Chapter Text
The Primal Palace, usually a picture of magnificence and religious might, was still stained with soot and ash even as it welcomed in a swarm of mechs. Gouges and fire damage littered much of the structure, but it was the high tower that had once held the younger prince that had suffered the most, the roof slashed off and fallen somewhere far below, little more than rubble now. One could still see the clawmarks on what remained of the high walls if they squinted.
Perhaps it was in poor taste—considering the events that caused all this damage and destruction—but Ratchet couldn’t help but think that the Primal Palace’s appearance finally matched its rotten ruler. Ugly and worn, a perversion of something that had once been holy. Yes, this palace surely fit Sentinel Prime more than a building of glittering gold and white ever had.
Ratchet was certainly not the only mech who wanted nothing to do with this farce the Primacy had cooked up, but he had little choice in the matter. When one received an order from the Prime himself, it wasn’t exactly like they had the option of saying no.
Indeed, when Ratchet had tried to get out of his summons, when he’d tried to file for an exemption based on his status as a medic, he’d been politely informed that since he wasn’t working at an officially recognized hospital, he legally did not count as a medic and thusly wouldn’t be exempt. When he’d sent in a reply to his rejection—one that contained perhaps a few more swear words than strictly necessary—his response had been a pair of enforcers at the door of his clinic, commanding him to appear before the Prime, as required, or be jailed and have his place of work shut down.
So not only did they want Ratchet to go on a wild goose chase that was likely to get him and who knew how many other poor souls killed, they also wanted to shut down his clinic?
Truth be told, if it had just been Ratchet who worked there, he might’ve taken the jail time. As it was, he’d chosen compliance instead, handing off his duties to the young First Aid—who had avoided this draft mostly by virtue of his being in a gestalt and having an enforcer in it.
So Ratchet had gone to the still-smoldering heart of Iacon, preparing himself for no small amount of utter bullshit.
He’d been tagged upon his arrival, a ring of golden metal welded around his arm with Sentinel’s Prime insignia pressed into it. A glorified brand, really. Ratchet wasn’t positive it wouldn’t simply snap off the first time any of them had to transform. And the welding job was one of the worst Ratchet had ever seen—it itched like hell against his plating. Made him feel like more of a Primacy dog than he’d felt as Sentinel’s slagging CMO.
All of them that had been summoned—a broad range of characters, hundreds of them, probably at least a thousand—were gathered in the stadium below the palace itself. The area, Ratchet knew, was from a gorier era of Iacon’s history. It had once been a gladiatorial arena, bigger even than the largest in Kaon, but those times had come to a close and Iacon had supposedly entered a more civilized age.
Shoved in with a thousand or so other mechs, being gawked at by an even larger crowd filling the tall stands, Ratchet couldn’t help but think that this was little more than a return to bloodsport.
High above them all, bedecked in glittering blue and a much brighter gold than the band around Ratchet’s arm, was His Holiness himself, Sentinel Prime. The mech needed only to raise a hand—made all the more visible by the high screens that had been erected to show off His Gaudiness in high definition—before the mass of people below him (beneath him) went silent.
“My dearest people, my beloved citizens of Iacon,” Sentinel began, his voice broadcast all across the arena and likely to the city at large beyond. “I am sure you are all aware by now of the tragedy that has struck my House. Of the beast that beset my home and terrorized my city! And I am bereaved to inform you that this monster was not content with simple destruction. It committed a grave crime against me, against the Primacy itself!
“I am here now to inform you that the rumors you have been hearing these past few weeks are true: my youngest son—His Highness, Rodimus Prime—was stolen away from us by this great beast.”
The crowd erupted into loud murmuring. Ratchet himself felt his frown deepen by the barest amount. Rodimus Prime was not nearly as beloved or even well-known as his elder brother, but he was still the son of the Prime. To hear he’d been taken was no small thing. And, for all that Ratchet despised the kid’s sire, Rodimus Prime was just that—a kid.
