hardline cable from the hidden slot on his forearm, Skywarp gripped the corresponding area of B-127’s frame and slid back the access ports with his thumb. A quick motion connected the two mechs, and then the dance began.

Don’t worry, Skywarp said, I’ll be gentle. Which was absolutely ridiculous to say, all things considered, and B-127 wasted no time making Skywarp aware of that. Fair enough.

As overclocked as his processor was, B-127 didn’t put up much resistance to Skywarp’s intrusion. But he stuck to his word and passed lightly over the algorithms and subroutines on his way to the memory cells. Until something caught his attention.

To the jet’s internal eye, it appeared almost like a spacebridge. A swirling green portal leading, well, somewhere else. He approached the unknown structure, servos ghosting over wisps of light that sent phantom impressions he did not recognize but did not feel like B-127. He caught voices, phantom sensations that felt completely alien; felt…human? Yes, that feeling of tiny fingerprints against metal, Skywarp knew that.

Entranced, reached out towards the portal. Only to be immediately slammed backward as B-127’s voice thundered around him, No no no Skywarp you fragging afthole you DO NOT TOUCH THAT.

A hard wall slammed into place in front of him. B-127 was putting everything he had left into blocking this off. Skywarp was tempted to push back, dig his servos into this wall and tear it down brick by brick just to get another look at what was on the other side. His statistical systems screamed, spitting out probable explanations that didn’t make any sense like what do you mean this bears an 83% similarity to a conjunx bond? That part of his processor that usually led him into trouble was desperate to understand.

The purple jet gave himself a mental shake. This isn’t what he was here to find. And the longer he lingered in B-127’s mind the more resistance he would meet. Pulling himself away from the wall and the mysteries behind it, he turned his attention to the memory cells. What he found there made his spark drop.

This place was a mess. It was as if a tornado had blown through, shattering everything in its path. No wonder B-127 hadn’t given them any information. Everything before two weeks ago was almost unreadable. It would take months for a trained medic to restore all this data. Longer if left solely to self-repair systems.

Which suddenly made Skywarp’s job a lot harder. Swimming through the fragmented memories would take too much time; he was already starting to feel B-127’s firewalls begin to activate. With a vague prayer to Primus Skywarp dove into the recent files, quickly sifting through thoughts dominated by a human face. The emotional data around these images whispered a kind of love Skywarp had long decided was impossible.

It’s not impossible, B-127 responded to his thoughts.

Shut up. Skywarp kept scanning, having to push harder and harder as B-127 tried to drag him back into his own frame.

Skywarp, please, B-127 begged, but it was too late. He’d found what he was looking for.

“Prime is coming here?”

Skywarp’s line disconnected. He slammed back into his frame, helm pounding with the rough treatment. He swiped at the hand that did it, claws scoring Dropkick’s paint. “What the FRAG are you doing?!”

“You were in there for almost ten minutes,” Shatter answered. “But you found what we needed? Prime is coming to Earth?”

Skywarp’s immediate instinct was to lie, only for his processor to catch up a moment later. Why would he lie? This was the kind of intel that changed the tides of war. If the Decepticons could get the drop on Optimus Prime while he was on the move, they could end things once and for all. He could picture the battle raging across Earth, lighting the blue sky on fire. It would be glorious, and it would be ruinous.

“They’re all coming here,” Skywarp’s speech synthesizer growled out.

Dropkick’s smile sickened him. “This is our chance to wipe out the Autobot resistance for good.”

We’ll burn the whole planet to cinders,” Skywarp protested, but Shatter brushed past him like he’d been gloating instead of grieving.

“We must get word to Cybertron immediately. Tell them to bring an army.”

“Burns, we made a terrible mistake,” a quiet voice drifted from the catwalk. Skywarp’s optics flicked up to Dr. Powell. The other two Decepticons hadn’t noticed him.

Shatter continued, “And thanks to our human allies, I know just how to get the message home.”

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:02:44
GPS LOC 37°26'58.1"N 121°10'11.3"W: Patterson, California
DESIG: OPTIMUS PRIME ::1987 Freightliner FLA-8864T::

“How many Autobots are on Earth and how long have you been here?” Agent Simmons asked. Quick on the uptake and straight to adamant tacks, this one.

Optimus answered, “My apologies, Agent Simmons, but I am unwilling to answer your question, considering you seem to have allied yourselves with the Decepticons. Did they teach you how to detect energon signatures? Branded themselves as peacekeepers interested in protecting your world? Allow me to disabuse you of their lies. Decepticons are here for one reason only: to strip your planet of its natural energon and other resources. They are not interested in preserving life, only the pursuit of their own ends.”

“Our business with the Decepticons is our own, Mr. Prime,” Agent Simmons shot back. “You are a foreign interloper on United States soil and therefore you will be detained by Sector Seven until you have proven you are not a threat to Earth and its inhabitants. Will you come willingly or do I need to use these very large guns?” He gestured to the row of machine guns mounted to the roofs of the convoy vehicles.

Optimus’ posterior proximity sensors alerted him to the second convoy coming up on his rear. With a heavy ex-vent, he answered, “I am afraid I will not surrender, Agent Simmons. Though if you insist on violence I will try not to hurt you too badly.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Simmons said. “But you aren’t getting the chance.”

Optimus registered three things happen at once. Number One, the fore and rear convoys all suddenly reversed, pulling away from the Autobot. Number Two, the machine gunners opened fire. Optimus immediately braced himself, battlemask blocking the kicked up dust and gunpowder from his intake.

Human bullets plowed into the ground before him as he entered a defensive crouch, positioning his heaviest armor plating to block the barrage. While these weapons were primitive compared to most Cybertronian armaments, the little slugs could still do damage if they managed to strike a sensitive area. Against the thicker metal of plating, they stung but were mostly an annoyance. Picking out the ones that stuck would be a pain in the aft later.

Choosing to focus on the guns at his front, Optimus brought up his blaster rifle and aimed carefully. In three mental pulls of the trigger, he fired rounds of ionized plasma into the machine gunner positions. A few human screams pierced through the sound of gunfire, but Optimus was confident he hadn’t killed any of them. The plasma would melt the metal of the gun and make it unusable, but he’d softened the shots so they wouldn’t do more than give the humans behind them a few burns.

As he prepared to turn and face the rear convoy, Number Three finally registered on his audials. A thin whistling noise coming from overhead. Ah, so that was why the trucks were retreating. All thoughts of disabling the trucks purged from his processor, Optimus dove into the median separating the interstate, rolling up to his pedes and managing to put a few strides of distance between his aft and the low-ordnance bomb that struck his old position.

The shockwave of fire knocked Optimus from his pedes, he rolled a few times into the scrubland lining the highway, quickly dismissing the multiple damage notifications and doing his best to dampen his pain sensors. The aircraft that dropped the bomb screamed overhead.

Optimus’ tactical systems provided a grim outlook. If the humans were willing to use explosives on him, that plane could likely drop something much bigger on its next pass. He needed to get out of here before they could damage anything further.

Activating his flamethrowers, Optimus added to the already blazing inferno that was engulfing his surroundings. With how dry this scrubland was, the vegetation he caught in the blasts went up quickly and burned smokey. Good. The smoke would provide visual cover from both the air and ground troops. He continued burning as he retreated East, transforming to alt mode and speeding towards the nearest town. Considering how careful Sector Seven was to clear out civilians before openly confronting him, they would not be willing to expose their operation to the general public. He needed to get into a populated area and quickly.

As he drove, Optimus pulled up his chromeonanite control menus. Changing one’s natural paint job wasn’t an easy thing to do, but with enough training and willpower any ‘Bot could mask their colors for a short while. Optimus traded his regular red and blue for a nondescript charcoal gray. The shade had the additional benefit of disguising the extensive scorch marks littering his left side. Optimus then activated a subroutine that would dampen his energon signature. He hopped on an eastbound highway, not stopping until he had entered the small town of Patterson.

He wound his way back and forth through the town streets, occasionally swinging out into the surrounding suburbs then back into municipal limits. When he was confident there were no Sector Seven vehicles on his immediate tail, he continued further east into farmland. His injuries were demanding to be known. Damage alerts his tactical systems had muted began raging full siren, pain dampening subroutines failing. His entire left side was dominated by a searing ache where he had taken the brunt of the explosion. It had been a long time since someone ,em>dropped a fragging bomb on him.,/em> The Prime had forgotten how much that could hurt.

