Chapter Text
NOTE: ROOT WORD: salv "save." from Latin salvus, salvare.【Latin】 salvus [related to salus/saluber] uninjured, in good health, safe.
This cave stinks of death.
How Smokescreen knows what death smells like, he can’t tell you. The teachers at the academy - retired and sidelined ‘bots who spoke for waaaay too long- would say that one could never quite describe the smell a battlefield took after the fighting was over. Mass graves gave off a scent that could only be described as … well, death.
Alpha Trion once told him that the body of a Cybertronian, when their spark returned to the Allspark, released a certain scent marker that only other Cybertronians could detect. A kind of S.O.S and a warning all at once.
Someone has died here. The danger may linger. Proceed with caution.
Smokescreen has never been on a true battlefield - one that extends for as far as the optic can see, ‘bots and ‘cons in a never ceasing tug ‘o war with energon weapons. He’d been taken from Cybertron the moment before he got the chance.
The battles he has fought in since coming to Earth have been…small, really. They only have so many ‘bots to go around, Auto or the Deceptive kind. Their species would get slaughtered if either side were to try and lay a siege.
The smell of death. If it had been right in front of him before, he’d never noticed it.
Not like he does now.
It’s all rust and rot and fried metal and stale energon.
It sends panic through his processor, tiny alarms ringing in the back of his mind. His plates buzz with static.
It broadcasts a message to any cybertronian who catches the scent.
There’s a dead mech here.
Smokescreen has to scream back at it, no, there isn’t. Not yet.
Because Optimus Prime isn’t dead.
And he won’t be, as long as Smokescreen is here.
He can’t be.
But every time he returns to the cave, there’s that horrible, horrible thought. That horrible, horrible smell.
There is a dead mech here.
The Forge of Solus Prime is heavy.
It’s through straining cables and warnings in his HUD that he drags it to Optimus.
Please. Please, not yet. Not now. Not me. Not him.
So that Optimus can fix himself.
Come on, please, please-
But then he doesn’t. Optimus says no.
The Matrix is bright. Optimus Prime’s optics no longer shine with it.
“No. . .” A ragged whisper drags itself from Smokescreen’s voice box laced with static. His frame aches. Dust and grime are stuck between every plate, exhaustion emphasising the grinding of every joint.
It can’t end like this. It’s not supposed to end like this.
Not after everything. Not after all their work, and the keys, and-
The Matrix pulses. Smokescreen stares at it. Glittering gold, celestial blue, invincible steel. He ignores how out of place it looks, framed by broken glass and fading paint.
A recollection passes through Smokescreens processor: another long orn in the Archive. Alpha Trion, murmuring mythical stories he now knows to be more than that, his towering back to Smokescreen.
“The Matrix… such a powerful thing, for how small it is. For all the memory it stores…”
The holograms do not compare to the real thing. It reminds him of the twinkle in Alpha Trion’s optics when the old bot got excited about something in the Archives.
“Well, sparkling, one does not necessarily have to be a Prime to communicate with the Primes within…”
Smokescreen shutters his optics.
“Optimus has the wisdom of the Primes to call upon in times of need.”
The Matrix pulses once more. It glitters like crystal. He registers a deep hum on the edge of his EM field, growing at the edge of his sensor range.
Smokescreen vents in deeply. Ex-vents.
He might never have been one for meditation, but if the wisdom of the Primes could help anyone, anywhere, surely it was him, here.
He forces himself to relax - through the stench of death - and reaches out a single digit.
He touches The Matrix.
Smokescreen quickly realises that he is way out of his depth.
Maybe it’s the distinct lack of a body, or the never-ending void of space, or the electrical ringing which pierces deeper into his spark than he’d ever thought possible that gives that fact away.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the eleven towering, radiant, very, VERY powerful frames which stand in front of him.
If he hadn’t felt the jolt of power, he could be convinced this is all just some crazy fever dream, born from days without a proper recharge. His processor, if he still has one, because he isn’t even sure he has a body right now, and if he does it would surely be overheating, rushes at a million miles an hour.
It’s not cold, or hot. There’s no floor, or roof. It seems dark, but not pitch black. A void of stars stretches on as far as his optics can tell. A single, pale, blue, blinding light radiates from somewhere in the distance. It casts rays that stretch like servos across the infinite void.
That electrical hum from the Matrix, low and powerful, is all-consuming in this place. It coalesces into more of a song as his sensors begin to catch up with the whole experience. Deep humming, high pitched twinkling, electrical buzzing all harmonizing in some kind of otherworldly orchestra, letting him know exactly what kind of power he has just called on.
He is definitely not supposed to be here.
Luckily for him, his memory pulls up fun little facts from Alpha Trion’s lectures as he struggles to take in just who it is that he’s looking at.
Eleven spectral figures. Luminescent, see-through like ghosts, tinted that same blue that had winked at him from the Matrix’s core moments ago.
Eleven. Surely, Eleven of THE Thirteen. The original Primes, the warriors of Primus, the literal progenitors of their entire species and legends long lost to time and war.
The Fallen isn’t there, of course. And the Thirteenth – a mystery beyond mysteries.
A small frame, up to the knees of its companions, hovers in front. The figure would probably be up to his own shoulders if it comes any closer. Their optics are bright, frame stout, and a name which is an easy memory.