He’d known already, of course. Pharma had called him up just barely after the whole affair concluded and hadn’t been able to stop himself from gossiping, it seemed. For all the bad blood between them, it had been nice of his old partner to give Ratchet some measure of warning before this whole clusterfuck.
Speaking loud over the sound of the crowd below, Sentinel continued on, “I am as shocked and dismayed as the rest of you, I promise, and I will stop at nothing to see my son returned. To that end…”
Here, the Prime paused to turn his gaze down to the many mechs standing in the arena itself. A whole host of sacrifices to their Prime’s mad plan.
“I have gathered as many… suitable mechanisms as my people could find. You all who now bear my mark, whom I have named my knights, you will go forth and slay the beast that stole my son.”
And there it was.
Knights. Utter slag, if you asked Ratchet. Neither Iacon nor any of its Primes had employed knights since antiquity. Back then such a title had meant something, but here and now? It was simply a way for Sentinel to make them all feel a bit better about this little hunt they were being sent on.
That was all they were to be, a pack of turbohounds sent to flush their Prime’s prey from the undergrowth. Ratchet severely doubted any of their odds of killing a predacon on their own, and he didn’t have high hopes that there would be many ‘knights’ that would have any interest in teaming up to give themselves better chances. Mostly because…
“And, to whichever knight returns me my son and brings me the head of the dragon that stole him away from me,” Sentinel continued, an indulgent smile on his face, “I will award the highest honor I can give and grant them a boon—whatever they may wish from their Prime will be given to the best of my ability.”
That caught the attention of many of the newly-named knights and much of the crowd beyond. A boon from the prime was no small thing, but in promising it to a perceived single mech would only incite competition. And competition would only make it harder for all of them to succeed against a foe as insurmountable as an entire dragon.
Ratchet thought the most likely outcome would be that, after the vast majority of knights had tried and failed to kill the beast, Sentinel would finally send in the military to deal with it. By then it might even be somewhat weakened. Or, perhaps, it would be even stronger after the buffet it would be served by Sentinel’s command.
Whatever the outcome, Ratchet could only foresee a lot of bloodshed in the coming days.
“Go forth now with your Prime’s blessing, my knights. May Primus guide your path in your coming trials. Iacon prays for your success!”
If Ratchet could’ve, he probably would’ve bolted around then. Snuck off somewhere to pry the band off his arm and go back to his job—the place that actually needed him. But Sentinel wasn’t going to just throw them straight into the dragon’s jaws, no. He was going to make a spectacle of it, first.
A damn parade, with just over a thousand mechanisms marching through the streets of Iacon like the world’s least organized army. Ratchet kept seeing people stumble in the shuffling crowd—more than that, he saw some people occasionally purposefully shoving or tripping those around them. Ratchet was forced to keep his head held high as he and the rest of these knights were herded to the edge of the city, citizens gawking at them all with mixed awe and anxiety. Ratchet doubted any of the ‘knights’ inspired much confidence.
At the city’s exit, they were met with the greatest kindness Sentinel could offer his sacrifices: each of them were given a puny kit of limited gear and solid energon rations. Ratchet was handed a sword, patted on the shoulder, and all but kicked out the gates.
From there…
Primus. From there, the newly-minted knights began to slowly scatter. Some large groups formed around one mech or another, but Ratchet paid them no mind. He had no real plans, other than to get the hell away from this mess as fast as he could. Perhaps if he stayed away for a time, picked up work in another polity, he could wait this whole event out and return to Iacon in disgrace or whatever—
“Ratchet? Ratchet, is that you?”
The voice that called out to him was… familiar was the wrong word, perhaps, but Ratchet could swear that there was something about it…
He turned to find a huge blue and red bot approaching him, hand outstretched as if to take his shoulder. “It is,” the hauler said. Their face was covered by a silver mask the same color as their faceplate, but their delight was clear in the brightening of their optics and the forward cant of their tall finials. “Ratchet! I haven’t seen you in vorns!”
Ratchet gave another long look over the mechanism. He thought he’d remember someone like this, but for all that they were, again, almost familiar, he just couldn’t match either face or voice to anything in his memory banks…
“Do I know you?” He asked. The hauler drooped slightly at that.