When he could limp on no longer, Optimus blearily drove into an abandoned-seeming junkyard, hunkering down among the rusted remains of old Earth automobiles. The last thing he could do before stasis claimed him completely was ping Ratchet, ::Humans aware. Do not pursue.::

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:34:12
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: Charlie Watson

Charlie thundered through the base, her pursuer hot on her heels. The tugging in her chest was insistent, like Bumblebee himself was pulling her forward. She slammed through a door into what seemed like a vehicle repair area and garage, abandoned except for the massive shadows filtering through from one of the closed-off bays. She was close.

Approaching as quickly and quietly as she could, Charlie peered through the door, biting her lips to keep from gasping at the sight of her friend. Dark blue stained the floor beneath him as the swayed by his wrists. The purple Decepticon - Skywarp - was standing in front of them, both bots’ optics dim and unfocused.

Charlie heard footsteps behind her. “Ms. Watson, this is a highly dangerous area,” the man in glasses wheezed.

She just grabbed him by the labcoat and pulled him to the door, forcing his eyes on the scene within. “Still think you’re working with the good robots? That’s Bumblebee’s blood all over the floor. Do you even know what they’re doing to him in there? They can get inside each other’s heads and let me tell you, it is not a nice feeling.” Even though Bumblebee had dampened their connection as much as possible, she could still feel a twinge of that foreign presence in the back of her mind, making every turn of her head hurt.

She watched as her pursuer took in the scene before him. The sight of Bumblebee strung up and sliced open, mind being flayed against his will, finally seemed to hit him. “Stay here,” he said, reaching for the handle. Charlie watched as he quietly slipped into the vehicle bay. She caught the door before it closed completely, but stayed outside.

Ear to the crack, she watched as the doctor went to say something, only to be silenced by Skywarp’s quiet whisper, “Prime is coming here?”

Charlie felt her blood freeze. Skywarp must have found the memory of her activating Bumblebee’s holo-projector.

Dropkick stepped forward and ripped the hardline cable out of Bumblebee’s port. Charlie winced as an uncomfortable snap of electricity ran down her neck. Skywarp didn’t take well to the sudden intrusion, scoring Dropkick’s paint and shouting, “What the FRAG are you doing?!”

“You were in there for almost ten minutes,” Shatter said. The sight of the magenta Decepticon sent memories of getting slammed to the gound through her spine. “But you found what we needed? Prime is coming to Earth?”

“They’re all coming here.”

“This is our chance to to wipe out the Autobot resistance for good.” At Dropkick’s words, the doctor pulled out his walkie talkie and extended the antenna.

“We’ll burn the whole planet to cinders,” Skywarp said and did Charlie detect a hint of panic in that?

“We must get word to Cybertron immediately. Tell them to bring an army,” Shatter said.

The doctor hit the button on his walkie talkie. “Burns, we made a terrible mistake.”

An indistinct voice crackled softly, “Powell?”

Below, the Decepticons gloated their victory. “And thanks to our human allies, I know just how to get the message home.”

“They’re using our satellites,” Powell whispered. “They’re calling an army. They’re going to kill us all.”

The sound of a weapon powering up sent all eyes and optics to the walkway. Dropkick had spotted Powell. The blue Decepticon kept his weapon level with the doctor’s head as Shatter stepped forward.

What do I do, BB? Charlie asked. They were going to kill him.

“Thank you for your hospitality, friend Powell,” Shatter said. “Your assistance has been most helpful.”

Bumblebee I have to do something.

“But you are no longer needed. Skywarp!” The purple jet jumped, obviously surprised to be called upon. “Clear this base of all lifeforms and secure B-127 for transport. You can start with this one.”

“Aw, let me do it!” Dropkick whined. “I like the way they pop.”

“I need you for other things. Skywarp can handle this, right?” Shatter’s last word was practically spat into Skywarp’s face. Her victim didn’t respond, but Shatter seemed content with that. She stepped towards the entrance to the garage, then turned. Her eyes were expectant.

BUMBLEBEE WHAT DO I DO?

Duck.

Charlie decided to take his advice. Hitting the floor, she heard the whine of a blaster, the tell-tale metallic clanking of transformation, and then an absolutely sickening pop-squelch. When she found the courage to look, all that remained of the doctor was a sticky, translucent liquid spattering over the walkway. If she hadn’t heard it, she wouldn’t believe it was all that remained of Powell.

It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to scream.

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:45:43
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: William Fowler

After the last six hours, William was demanding hazard pay. Not only had they intercepted B-127 and proceeded to get their asses kicked by some kind of supercharged combat mode the scout possessed, but after they’d returned to McKinnon AFB, (and Burns had woken up from his knockout) some poor agent had to break the news that Agent Simmons was off dealing with his own confrontation with a Transformer. The shade of red that overtook Burns’ scar was a new one for William’s mental rolodex.

And then it was something worse. Overhearing Dr. Powell expose the true intentions of the Decepticons and then get exploded for it was something William wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon.

“Get every available agent and airman combat-ready.” Agent Burns ordered, standing from his hospital cot and shoving away the poor medic who was working on his busted jaw. “Put the whole base on red-alert! All Transformers are to be engaged on sight! Do not stop until they are a pile of scrap!” He continued to issue orders to a rapidly-forming gaggle of runners as he pushed out of the medbay.

“I’m sticking with you, Agent Burns,” Fowler said, coming up to his side. In most
situation addressing his CO so brazenly would get him in trouble, but William had found himself in a unique position this last week. The Decepticons tolerated his presence above all the other agents, meaning he had the closest understanding of their patterns and, more importantly, their weaknesses. Is that really why? A small voice in his head whispered.

Burns understood that, and simply nodded. “You heard Powell. They left one behind to clean up shop. We have to take him down first.”

“Skywarp,” William acknowledged, the name tasting bitter on his tongue.

“You got close with it,” Burn said, more of a statement than a question. “Think you can disable?”

Skywarp’s alt mode was a Hornet. And William Fowler knew that airframe backwards and inside out. If he had to fire on Skywarp, he knew exactly where to aim. Disgusted with his own honesty, William answered, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:45:43
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: BUMBLEBEE ::1967 Volkswagen Beetle::

In terms of bad situations… well, Bumblebee couldn’t really remember a worse one. Maybe that one time on… and as soon as the fragged memory tried to assemble itself, his processor aborted it to preserve power. Various HUD alerts warned him of leaking fuel lines, plate damage, shorting wires, on and on and on until his vision is consumed by them. Dropkick had done his work well. Bumblebee could barely protect his bond to Charlie from Skywarp’s intrusion; trying to keep him out of that memory of Optimus was categorically impossible. The last thing he’d been able to consciously do was warn her. That disruptor cannon was a nasty piece of work.

But she was okay. As okay as a tiny, defenseless human could be going up against giant sentient machines with the added distraction of Bumblebee’s exhausted processor pulling on the back of her mind. So now he just…drifted. Skywarp was gone; off to execute his orders. All Bumblebee had left to do was to wait out the energon loss until he offlined for good; ruminating on failure. He’d failed Optimus. He’d failed Charlie. He’d failed Primus himself. The last spark to be generated onto a dying planet, the hope and grief of eons riding on his frame. And he was going to die strung up like a turbofox, on a backwater planet, alone.

Dimly, he felt his frame lower to the ground. The cold concrete against his backstrut woke him up just a little bit. Made him aware of tiny hands running over his faceplate. His audials were basically non-functional, but he heard her voice as clear as his own thoughts.

“Bumblebee, you have to wake up. Please wake up,” Charlie cried. With tremendous effort, Bumblebee dismissed the HUD notifications so he could see clearly. Her face hovered over his, tears welling in her eyes and staining her cheeks.

Charlie… he whispered.
“Come back to me, BB.”
You have to get out of here. Decepticons don’t leave witnesses.
“I’m not leaving you!” she screamed. “I can fix you! I can-” her hands wandered over the wounds in his chassis, fingers staining dark blue.

Charlie, I’m dying. He stated frankly. There’s too much damage this time.

The look she gave him threatened to splinter his already weakened spark. So much fear and desperation he’d caused her. First the ambush, now this. The memory of her face as she smashed through his windshield passed over his HUD. Yep, same expression, 92% match. Except…

That Charlie had fresh cuts on her from the shattering glass. This Charlie’s skin was unblemished. He lifted a heavy servo, tracing one finger down the side of her face. Your injuries…

Charlie’s hand covered his own digit, feeling for the same information but missing the meaning. “What? BB don’t worry about me right now!"

::ENERGON LEVELS CRITICAL. FULL SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.::

“Don’t you fucking dare die on me, Bumblebee!” Charlie shouted. “You are too damn important to die!”

He was running out of time. With a sluggish processor he sifted through damage reports, finding the self-repair logs for his speech synthesizer. 23/07/1987 17:59:32 FUSION ACCELERATED REPAIR FUNCTIONS ACTIVATED, UNIT SELF-REPAIR 18%.

Desperately, Bumblebee packaged the data into a small file and sent it over the bond. He watched as her eyes flickered back and forth, human brain unused to direct download. He had to make sure she understood. This was going to hurt, but at this point everything hurt.

“Charlie…” he croaked aloud, the sounds still broken and staticky. “Come and find me…” These were the last words Bumblebee could speak before his higher functions shut down entirely.

Once again, he drifted, frame input disappearing as his spark flickered. So this is what getting extinguished felt like. A slow drag into oblivion… at least it was peaceful.

Hands. His spark rested against a feeling of warm skin, sensations stretching over the distance between molecules, dragging two beings closer and closer until--

DESIG: ???
Together, they staggered to their feet, purple energon-blood trickling from rapidly closing wounds. Cybertronian self-repair processes accelerated by the endless cycle of human cellular regeneration. They may be down for the moment, but that moment would not last long.

As they waited for metal flesh to stitch itself closed, the pair found each other in the space between mind. Charlie asked, What are we?
I don’t know, Bumblebee answered. My memories are getting clearer, but I’ve definitely never seen anything like this.
We’re gonna need a name. Charlie’s faint attempt at humor was cut off by the sound of gunfire. Reorganizing priority stack. Who do we need to take out first?

Sector Seven can handle Skywarp, Bumblebee answered. We need to stop Shatter and Dropkick from sending that signal. They’d need some kind of long-range antenna. Have you ever looked at a map of Brighton Falls?

Roadmaps, sure, Charlie answered. But human memory ain’t that good.

If its in your head, its in mine, Bumblebee said. Let’s see what we can do.

As one, they dove into Charlie’s memories, sifting through tree-like arrangements of data linked by sensation, analysis, and temporal proximity pulled into collapsible file structures by a Cybertronian processor. If either of them had the time, they would have marveled at the interaction, but they had work to do.

Here! They said in unison, finding the numerous occasions on which Charlie had played navigator for her mother while they learned their new town. Compiling the various visual data sets, Bumblebee snapped them together into a perfect recreation.

Does every Transformer have perfect recall? Charlie asked.

Bumblebee answered, Eidetic memory is a Bumblebee special.

Ironic, considering you act like a lost puppy without it.

Hey! You think it’s cute!

Touche.

They scanned an internal optic over the composite memory before lighting on a particular point of interest. The Brighton Falls dry docks. Where incoming boats had to be in constant communication with land-based workers to coordinate comings and goings. The radio tower there would be one of the most powerful in the area. And the Decepticons would come to the same conclusion.

We gotta move fast, Charlie realized. Shatter and Dropkick are likely almost there. Are we ready to move?

In response, Bumblebee spun through his audio memories, then opened their mouth. What came through was a perfect recreation of James Brown singing, “Oh! I feel good!”

Keep that shit playing, Charlie smirked. Then the pair of one dashed out into the evening, hell bent on saving the world.

CHRONO READING 23/07/1987 20:50:03
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: McKinnon Air Force Base, California
DESIG: SKYWARP ::McDonnell Douglas F/A-18C Hornet::

Cleanup was always Skywarp’s least favorite part of any planet-cracking, but it was a necessary step. Their true intentions had been exposed to the humans, and Decepticon protocol demanded all possible native resistance be mitigated or eliminated ahead of full invasion. In this case that meant slowing down military response to Shatter and Dropkick’s new mission by whatever means necessary.

As he had on previous occasions, Skywarp started with the planes. McKinnon Air Force Base was small, but well-manned with plenty of aircraft that could track and head off his fellow Decepticons. Destroying them would relegate the humans to much slower land vehicles. Climbing to the roof of the vehicle bay, Skywarp took a running leap and transformed, pushing fuel into his thrusters and screaming into the air. He was fast enough that the humans hadn’t even begun scrambling for takeoff.

Flying low over the airstrip, Skywarp unleashed the ordnance in his cargo hold, cratering the tarmac and doing as much damage as possible to the planes arrayed along its sides. Step one completed. Now to take out the hangars. He transformed back into root mode at the end of the ruined airstrip, listening for any indications of human resistance. The warning sirens had started blaring while he was airborne. Skywarp likely had about 20 minutes before this would stop being -- to borrow a phrase from William -- a cake walk. Whatever cake was.

The purple Decepticon strode on light pedes towards the nearest maintenance hangar. The structure was large even by Cybertronian standards, capable of housing a dozen aircraft and the workspaces of the crew and maintenance teams. He considered using the disruptor cannon, dialing up the amperage to cover a wider radius. But the effect it had on humans…the way it reduced Powell to a sticky sludge… the image across his processor made Skywarp’s tanks turn. He’d designed the disruptor cannon to target the EM field feedback of Cybertronians to disorient and incapacitate. Maybe cause permanent processor damage to smaller size classes. It wasn’t meant to be used on something so tiny.

A nasty voice in his processor that sounded alarmingly like Starscream whispered, But that’s just you, isn’t it Skywarp? So busy worrying about whether it can be done you don’t think through the consequences of doing it.

Skywarp gritted his denta and took another few steps towards the hangar. No disruptor cannon. The human weaponry his alt mode synthesized for him would be enough. He began moving the ordnance from where it sat arrayed under his wings. Sidewinders to the shoulder mounts, Sparrows to the forearms. A few well-placed strikes should bring the whole building--

A shot rang out over the chaos a split moment before pain lanced its way through Skywarp’s left side. His HUD popped up a damage report; ::LEFT LATERAL FUEL LINE SEVERED - ENERGON LOSS 0.76%/MIN::

Either someone got off a very lucky shot or… Skywarp spun around and was greeted with the sight of William Fowler’s hands cradling a literal smoking rifle. Behind him were a company of airmen and Agent Burns arrayed on a combination of Jeeps and feet. All of them had weapons trained on Skywarp.

His processor stalled at the sight, speech synthesizer croaking out, “Did you just shoot me?”

The incredulous look William leveled his way made the purple jet cringe back a step. Yeah, stupid question.

Despite the absurdity, Agent Burns bellowed, “Final warning, Decepticon. Stand down or be destroyed.” Ah, so that’s how it was. Reading between the lines, the only reason they hadn’t opened fire is because they weren’t sure they could take him down before he took them out.

Skywarp couldn’t formulate a response fast enough to avoid another bullet screaming into another squishy part. It’s sender yelled with a raw voice, “So this is the real you, huh?”

Skywarp’s invent hitched at the words. “William, I--” another bullet ripped into a gap his abdominal plating.

“Warmonger? Infiltrator? MURDERER?”

Skywarp had killed thousands over his life. Every Cybertronian involved in the war had killed and killed and killed each other for thousands upon thousands of years. He didn’t think about those deaths all that much. But William’s words sent each of them screaming across his processor, death upon death upon death, weapons built to destroy and destroy with no end in sight.

It’s just… from a human perspective, it seems like the cost of your war has outstripped the benefits.

The dying light of Cliffjumper’s optics, the crackling scream of B-127, the gaping hole in Starscream’s chassis… the hole Skywarp had put there.

What was he even doing here?

Skywarp began to raise his servos. A microsecond too late he remembered the Sparrow missiles still primed on his forearms, in this exact moment pointed directly at the airmen.

“Open fire!”

Skywarp activated his bridge. He wasn’t going far. The calculations took less time than it took to pull a trigger. A few poorly-aimed bullets pinged off his chassis as the familiar green light surrounded him. His plan had calculated in very little time, but it should be sound. If William was willing to listen and not put a bullet through his avionics, that is. A risk worth taking.