“Ah… you wouldn’t remember, I suppose. It has been a while, and back then I looked… well.” The hauler shook themself slightly and held out a hand. “My name is Orion Pax. You once saved my life.”
Ratchet took the hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’ve done that a lot, go figure. Happy to see whatever I did stuck, at least. Sorry I can’t remember you.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Doctor. I didn’t think I’d find you in the middle of this,” here, Orion Pax gestured to the various knights still milling about the entrance of the city. “I’d think a hospital ward would be more your speed.”
Ratchet huffed at the reminder. “Apparently you can’t get a medic exemption if you run a small-time clinic.”
Orion Pax winced. “My condolences. I’m sure you aren’t the only one dragged into this affair against their will—”
“Pax!”
Ratchet glanced away to see who was shouting and Orion’s gaze followed a moment later. Two mechs were swiftly making their way over—a black and white mech with a bright blue visor and friendly grin, and a similarly colored Praxian with a prominent red chevron and a thunderous expression, their doorwings held high.
“There you are!” The visored mech was saying, coming to stand beside Orion Pax. “Thought you could give us the slip, did’ja?”
“My apologies,” Orion Pax said, dipping his head in what might’ve been embarrassment. “It was not my intention to leave you behind.”
“Who’s the ambulance?” Visor asked.
“Ratchet of Vaporex,” Doorwings responded before Ratchet could even bother with introductions. “You used to serve as Sentinel Prime’s Chief of Medical.”
“That was a long time ago,” Ratchet grumbled. He gave the Praxian a once-over, raising a brow. “I thought enforcers were exempt from the draft.”
“I volunteered,” Doorwings said, voice dry as anything.
“Ratchet, these two are Jazz and Prowl, two good friends of mine.” Orion Pax gestured to each mechanism as he said their name. Jazz gave a sleazy smile and a two-fingered salute. Prowl gave an almost imperceptible nod. “The both of them volunteered after I was called upon by His Holiness.”
Ratchet hadn’t even been aware that Sentinel had been taking volunteers. If that was the case, why had there been a draft at all? Why couldn’t all of the knights be crazy religious zealots who’d happily throw their lives away fighting a mythical predacon?
“How kind of them to follow you to your death,” Ratchet said with no small amount of sarcasm.
Orion Pax leaned back slightly at the venomous edge to Ratchet’s voice. “You truly think it a futile endeavor?”
“I think that most of these bots are going to try and pick a fight with a predacon without any backup and get blasted back to nuts and bolts,” Ratchet grumbled. “And I think the ones that don’t do that will get dismantled as well, just with some pals at their side in their final moments.”
“Well, who said we have to get all up in its face? I’m sure not everyone’ll want to actually fight the dragon,” Jazz pointed out.
“You’re right,” Ratchet gave the mech a wry smile, “not everyone will fight the dragon. I, for one, am thinking of holing up in Rodion again until this all blows over and I can go home.”
“What?” Orion Pax blurted. “But—what of Rodimus? That is, er, His Highness, the prince?”
“I’m sure Sentinel will eventually get tired of his ‘knights’ dying and send in the army. He doesn’t need me for that.”
“I would rather not wait and see my—my prince potentially lose his life because Sentinel Prime felt like dawdling,” Orion Pax said. Ratchet found himself somewhat surprised by the vehemence with which Orion spoke Sentinel’s name. Sure, Ratchet fucking hated the Prime, but he was aware that wasn’t a particularly popular opinion to have. For Orion Pax—someone who had until now seemed both quite deferential and pious—to possibly share that opinion was… unexpected.
“You’re really gonna go dragon hunting, then?” Ratchet asked, looking between the trio.
“Our current plan prioritizes the rescue of the prince over the killing of the predacon,” Prowl said. “Jazz is fairly confident that, presuming we can find the dragon’s lair, he can infiltrate it and extract the prince. By my calculations, we have an over 50% chance of success.”
“So a coin flip?” Ratchet asked. “What wonderful odds!”