Skywarp teleported ten feet forward and rolled into alt mode as he snagged William Fowler and placed him as gently as possible into his cockpit. The airmen ducked in surprise as he began climbing, a few shots pinging across his armor before someone smarter ordered them to stop firing and not provoke the death machine while it had a human captive. Not that either of those descriptors were 100% accurate.

In the cramped space of the cockpit, William awkwardly shouldered his rifle and pointed it to Skywarp’s controls. “Give me one good reason!”

“Activate your Sector Seven tracker. I know you all wear one.”

Must’ve been a good enough reason, because William’s arms dipped. “What?”

“They’ll find Shatter and Dropkick easier if they have something familiar to follow,” Skywarp answered.

The purple jet could feel William’s breathing speed up against his seat. “You’re… you’re helping us?”

“I have done everything you said I did,” Skywarp responded. “But that is not who I am. Now turn on your fucking tracker or none of this matters.”

Wordlessly, William complied.

CHRONO READING 21:32:12

GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: Brighton Falls, California

DESIG: ???

The situation they ran into was dicey at best, dire at worst. Their optics catalogued everything in pieces. Alien green arcs of energy running up a tall radio tower. The hastily constructed modifications turning an ordinary object into a WMD by proxy. The glinting forms of Shatter and Dropkick, gleefully clicking away the end of Earth as humans knew it.

Various HUD alerts clogged their vision as Bumblebee’s tactical computer booted up. The yellow bot mentally shunted those files into a folder, rerouted all further readouts, and attached one of their subroutines to alert only for critical info. Trying to coach Charlie through on-the-fly statistical analysis while fighting for their lives wasn’t gonna work. They’d have to do this the human way. Instinct, and a lot of guts.

Hard and fast, BB, Charlie suggested.

Agreed.

As one, they charged towards the tower, transforming their left arm into a blaster and firing three shots into the radio tower. At this distance they didn’t do much damage, but it got the Decepticons’ attention.

Dropkick responded immediately, launching himself into alt mode and barrelling towards their position, guns blaring into the darkness. They hastily scaled a stack of shipping containers and launched into the sky, pumping a few shots close-range shots into Dropkick’s cockpit before the blue Decepticon transformed and they collided in midair.

Now, Bumblebee had fallen off plenty of tall things. Buildings, aircraft, one particularly ill-advised parachuting incident with Crosshairs that no Charlie we can talk about that later. But Charlie had made a sport out of falling with style. Her midair proprioception was dazzling against Bumblebee’s processor; the skill attached to hundreds of memories both beautiful and heartbreaking.

So that’s why you didn’t jump, Bumblebee acknowledged.

Every time I try, I just… think of him.

It wasn’t your fault.

I know that in my head, Charlie said. My heart’s a different story.

He’d be really proud of your hard work, the yellow bot comforted. Especially since it means we can do shit like THIS.

With the strength of a 10 foot Cybertronian frame condensed into 6.5 feet of…whatever they were, they twisted in Dropkick’s grasp and pulled their pedes into their chest. When the rotation of the falling pair put their back to the sky, they heaved a mighty kick that sent the blue Decepticon crashing to the ground, skidding wildly into a small boat. They landed into a smooth forward roll, coming up blaster blazing.

Recovering his pedes, Dropkick batted away their arm and attempted to shoot a missile into their face. A fucking missile, Charlie’s mind privately freaked out.

I got this one.

Bumblebee ducked them under Dropkick’s barrage, putting their back against his chassis and gripped their foe’s arm and flipping his massive frame over their shoulder. Or at least they almost did. This combination body, though taller than most humans, was shorter than Bumblebee was used to. And shunting his tactical computer to the back of their brain meant they were relying on instinct to inform on the physics of things like leverage.

They ended up awkwardly yanking Dropkick off-balance, the pair of them tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and kibble. The blue Decepticon threw a punch that landed in their stomach, pushing them away several feet. The combined pair wasted no time coming back in close. At close distances it was fists against servos, and with their hyper-dense armor and seamless frame, Bumblebee and Charlie had the advantage.

They traded blows with the blue Decepticon, fight devolving into a knockdown dragout as they smashed their way through shipping containers and metal scaffolding. But they were running out of time. Shatter was still up on the tower. A quick background scan revealed that it wasn’t ready to transmit just yet, but that wouldn’t last forever. Every moment they wasted on Dropkick was another second off the doomsday clock.

The pair redoubled their efforts, throwing everything they had at the blue Decepticon; Bumblebee’s eons of combat experience coupling with Charlie’s extreme flexibility to deliver combinations at new angles of attack and speed. They had Dropkick on the ropes. They just had to get the right shot--

The whine-drone of a jet engine crept over their audials. Sparing a glance to the sky, they watched a purple F-18 scream overhead, and their spark sank. Skywarp had finished his job.

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 21:52:34
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: Brighton Falls, California
DESIG: SKYWARP ::McDonnell Douglas F/A-18C Hornet::

Bumblebee wasn’t dead, which despite everything that had happened in the last two hours was somehow the most surprising. As Skywarp and William made their approach on the radio tower, he spotted that strange combat mode duking it out with Dropkick in an empty dry dock. The inquisitive coding in Skywarp desperately wanted to observe and possibly dissect it to figure out how it worked. Almost unconsciously, he started banking that direction…

A not-so-gentle jerk on his control stick leveled out the jet’s wings. “Stay on target, man,” William admonished.

Skywarp sighed, a bit miffed at losing the pleasant distraction from his current life trajectory. “I am so about to get my aft kicked. Fire at will.”

Now, any Decepticon would tell you that allowing an organic anywhere near your flight controls was dishonorable and weak. Individual strength and power was the hallmark of their faction. But most Decepticons were idiots.

On just about every planet Skywarp had visited that had hit its industrial revolution, the local organics built vehicles. Lacking access to an innate means of getting around quickly, they crafted transportation designed for their planet’s conditions. And they were good at maneuvering them.

Skywarp, though precision-designed to fly, had only been in this alt mode and on this planet for two weeks. William had been flying planes like him for a decade. He knew instinctively this planet’s gravity, air pressure, and atmospheric behavior. And he knew how to control the F/A-18 in a way Skywarp would need another year of practice to really understand. In this circumstance, despite what his former fellows would believe, having a human in his cockpit was a distinct advantage.

“Too close for missiles, switching to guns,” William answered, thumbing the munitions lever and pressing the trigger.

A wave of high-speed rounds poured from Skywarp’s barrels, ripping into the radio tower’s scaffolding and electronics. As they passed, William rotated the airframe sideways until the wings were perpendicular to the ground, buzzing the tower close enough his human optics likely got a split-second glimpse of Shatter’s drop-jawed expression before they rocketed away for another pass.

An unfamiliar HUD alert popped up, asking, ::ACCEPT FUSION Y/N?:: Huh? He’d never seen that before. You know what, not the time. Skywarp shunted away the prompt without answering it.

“We can speed this up with your little teleport trick,” William suggested.

“You’re lucky the first one didn’t scramble your intestines,” Skywap answered.

“Is it supposed to make you nauseous?”

“You didn’t feel like ejecting your lunch?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Most mechs do!”

“Not a mech, dumbass!”

“Alright then,” Skywarp said. “Fuck it.”

The next time they made an approach on the tower, it was through a flash of green light coming from the same direction as before. “Firing missile,” Skywarp alerted, then sent a Sparrow rocketing out towards the Cybertronian addition. William didn’t even have to flip the munitions lever. There were some advantages to a sentient aircraft.

The missile seemed dead on target, but before it could cross the remaining 5 yards to strike the tower, it exploded harmlessly in midair.

“Frag!” Skywarp exclaimed. “They’ve got an EM defense set up that’s scrambled the guidance systems. Nothing more advanced than a bullet or unguided ordnance is getting through there.”

“So can we make a bombing run?” William asked.

“I, uh… kinda dropped all I had on the airfield…” Skywarp admitted. “New plan!”

As they passed the tower again, Skywarp went low, decelerated faster than a normal airplane could manage, and transformed, gently transferring William from his cockpit to his servos to the concrete ground of the dry docks.

“You keep Shatter busy, I’ll find a way up the tower and disable the transmission,” William said before Skywarp could begin speaking.

Skywarp shuttered his optics a few times. “What?”

“That was the plan, right?” William asked.

“Are you crazy?!” Skywarp exclaimed. “The plan is for you to stay here and coordinate with Sector Seven when they get here! Not put yourself in danger!”

“This is my planet, plane-brain! I’m not just gonna stand here while you and B-127 do all the work. Now fucking duck!”

Skywarp barely had time to turn before three tons of Shatter dropped onto his frame. She drove him into the hard concrete, servos scrabbling at his neck cables. “You filthy traitor!” she exclaimed. With a heave, Skywarp shoved his former superior away, scrambling to his pedes in pursuit. He had to move this fight away from William.

The purple jet spared a quick glance back, relief filling his spark chamber as he watched his human emerge from behind a large waste receptacle, a little shaken but unharmed. William canted his helm towards the tower. Skywarp responded with a single nod. It was his planet. So it would be his plan.

Turning his attention back to Shatter, Skywarp transformed out his disruptor cannon and aimed, relishing the chance to finally use this weapon as intended. He sent out the EM-shattering pulse, but it just seemed to wash harmlessly over her frame. Striking forward, Shatter locked a servo around his neck. “You think I didn’t figure out a mod against that thing?” she hissed, then flung him bodily into the air, sending him hurtling across the dry dock towards the opposite wall. He tried to transform and fly away, but the angle of his wings sent him into a flat spin with no way to recover. Oh Primus, this was gonna--

A pair of smooth metallic arms gripped his nosecone, pedes digging into the ground as B-127’s tiny battle mode slowed Skywarp’s momentum. They came to a mostly gentle rest against the dry dock wall, the almost unbelievable strength of the yellow scout holding up the plane.

For the first time, Skywarp got a good look at this unfamiliar alt form. And what he saw in the faceplates was not B-127. Framed by a sinuous yellow helm, the silver expression gazing back at him was different. Feminine. It almost looked just like--

“Solus?” Skywarp whispered.

B-127 let out a chuckle. When they spoke, it was with a lilting alto voice, “Not a Prime, but thank you. Hey BB, can that be our name? No, Charlie we can’t name ourselves after a fragging Prime. But the name is so cool! Can we figure this out later?”

Skywarp transformed and backed away from the strange being, several facts snapping together in his processor. The spacebridge-looking thing in B-127’s mind. The fact that he wasn’t dead. The appearance of this alt mode, somewhere between Cybertronian and…human.

“Watch out!” the human-Transformer pair called as they ducked beneath him. Skywarp spun around, catching sight of Shatter and Dropkick converging on their position. B-127/Charlie (yikes, they really did need a new designation for whatever they were doing) sprinted forward to resume their battle with Dropkick. Skywarp braced for Shatter’s impact.

He didn’t need to win this fight. All the former Decepticon needed to do was buy his human time.

CHRONO READING 1987/07/23 22:04:45
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: Brighton Falls, California
DESIG: SOL

How did you find the designation input?

Easy, BB. Just checked your logs from when you switched from B-127 to Bumblebee.

Sol?

Well you wouldn’t let me name us after a Prime directly. Plus this is what humans call our sun in the context of the galaxy.

Huh. It…fits.

I think so too. Watch the left.

The pair dodged right, ducking in close to land a counter punch in response to Dropkick’s failed kick. They needed to end this soon. A few well-placed blows sent the Decepticon a few paces back; just enough time the pair could dedicate a backchannel to contemplating the shift in circumstances that made Skywarp apparently change sides.

Bumblebee wasn’t terribly surprised. Sure, defections on either side were a very rare occurrence, but they did happen. In retrospect, Skywarp had been teetering on that ledge for a while. But something big must have happened for the purple jet to not only reject his faction, but his trine-mates by extension. Seeker bonds were some of the closest among Cybertronians, considering they were always sparked in threes. Skywarp was impulsive and more than a little reckless, but there’s no way he did this on a whim. What could’ve caused it?

As they traded another round of blows with Dropkick, Sol slid one optic towards where Shatter and Skywarp were duking it out. It was immediately obvious that the former Decepticon was at the disadvantage. But he kept on fighting, yanks and missile shots and punches driving the fight in a distinct direction towards, no, away from…

The pair glanced towards the tower, empty but still ramping up power. But there was movement to the left. A lone figure slowly scaling a nearby crane.

Ah, so that’s why, Charlie deduced.

He’s got balls, I’ll give him that, Bumblebee said.

Which one? Charlie giggled. The human for jumping into this fight unprotected or Skywarp for choosing him over the war?

Both.

Fair. But if we don’t take care of Chopper here they’re gonna catch wind and turn him into sludge.

They smoothly backflipped over a small shipping container, using it as cover from Dropkick’s shots before sending it into his shins with a hard kick. The blow sent the blue Decepticon down to one knee. Pressing their advantage, Sol vaulted back over the crate while locking their arms around Dropkick’s elbow. This time, they had the physics down perfect. Dropkick went sailing smoothly over their shoulder, sprawling out on the concrete. They could end this now.

But the Decepticon wouldn’t go down that easy. Recovering with lightning speed, he sent an uppercut straight into the pair’s jaw; the blow so strong it sent them into the air aft over pede. They landed hard, momentarily dazed by the pain radiating over the left side of their faceplates. Dropkick was on them now, seeking to destroy as they had mere seconds before.

Not gonna happen!

Sol quickly jackknifed to their feet and jumped for the Decepticon’s neck, squeezing their legs around his neck cabling. While smaller than the average Cybertronian, they were just as heavy. Swinging their weight around, the pair twisted and sent their opponent back into the dirt.

Before they could get in close again, Dropkick finally cottoned on to their close-range advantage. He retreated a few steps before transforming into his helicopter, gaining several yards of distance before opening fire.

Decepticon-forged armaments are designed for armor piercing, Bumblebee supplied, We need cover!

Sol ducked behind a mechanical loading device, flinching at the steady ping of high-velocity shrapnel against the aging structure.

There! Charlie shouted, drawing their attention to a discarded chain and anchor. Bumblebee immediately caught on to her intention. As one, they hefted the chain. Oh yes, this would do nicely. Ducking out from behind their cover, Sol took a few painful rounds through the chassis. Activating pain-dampening protocols, the pair shoved the agony away. They had work to do. With a mighty swing, they swished the anchor around their heads once, then sent it flying into Dropkick’s blade rotor.

The result was magnificent in its brutality. Caught up in the momentum of the helicopter blades, the chain tangled itself in tight, warping sensitive mechanisms beyond their ability to bear. The Decepticon crashed back down to earth, transforming to brace his fall against servos and pedes.

And in doing so, Dropkick broke the first rule of transformation. Never change modes with foreign objects on your frame. The chain slid in between transformation seams, the motions of Dropkick’s action winding it in and out of his body. In saving himself from the crash, he’d condemned himself to his chains.

There was a chance he could get free. Cybertronians were modular by nature. Given a bit of time, his systems could map the intrusion and begin reconfiguring his frame to expel the foreign object. He seemed to think they would give it to him.

“You think these little chains can hold me?” he asked.

Sol answered by yanking on the links still in their servo. With nowhere else to go, the chains around Dropkick tightened past his frame’s durability rating, and he was ripped apart in a catastrophic boom. The explosion of fuel lines and power cores ignited the wreckage into a funerary fireball. There would be no pieces for the humans to salvage.

A sudden sadness gripped Sol from both sides. Dropkick had to die to protect Earth, but that was another spark lost to the Well. One fewer member of a dying race.

Shaking the feeling off, Sol turned their attention to the human on the crane. He’d made it to the top, arms bracing against the scaffolding. All that remained between him and the radio tower was a five foot drop into empty space.

A crack split the air. Sol watched as a volley of bullets sparked against the metal to the man’s back. They whirled around to see Shatter, completely unimpeded, menacing red eyes focused on the tiny form above them.

Below her was Skywarp. With a blade straight through his chest.

CHRONO READING 1987/07/23 22:07:55
GPS LOC 38°03'02.3"N 122°38'13.2"W: Brighton Falls, California
DESIG: William Fowler

When William Fowler was sixteen, his life changed course for good. Maybe he would’ve gone into welding like his father. Become a priest the way his momma would have pushed him harder towards if she hadn’t wanted grandbabies so bad. Done any manner of things. But no, he was here. Climbing an unstable crane to deactivate an alien-augmented radio tower and save the frickin world. And it was all because of Joyce.