“It is better than what most of these so-called knights have,” Prowl tilted his head down slightly as he spoke so that his frown seemed even deeper than before. “Having some kind of distraction for the dragon would significantly raise our potential success rate, but I could not ask such a thing of Orion Pax.”
“A distraction?” Ratchet asked, an incredulous tone to his voice. “So, what, someone acts as bait while your guy nabs the prince?”
“You don’t need to ask, Prowl,” Orion said. “I would gladly do anything to ensure the prince’s safe rescue.”
“If a distraction is what you guys need, maybe I could help out.”
Another newcomer, joy. This one was another huge mech, even taller than Orion Pax, dark teal and gray with bright orange to contrast it.
“Name’s Roller,” the new mech said with a smirk. “If you lot have a real plan, I want in.”
“What’s in it for you?” Jazz asked, tilting his helm. His casual grin had widened slightly so that his fangs were just a tad more prominent.
“Uh, not dying, mostly? Also getting to go back to Iacon at some point.”
“How… honorable,” Orion said. And, Primus, Ratchet could tell that he was trying so hard to find good in those reasons. This Orion Pax really was giving Ratchet such a powerful feeling of déjà vu…
“I guess I wouldn’t turn down an extra servo or two,” Jazz mused, his expression returning to its previous half-smirk. “What do ya say, Doc’—wanna help out?”
Ratchet grimaced, a firm denial already on his glossa—
“Please, Ratchet,” Orion asked, his optics all sad and soft in a way that just reminded Ratchet of something… “A medic could make the difference between life and death for any of us. It’s also possible that the prince himself may be injured and in need of more than just a protector when we get to him.”
“It’d sure suck if we got to the baby Prime and he bled out on the way home,” Jazz pointed out. His words elicited a flinch from Orion.
Ratchet… Ugh, Ratchet was too much of a bleeding spark for this.
“Fine. Fine!” Why was he agreeing to this? This was going to be the worst couple of weeks of his life—and probably the last. “But do not expect me to square up against any predacons.”
“I’ll factor that in,” Prowl said, his lips quirking into the slightest smile.
“Great!” Roller said with a bright look on his faceplate. “I brought extra energon if anyone wants some.”
Ratchet had journeyed between Cybertron’s many polities in the past, but he’d never attempted to brave the wilds before. For good reason; he was one mech and often traveled alone or with other civilians—and for all the time it could shave off his trip, Ratchet had no interest in dealing with the various mechanimals that wandered the wastes or stalked the woods.
Orion Pax cared a lot about travel time. He argued that every moment they wasted was another moment the prince could be dying. He did not care for the winding roads that skirted around the wilder territories of Cybertron and instead blazed his own trail straight through the tall crystalline forests leading up to the Manganese Mountains—the last known location of their dreaded dragon.
Orion actually had a fair bit more intel than any other knight likely had. Rather, Prowl did. The Praxian had done his research, getting as much footage as he could of the dragon’s heading as it flew away from Iacon and then keeping his audial to the ground for any sightings of it after leaving the bounds of the city. It was thanks to him that they even knew where the hell they were heading.
Roller and Ratchet were not the only mechs Orion attempted to recruit, but he had dwindling success after the two of them. Most of the other knights Orion approached were far more interested in the prize than the wellbeing of the prince and thus didn’t want to risk having to split or lose said prize. In the end, it was just the five of them trundling on through the woods.
Though, perhaps not as alone as they’d thought.
Their first night on the road, Orion called a stop to their travels. “We are all driven by a sense of urgency, I know,” the truck had said, “but it would do us no good to exhaust ourselves. Let us make camp for the night so we have the energy to keep on going tomorrow.”
They got their good night’s recharge. But when day two rolled around and they bunkered down for the night, they were quite unceremoniously interrupted by a group of mechs—not too large in number, though well larger than their own crew, perhaps fifteen or so strong—came down upon them, weapons drawn.
“You lot have intel, right?” Their ringleader spoke, a haughty grin on his face. “Tell us what you’ve got before we blow your brain modules to bits.”