William Fowler met Joyce Washington at the Cajun Heartland State Fair in 1970. Well, “met” might be an overstatement. He’d seen her around town growing up and her momma put her in dresses and bows every Sunday the same way William’s momma put him in a suit and tie to stand in the pews and raise Alleluias to the Lord. But the 1970 Cajun Heartland State Fair was when William really noticed her, as a young man does. And being the hot-blooded sixteen year old he was, William offered to win her prizes at the baseball toss.

Joyce let him try, then proceeded to actively kick his ass and knock down every milk bottle tower the carnie set up. Six years of pitching softball will do that to ya, sugar, she’d giggled at William as she handed him a massive stuffed teddy bear. That’s when William knew he was gonna marry this girl. April 21st, 1972. He still kept a photo of them beaming from the altar in his wallet.

But in 1972 the US was still in Nam and the news was grimmer every day. That, and there weren’t too many opportunities for young Black men in the South despite the ongoing efforts of their forebears. The week before William made his big decision, Darius Gleeson from three doors down was drafted. Father Boudreaux had the whole congregation praying for his safe return. William watched the news, heard the talk, had his draft number written on a slip pinned to the kitchen cork board even though he’d memorized it. And one night, as he and Joyce said their prayers, William decided he got to decide. He wasn’t going to sit there and wait for his number to come up.

Of course, he discussed it with Joyce extensively. The benefits of an NROTC-funded college education, getting to travel around the US and the world, the financial security, the post-military job security, on and on and on. They both knew it was really about taking what little control they had, and that was okay. Joyce was a skilled seamstress and dressmaker, having trained under her mother and grandmother, and she could do that anywhere. In fact, she’d joked about getting so popular that all the admirals’ wives would flock to her home business for the various formal engagements they attended throughout the year. (That ended up happening, by the way.) They came to agreement, and William went to LSU, worked hard, graduated in three with a Bachelor’s in forensics, but of course by 1975 the war was basically over. So it goes.

William had an obligation to the Navy now and during OTS he discovered the world of Naval Aviation. Again, he had to come to an agreement with Joyce. Aviator contracts were a 10 year obligation minimum. They’d be tied to the military for a long while. But Joyce looked William in his eyes and said, This is the first time since you proposed you’ve come to me with something you want to do. So may the Lord strike me down if I don’t tell you to go get what you want, William Fowler. So he did.

By the time he was through all the training and the flight hours, most conflicts had simmered down to the CIA-backed shadow insurrection level, meaning the regular military didn’t see much action. They moved bases a few times; once to North Island, once to Oceana, and William did his carrier time visiting ports in the Pacific and the Mediterranean. He and Joyce had many happy years as William ranked up and Joyce’s dressmaking business boomed. They tried for kids, but they just…never came. Joyce tried to beat herself up about it, but for William kids would just be a bonus to what was already a perfect marriage.

Despite her reservations, Joyce took rather well to the Navy spouse life. But that was Joyce’s superpower. Where she couldn’t find community, she built it. Moving every three years could be incredibly isolating, but Joyce combated this for herself and others through grassroots networking and community outreach. In every base, the first thing she’d do is register her dressmaking with the Home Business Bureau, and the next thing she’d do is take out a weekly booking for a library conference room so she could host a crochet and knitting club. Third thing she would do was volunteer as a recreational softball coach. The communities she established continued on even after leaving, and many other spouses went on to establish their own community programs on other bases. Just another reason William’s wife was a goddamn marvel.

And then the cancer hit her in 1980. Inoperable, only maybe curable. They did everything they could, but it just wasn’t enough. She died in October of 1983, age 28. William got out of the Navy in 1985, age 30. When Sector Seven offered him a position, he accepted. But only after a long prayer session where he begged Joyce to intercede for him, to have God let him know this was the right choice. He never got a straight answer out of either of them, but he joined anyway, thinking of Joyce’s favorite question: is this what you really want?

It wasn’t. But trying to settle down without Joyce was…well he just wasn’t ready for that. The Sector Seven life was secretive and solitary. He could use that as an excuse not to date. He could bury himself in his work and play the noble unsung hero.

Except God wasn’t letting him play anymore. Nope, God dropped a 23 foot alien airplane in his lap and said, save the world, my son. The jury was out on whether or not he could do it without getting crucified.

An explosion rocked the ground below him. Risking a glance, William was treated to the admittedly vindicating sight of flaming scraps of dead Cybertronian clinking off the concrete. B-127 had managed to kill Dropkick. William’s elation turned to horror as his eyes found the other duel of the evening. It wasn’t going well for Skywarp. Even from this distance, William could tell he was flagging. And William caught just enough of the fight to see Shatter’s long, wickedly-barbed blade screech into his friend’s chest.

He couldn’t keep the gasp of horror from leaving his throat as Skywarp fell to the ground, biolights stuttering. A wound like that was something a human couldn’t come back from. The pilot blinked back a sudden wash of tears and silently prayed that Cybertronians were made of sterner stuff.

William was forcibly shaken out of his paralysis by a wave of bullets clinking off the crane scaffolding behind him. Shatter had her sights set on him. He needed to move. Before William could convince himself not to, he took a few running steps and launched himself over the gap. He hung in space for a few minutes, eyes to the sky. He wasn’t afraid of heights, necessarily. But if he was going to die he’d rather do it looking at the stars.

His hands and feet grabbed metal rungs, impact shooting up to his knees. Not dead yet! he quietly celebrated. Risking a glance back to check Shatter’s position, he was greeted to the sight of B-127 full body-slamming the magenta Decepticon into the concrete. He hoped the little yellow bot killed her too.

Returning to the task at hand, William climbed his way up the ladder onto the radio tower platform. He may not have known a lot about Cybertronian technology, but that big glowy thing sourcing the pulses of sickly green light running up the structure seemed important. It would be a shame if someone..

William drew his pistol and emptied the clip. At point blank range, the little device didn’t stand a chance. He smiled as the green light faded, alien additions powering down. No deep space transmissions for this tower. Not on his watch.

Elation faded as the sound of a plasma shot whistled beneath him. William ran to the edge of the tower platform just in time to watch B-127’s shot destroy the concrete holding the ocean at bay. The little bot sprang up from the ground underneath Shatter’s feet, locking the Decepticon into a tight grip. It held its opponent firm as they faced the onslaught.

Water rushed into the dry dock, carrying with it a massive cargo vessel that pitched wildly in the waves. Standing as they were, B-127 put Shatter right in its line of impact, but stood the risk of getting crushed as well. In the chaos, William searched for Skywarp. The purple jet lay unmoving on the concrete, but he was still purple. Still alive.

William could only watch as the cargo ship ran stern-first into Shatter, carrying the magenta bot with it as it plowed into the concrete at the other side of the dock. The explosion that followed made sure she was dead.

He stupidly watched the churning waters below, waiting for heads to surface before he realized that metal beings wouldn’t float in water. He thoughts turned to Skywarp, maybe still alive under the current. The purple jet had left his entire existence behind and risked his life for a tiny backwater planet he’d only spent to weeks on. B-127 may have sacrificed himself to kill Shatter. They’d both laid down on the wire to buy William time.

William Fowler studied the drop. About thirty feet into rough waters. Coincidentally, about the same distance from the flight deck of an aircraft carrier to the ocean it moved through. Yeah, he could do this.

William Fowler jumped. He pulled his arms in close, crossing his legs at the ankle and locking them straight. When he hit the water, he cut through it like a knife. As soon as the bubbles faded, the former sailor searched around the dim waters until he found what he was looking for.

And William Fowler swam like hell for the purple jet that had become his closest ally. As he swam, a strange but familiar tugging sensation dragged through his brain. He’d felt something like this before, when he piloted Skywarp in their initial assault on the tower. A feeling not too dissimilar from the thrill of flying an F/A-18 for the first time.

He followed that tug as it pulled him closer and closer to Skywarp. The purple jet lay still as William approached, leaking clouds of darker blue into the water. Skywarp was losing energon, and fast. Whatever insane gut instincts had brought William to this moment, it was now or never. He reached out gently, fingers brushing against Skywarp’s faceplates.

Just open your eyes for me, buddy, he begged in his mind.

And Skywarp answered.

DESIG: ???
They shot out of the ocean on twin jet engines, salty water trailing off a pair of wickedly angled wings. They felt the wind sing across their faceplates as they fell up into the sky, shouting elation to the stars above.

As one, they reluctantly pulled their optics from the heavens and surveyed the battlefield below. It was an empty mess of sloshing water, bent scaffolding, and overturned shipping crates. But they did spot a flash of yellow at the side of the newly-filled dry dock. Moving quickly, they landed on the edge of the water and offered a metallic purple hand to the bot below, yanking them from the water.

As the smaller being shook themself off, William finally cottoned on to what Skywarp figured out earlier. What this strange metal-and-flesh being was. What they were.

“You’re like us.” The voice that came from their shared mouth felt heavy and sharp, like the sound of jets cutting through the wind.

“More like you’re like us,” the yellow bot said. (is bot the right word if they’re part human? William wondered) “We did this first.”

“And what exactly is this?” Mildly conflicting emotions ran through them from either side of the bond. Skywarp was fucking thrilled to be 1.) Not dead or dying anymore, and 2.) Able to study this strange phenomenon up close and extremely personal. William was also glad they weren’t dead but the whole experience was flavored with the shock of it all.

“We don’t know,” they answered honestly. “Look, we should stick together! With the Decepticons gone, Bee can complete his mission and call the other Autobots here. You’d be welcome on the other side, both of you.”

Skywarp immediately cringed back from the suggestion.

Is this something you’d consider? William asked.

I… I don’t know, Skywarp answered. I just pulled myself out of one tired ideology. I don’t think I can just pick up another.

Take it from someone who jumped straight from one military organization into the other because he was scared to be something other than a warrior. I’ll back you, whatever it is you want.

A face echoed across their shared mind, brown eyes filled with warmth and sadness.

I want to be my own person, Skywarp answered.

“We’re going to have to turn you down,” they finally said.

The other bot (we really need a more accurate word for this, man) frowned, obviously disappointed. “We understand. Just know our door is always open to you if you need help, whether you want to join the Autobots or not. Rogue mechs can have it rough out here.”

They pinged the purple mech their comm code, revealing their designation in the process. Sol. It fit them.

“Good thing we’re not alone,” the flying pair quipped back. “Do you need a lift out of here?”

Sol chuckled before becoming enveloped in a bright flash. When the light faded, they were once again human and Transformer in separate bodies. The girl, Charlie, answered.

“Thanks, but Bee’s got his own wheels. See you round.”

With that, the yellow scout chirped happily and transformed into his Volkswagen. Skywarp and William watched as Charlie climbed into his drivers seat and the pair slowly picked their way out of the wrecked docks.

A HUD ping utterly unfamiliar to William demanded their attention. Sector Seven inbound, Skywarp interpreted.

Ah, so NOW they show up. Typical.

You want out of here like this or in the cockpit?

Not on your life am I passing up the chance to fly like this!

With a deep internal chuckle, the pair fired up their engines and blasted off into the night.

Chapter Text

CHRONO READING 1987/07/24 08:19:33
GPS LOC 37°30'22.9"N 121°06'43.9"W: Patterson, California
DESIG: Cade Yaeger

Someone dumped their garbage in Cade’s junkyard. Again. In all fairness, Cade Yaeger understood why people would think it’s appropriate to just dump and go. But there were rules to this kind of thing. What you’re supposed to do is bring the car around to the warehouse at the entrance to the yard, show Cade the piece, fill out all the appropriate paperwork, and walk away with a small sum. When folks just dumped and ran not only did they cheat themselves out of some pocket change but also created a massive headache for Cade. Whoever dumped this old red-and-blue hauler on him hadn’t even bothered to strip the…Nevada license plates? Well that was unusual.

No matter. He’d dealt with this before and he’d deal with it again. It was just another vehicle to be stripped for parts. Starting up his trusty-- if aging-- pickup, Cade hooked up the towing line and pulled it into his biggest lift. As he disconnected the tow straps, Cade noticed just how beat up this poor truck was. Almost looked like it had been caught in an explosion. (Not that Cade was intimately familiar with explosions in the pursuit of invention…or anything)

Its entire left side was covered in scorch marks, and when he finally got the beast up on a lift the shocks and suspension in that area were similarly shot. Body damage, structural issues, some kind of fluid leak…

The mechanic whistled low and said, “You’re lucky your engine wasn’t part of whatever clusterfuck got you like this.”

Speaking of the engine, he should give that a lookover. If he was right and it managed to avoid damage, there were plenty of parts in there he could repurpose or sell. Cade set about tilting the cab forward on its hydraulics and was initially very pleased at what he saw. A little dents and dings on the lowest areas, but the understructure of the truck had protected the sensitive mechanisms from the worst of it. If the alternator was in good shape he could repurpose it for…

On second glance, whatever was sitting underneath the cab of this Freightliner was not an engine. At least, it looked very little like any engine Cade Yaeger had ever seen before. The structure was an intricate, fuck, almost delicate series of pipes, wiring, fans, scaffolding arranged around a large spherical object that glowed with a soft teal light. One side of Cade’s mind was screaming at him to put this whole truck back where it came from and forget it ever showed up in his yard. The other side couldn’t be stopped as it reached out and brushed against the glowing orb’s housing.

The moment skin touched metal, the previously unmoving sphere started spinning. Slowly, and then faster and faster and oh fuck it wasn’t the only thing moving around anymore. Cade yanked himself clear of the rapid shifting and grinding currently being undergone by what used to be a beat up cargo hauler but was now taking on a distinctly bipedal shape. The hapless mechanic could only watch in shock and awe as a 30-foot tall metal man loomed tall over his warehouse, blue armored head backlit by the morning sun streaming through the high windows.

The being stood tall, bearing straight and nearly regal. Cade Yaeger didn’t believe in royalty as an institution, but something about this guy felt like a king. And then the creature shifted on its injured leg and nearly stumbled to the ground. The aura dissipated and Cade felt a hard twinge of pity. He’d seen the damage up close. If this thing felt pain in any way similar to humans, his whole left side must hurt like a bitch.

And then it spoke, deep and resonant and in perfect English, “If you would please refrain from touching that. It’s rather sensitive equipment.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Cade asked, not necessarily to the being in front of him, more as a manic query towards God.

“I apologize for any stress I have caused you, but I must take my leave now. It would be appreciated if you kept this encounter to yourself, though I doubt anyone would believe you.” Said the giant metal man who was being incredibly polite for some reason.

Cade’s brain stuttered, struggling to process the inputs of his eyes and ears. There seemed to be a significant delay in processing because it was only now he realized, “Oh, crap, I had my hands all up inside you.”

The robot blinked a few times. “I can assure you there are no hard feelings for actions taken in ignorance. Now, goodbye.” He attempted to rest his weight on the injured leg again, and Cade knew the expression those tiny articulated pieces around the eyes were constructing, even if the rest of his face was obscured by a mask.

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on! I don’t mean to be rude, buddy, but you look like you got hit with a bazooka.” As Cade looked at the giant robot, the connections between its bipedal and vehicle shapes started clicking together. “If the damaged undercarriage structures I saw earlier are what’s holding that leg up they’re gonna buckle if you keep putting weight on it.”

“It was a low-yield unguided bomb, actually,” the robot answered. “And I will manage just fine,” he went to take another step, the motion punctuated by a sharp snapping sound.

For just a moment, Cade was no longer looking at a 30 foot tall robot man that could somehow also turn into a tractor trailer. He was looking at something all too familiar. Somebody who would walk on a broken leg before letting anyone else know they were hurting.

Absolutely the fuck not. Moving quickly, Cade rounded the vehicle lift and planted himself between the giant man and the warehouse door. “Look man, I know you’re probably not used to humans being very nice. We’re very bad at taking surprises gracefully and you’re one hell of a surprise. I mean, am I wrong in assuming some unfriendly government types did this to you?” The robot didn’t answer with words. The downwards cast of its eyes were all the response Cade needed. “I can’t let you walk out of here without at least trying to help. Your peripherals are interchangeable with regular car parts, right?”

The robot’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you attempt to help me?”

He couldn’t lie to himself, hearing the big guy’s words broke his heart a little bit. Cade had no idea how long this robot had been around, but it sounded like he’d only seen humanity at its most insular and fearful. He’d never watched humanity rush an injured stray to the vet because they couldn’t stand to watch it suffer anymore. Never seen hands that could lift a car to save a baby hold that same child with such gentleness. Never read the little gold disc they’d launched into space with no images of war but over 200 ways to say hello.

“Because its the right thing to do. Do you need anything else?”