“There is no need for violence,” Orion had tried to soothe, holding up placating hands. “We’ll gladly share with you all we know so we might save the prince together—”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t care about the little primeling,” Ringleader said with a scoff. “I care about the prize. And having people like you get to it first makes it harder for people like us to get what we deserve.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something you deserve—” Jazz had grumbled under his breath, only audible to Ratchet by their close proximity.
“Our band does not seek any prize for saving the prince,” Orion Pax went on. “We would be more than happy to let you—”
“Yeah, see, I just don’t believe that!” And then the Ringleader had let out a sharp whistle and his fellow knights had lunged like a pack of rabid, hungry cyberhounds.
If there was one upside to Ratchet sticking with this motley crew, it was certainly that they could fight.
Jazz was a mean little sneak, ducking in and out of view to deliver devastating blows that his enemies could never see coming. Roller and Orion Pax, both being much larger than average frames, were forces of nature against their foes, able to easily dispatch mechs without even having to pull weapons. And Prowl…
Well, Prowl was mostly hanging back, out of sight. But every now and again, a loud bang would sound out and a mech would drop. Prowl was evidently more than happy to snipe whoever he could when possible.
Now Ratchet was no real fighter, but that certainly wasn’t to say he was helpless. Indeed, he had no qualms with lunging for the ringleader of this crew and wrestling him to the ground at his first chance. It was right around then, though, that a different kind of shot rang out overhead. Not the sound of Prowl’s gun, but the boom of a cannon.
Ratchet’s head whipped up, searching for his companions to ensure none of them had been hit—
And in doing so, gave the stupid knight he’d taken down the opening to flip them around so that Ratchet was the one pinned to the dirt. He growled and tried to shove his attacker away. The mech above him grinned and opened his mouth—likely to taunt Ratchet or some such slag—but whatever he’d wanted to say never came out.
Because another resounding boom came and suddenly the ringleader’s head was a smoldering heap of nothing and his frame was slumping on top of Ratchet. The medic was finally able to shove him off now that he was a corpse and he rose up to find… well, to find a bunch of panicked and fleeing figures.
And suddenly, it was five once more. Or rather six. Because slowly approaching their group was a new mech with a smoking cannon mounted on one arm. Done up in nothing more than dull grays, they’d look almost like a walking corpse if not for those burning red optics. Ratchet was also quick to notice that there was no golden band about their arm. This wasn’t one of Sentinel’s knights.
“Is it true?” The newcomer asked. “That you don’t care to claim Sentinel Prime’s boon for the victor?”
“Heard that, did you?” Prowl said, gun trained firmly on the figure.
Ratchet couldn’t help a soft snort. “Why do you care? Would you even qualify?”
“When I learned of this… competition, I knew it would be the chance I needed to gain an audience with the Prime. It doesn’t matter whether or not I am a ‘knight’. If I bring Sentinel his son and the head of the beast, he’ll have to grant me a boon or look like a liar before his citizens.”
Orion gave the gray mech a long look. “It’s true that I don’t care about receiving a boon, though I won’t speak for my allies.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t turn it down, but I’m fine without it,” Roller said with a shrug.
“Sentinel doesn’t have anything I want,” Jazz said. Cryptic.
“I am only here to ensure Orion Pax’s safety and Rodimus Prime’s rescue,” Prowl stated plainly.
Several sets of optics landed on Ratchet and he sighed. “The only thing I care about is getting back to my work. I don’t really want to have to chat with Sentinel long enough to ask for anything.”
The gray mech tilted his head. “… You are a very odd group.”
“What about you, stranger?” Orion asked. “You have interest in receiving a boon from Sentinel Prime. What would you ask of him?”
“To nullify the debts of his cold constructs and free them from their indentured servitude.”
“How honorable,” Jazz murmured, elbowing Roller lightly in the side.
“A worthy endeavor,” Orion said with a nod. “If you aided us in saving the prince, my team and I would be willing to allow you to take His Highness and the predacon’s head back to Sentinel Prime in Iacon.”