CHRONO READING 1987/07/24 08:55:02
GPS LOC 37°30'22.9"N 121°06'43.9"W: Patterson, California
DESIG: OPTIMUS PRIME ::1987 Freightliner FLA-8864T::

To say Optimus found this little human (designation: Cade Yaeger) intriguing would be a mild understatement. The way he threw himself in front of Optimus’ exit, refusing to back down until the Autobot acquiesced to repairs… well it reminded him of someone else. So deep in his past it was easy to forget. A young, bright-eyed miner who just couldn’t leave a bot downed by a tunnel collapse.

Perhaps that is why Optimus assented to letting an alien creature with no training in Cybertronian biology take blowtorches and socket wrenches to his ruined legstrut. Though the decision was proving to be beneficial. It was obvious Cade Yaeger had an extensive understanding of vehicle mechanics. And what he couldn’t parse for himself he didn’t hesitate to consult Optimus for clarification.

Cade talked a lot. When he wasn’t asking questions about the bolt arrangements around Optimus’ knee or reading off the ingredients of the various Earth lubricants he kept around the garage to determine which was the best substitute for the mech’s own depleted supply, he kept up a running commentary on whatever it was he was doing. Idle chatter; boutta weld a patch to this cable, you might feel a burn or you’re lucky I happen to have a pentagonal wrench we only use those for fire hydrants on this planet.

When questioned about why Cade felt the need to acquire a wrench of that specification if it had nothing to do with his job, he launched into a rather amusing story involving a fellow human and a boring summer day that ended with a citation from the local authorities.

The constant chatter of Cade’s voice made it easy to lose focus. He was not terribly far from Sector Seven’s last known location. If they were going to track him down, they would have done so by now. For the moment, the Prime was safe. His processors wandered to thoughts of Ratchet and Arcee. No doubt they were worried sick at his last message. Optimus could almost picture the conversation. Arcee would demand to leave Omega Base and search for him. Ratchet would talk her down. Then they’d both soothe themselves with the idea that their leader had been in rougher scrapes before and had made it out intact and call him a dumbaft for constantly throwing himself into danger.

The thought made the corner of Optimus’ lipplates crick up. The small, uncommon motion sent a squeal ringing through his audials and a sharp ache through the side of his face. He pulled up his muted damage reports and discovered some minor damage to the gear housings of his battlemask.

“Yeesh, that sounded painful,” Cade remarked.

“It is nothing,” Optimus answered, and truthfully. His legstrut was the priority here.

The human let out a large, audible huff of air that Optimus’ translation software tagged exasperated. “I’m pretty much done with what I feel comfortable fixing in your leg. There’s some deeper issues underneath the truck parts but you should be able to get wherever you’re going without fucking anything up permanently. Now I’m gonna get on this truck lift and you’re gonna lean your big ass head down here so I can fix that shit.”

Cade’s commanding, no-nonsense tone was similar enough to Ratchet’s that Optimus complied on instinct. The mech and the human met in the middle of their height difference; Cade perched on the highest setting of his vehicle lift while Optimus hunched his backstruts to bring his helm level.

Cade went quiet as he examined the damage. “Well, it’s really not that bad. Some shrapnel gouged a couple holes in the outer plating and lodged a few shards in the gears. But…” the human leaned in closer, disappearing out of the Prime’s field of vision. “Good grief, when was the last time these moved? They’re almost frozen. Once I pick out the metal bits imma need you to retract your mask so I can make sure nothing’s bent.”

At Cade’s suggestion, a series of subroutines activated without Optimus’ input. His battle systems booted with ruthless efficiency, power shunting to the plasma generator in his right arm, prepared to cut down the tiny figure his HUD had labelled ::DANGEROUS::.

Optimus’ fans audibly hitched as he wrested back primary control, leaning away from the human. His logic processors began overclocking, trying to provide an answer as to why his systems had reacted this way. They could not come up with a satisfactory answer before Cade spoke.

“Hey big guy, you okay?”

Optimus took another heavy invent before replying, “I apologize. I am…not sure what happened.”

Cade just chuckled, “No worries. I hate going to the dentist too. But I should really get that shrapnel out.”

When Optimus retook his position near the tiny human, he put every byte of his processing power towards staying still.

“And that’s the last of the pieces.” Cade said after what felt like centuries. And while Optimus was continuously telling himself that everything was fine and it’s no big deal, his tanks still queased at the prospect of Cade’s next ask. "Now can you just--”

Whatever Cade said next was lost in the ping of a HUD notification. On the emergency Autobot channel. Optimus immediately opened them message, dread seeping through his lines at what must have happened for Ratchet and Arcee to break radio silence--

Except the message wasn’t from Ratchet or Arcee. It was from--

“Bee,” Optimus breathed.

“Who?” Cade asked.

::Calling all Autobots. Calling all Autobots. This is a message from B-127. If any of you are out there… I’m alive on the planet Earth. Galactic Coordinates 18.32958, 3578.3208, 123.456. And I’ve got something pretty cool to show you.::

“I must go,” Optimus said, raising himself to stand. A dull ache remained in his damaged legstrut, but Cade’s work was solid. He could get where he needed to go. He could find B-127.

“Woah, are you sure?” Cade asked.

“A lost soldier has made contact. I must rendezvous with him immediately and escort him to our base. I thank you deeply for what you have done here, Cade Yaeger. But do not attempt to locate me again. For your safety, and for ours.”

With those words, Optimus transformed. The last, quiet words he heard from the human Cade Yaeger were, “Wait, there are more of you guys?

CHRONO READING 1987/07/24 19:34:12
GPS LOC 37°49'46.3"N 122°29'01.0"W: Sausalito, California
DESIG: Charlie Watson

Leaving home was easy and hard. On the one hand, she was eighteen and done with high school. That’s usually when people moved out of their parents’ home, right? Off to college or trade school or starting an entry-level job somewhere. And she had plenty of reason not to stick around, what with a shadowy government organization knowing where she lived. It was better for her family if they didn’t have anything to tell.

But the transition still hurt. She thought she’d have a little more time to figure everything out before leaving the safety of home. Bee answered her ambient sadness with comfort and gratitude, and Charlie smiled. Despite the sadness, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than with her Bumblebee. And right now, they could just sit and watch the cars drive over the Golden Gate Bridge. Optimus said he’d be a few hours.

Bee sat next to her, idly wiggling his pedes back and forth. Now that his memory cells were restored thanks to their combined healing ability, Charlie had seen glimpses of other Autobots. Turns out, Bumblebee was on the tiny side for a Cybertronian. She’d seen his memories on other planets, always having to look up at whoever was talking, unless it was Cliffjumper. Even some of the washrack mirrors were set so high he could only view his top half.

Which got Charlie thinking about what Bumblebee looked like. Always small, always yellow, but… this Volkswagen alt mode made his frame softer. Not much like the slick lines and sharper angles of his last couple chassis arrangements.

“Do you ever miss it?” Charlie asked, trusting Bumblebee would catch the end of her train of thought.

“What, you don’t like the bug?” Bee asked.

“I mean its cute!” Charlie hedged. “But you didn’t really get a choice in it, did you? You’ve been around here long enough, what would you have picked?”

Considering her words, Bumblebee stood up, training his optics on the flow of vehicles below. “You know I hadn’t put much thought into it,” he said. “But-- ooooh I like that one!”

In a flash that Charlie knew took about 15 separate subroutines to execute, Bumblebee transformed. But not into a Volkswagen. Standing before her, shining like it just rolled off the lot, was Bumblebee’s new alt mode.

“No way,” Charlie breathed. “Are you kidding me?! You could’ve been a Camaro this whole time?”

Bee’s only answer was to rev his engine.

“That’s it, I don’t care how much longer Optimus is going to be, you are taking me for a drive.” Charlie said, then climbed into the driver’s seat. She didn’t know how Bumblebee was able to replicate that new leather car smell, but the scent of it filled her nostrils with glee. With a shared joy ringing across their bond, the pair set off onto the open road.

And if they drove back and forth across the Golden Gate Bridge a few times until a familiar-yet-not red and blue Freightliner pulled up next to them? Well, that was their business.

::Old friend,:: A warm, gravelly voice filtered over the radio. ::It is good to see you alive and well, B-127.::
::Actually, Optimus, the name’s Bumblebee. And the lovely lady in my driver’s seat is Charlie Watson. Our name is Sol. And boy do we have a lot to catch you up on.::