“Truly?” The stranger’s optics stayed pinned on Orion.
“You have my word,” Orion swore. “My only wish is that Rodimus Prime is returned safely home.”
The stranger sneered at that. “You care so much for a Prime?”
“He is just a boy,” Orion argued. “A boy who was stolen from the safety of his home and brought to the wilds. Whatever he may be, he does not deserve to die alone and afraid at the claws or fangs of a beast.”
“… Very well then. Will you tell me your name?”
“I am Orion Pax. Who are you, friend?”
“My name is Megatron. And, temporary allies we may be, but I am not your friend.”
Megatron was an interesting character. Pestering from Jazz and Orion alike revealed that he was once a miner from Tarn who had his contract sold to the gladiatorial pits of Kaon, where he did well enough that he was eventually able to buy his own contract. From there, he traveled across Cybertron to see all the ways it failed its most vulnerable people. He’d just happened to be in Iacon when first the predacon attacked and then the Prime announced his challenge.
Ratchet suspected that Orion Pax had taken the mech’s words—the implication that he had no interest in friendship—as a sort of challenge, because if ever there was a moment of silence on the winding path up the mountain, Pax would fill it with questions for their latest tag-along. Though Megatron was far from the only one questioned on their entire life story.
Ratchet had gotten to sidestep most questions about his past by simply stating that he was a medic—he’d helped various mechs in various places for his entire function, and that was the long and short of it.
As more time went on, though—or, as Orion asked more questions to their merry band—Ratchet kept getting this… feeling.
He did know Orion Pax. He still couldn’t remember it—couldn’t remember ‘saving his life’—but there was a recognition there. Perhaps not his face, perhaps not his build, perhaps not his voice, but his mannerisms struck a chord within Ratchet. He knew this mech, if only he could fragging remember how…
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get a chance to unravel that particular mystery.
On their fifth day of travel—three days after picking up Megatron—their crew finally encountered their quarry. Which was the nice way of saying a dragon dropped down on top of them.
It was a vicious thing, instantly hostile in how it lashed out with a great, taloned hand to bat Roller down the hill like he was little more than a toy. The beast towered over them, its head easily as big as Orion Pax’s entire body. It was heavily armored in dark plating, accents of gold and red and white peeking out underneath, a bold pop of color that screamed deadly.
When it roared, the sound was powerful enough that it nearly knocked Ratchet right off of his pedes.
“We need to get out of here!” Prowl called out.
“You’d have us flee!?” Megatron asked with a snarl.
“We need a plan! We aren’t prepared to face a dragon as we are now!” Prowl was right—even with their combined might, they didn’t stand a chance against this beast. They needed the advantage of actually knowing what the hell they were doing.
“No!” Megatron shouted, aiming his cannon at the dragon’s head. “We fight!”
“Megatron, wait—!” But Orion’s plea came too late—Megatron had already fired.
The shot knocked the dragon’s head to the side, leaving a noticeable crack in its plating… but just that. A crack. The dragon let out another roar, and this one was accompanied by something like liquid lightning spewing from its wide maw. Megatron, who had stood directly in its path, had to lunge out of the way with a curse.
“Idiot!” Ratchet cried out on impulse. “Back off now before you get yourself and the rest of us fragging killed!”
And right around then, something very odd happened.
The dragon went stiff, snapping its jaws shut and looking around almost… almost frantically. Ratchet felt his spark stutter in its spin when those red optics finally landed on him. He was surprised at how… how aware they seemed. That wasn’t the gaze of some mindless beast, but one of an intelligent creature. If anything, they reminded him more of a beastformer than a beast…
His thoughts were cut short very abruptly as the dragon spread out its wings and lunged forward.
Welp. This is it, Ratchet thought to himself. I’m about to die to a dragon I never even wanted to fight.
Claws the size of his arms met his plating… not to tear or gouge or flatten, but to grab.
A flap of massive wings and then the dragon was airborn… with Ratchet held tight in its claws. And the medic could only watch as the forest shrunk below him and soon faded into the distance.