Micronus Prime, the namesake of the mini-cons, a powerful ally both in name and in his physical ability to enhance his allies.
Smokescreen figures this is not the time or the place to scream in amazement.
The smaller bot floats forward, toward him, and Smokescreen snaps to a salute out of muscle memory. Then he second guesses himself and drops to a knee instead, bowing his head and hoping whatever his astral body looks like, it isn’t vibrating too much. Wherever this place is, he’s glad it’s intuitive enough to give him a place to put his pedes. Rather than just floating, or falling forever.
He listens to the strange hum of anti-grav tech get ever closer. A smooth note peeks through the ever-present electric chorus. He can tell Micronus Prime is getting closer as a blue light approaches.
Approaches! Approaching him! Why!? What was he doing here!?
Smokescreen tells his thoughts to shut up when the figure stops a respectable distance away.
It’s quiet. Other than the deep, all consuming electrical presence of power, of course.
Where is he supposed to start? Is there a protocol for this? Something like ‘Oh, hey guys, sorry to interrupt, I have a favour to ask real quick’?
Yeah, no.
Luck strikes again as someone else breaks the silence first. A rumble becomes a gentle chuckle and it takes him far too long to register it as Micronus Prime.
“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Micronus’ voice is shockingly normal. A light tenor, smooth and authoritative.
Smokescreen risks a glance up. The Prime has his arms crossed, frame shining with astral light, and a small smile tweaking the edge of his faceplates.
Micronus Prime speaks again, “At ease, soldier. You are welcome here.”
Smokescreen knows what the words mean, but it takes him a minute to process them. He’s going to blame the lack of recharge. Not the shock at being spoken to by a literal legend. Gathering his courage, he stands, finding comfort in a casual parade rest.
This puts him face-to-face with Micronus Prime. Who is almost smiling. At him.
Maybe he did break something when he saw Optimus - well. He shutters his vents and resets his optics, making sure he’s not having the most insane hallucination anyone’s ever had. Crazily enough, he’s pretty sure this is real. Which…actually feels a little less believable than the idea he’s cracked from stress.
Micronus Prime is a stout frame. Square shoulders and large servos give Smokescreen the idea that he’s built for durability and strength. He recognises the shifting, almost loose armour of his chassis, designed to split and shape, fluidly attaching to an ally and, according to the stories, grant them some pretty impressive upgrades. At this distance, he can even see small glyphs etched into the Prime’s finials, which look very official.
Micronus scans him up and down. Smokescreen bites his tongue. The Prime raises an apprising brow and turns to the other figures behind him.
“Smokescreen - Elite Guard of the Iacon hall of Records, served Alpha Trion, in current service under Optimus Prime on Earth, and in possession of the Phase Shifter to boot,” Micronus explains as if these are all things Smokescreen has just told him.
Another figure steps forwards and Smokescreen will not lose his cool.
Even if that figure is THE Solus Prime, creator of the Forge, the Starsaber, and basically every iconic weapon in history! She’s got to be about double his height, a simple cape flowing from broad, sleek shoulders. Her plating is just as, if not more intricate than Micronus’, but as she gets closer, the thick armour behind the beauty looks basically indestructible. Perfect for working around all the mythical materials she apparently has.
She barely glances at him, instead pulling up a hologram he recognises - the Phase shifter.
“An interesting piece, certainly,” She states, a static buzz emerging from the Matrix’s chorus at her approach, “But which is more curious – the item, or the sparkling which bears it?”
He gets the sense that she isn’t actually asking him. For the record, he’d love to say the Shifter is way more interesting. Also, sparkling? He’s not that young.
“You.” Solus’ gaze locks onto him. Her voice is commanding. He draws his plates in tighter than they already are as her optics pierce his armour.
When she doesn’t continue, he takes it as a cue, “Y-yes, Solus Prime, commander…ma’am?”
He really needs to figure out his etiquette protocols. They haven’t been useful lately, or ever really actually, that’s all!
He thinks she smirks before talking again, “You have come in contact with my Forge. It is well known that power is only accessible to the Primes.”
He lifts his chin and hopes he doesn’t look stupid, “Y-yes, Solus Prime. I carried the Forge from Darkmount to –“
Wait, do they know what’s happening outside? Do they know where Nevada is? Does he even know where the cave is??
“Yes,” Micronus dismisses the explanation with a wave, “To Optimus Prime.”
Smokescreen feels his spark sink. Yep, to Optimus.
“Yes. Yes sir.”
Micronus and Solus share a look.
To distract himself from the unspoken conversation in front of him, he glances at the distant figures behind them. His processor pulls up a few more names. A large, dark silhouette of a beastform - Onyx Prime - steps around the foggy shifting shape of the one who can only be Amalgamous Prime.
Now the wonder’s fading out, it’s starting to feel a little like he’s being judged.
The shock of the experience is pushed to the back of his processor. It sits there with the growing need for recharge and energon. He has a job to do.
Smokescreen considers this as good a time as any to broach the topic. He tries to force what counts as air here deeply but quietly through his vents before talking to the literal ancient beings in front of him, “Excuse me, Primes?”
They both turn to look at him. He’s pretty sure he can’t stand up any straighter, but he tries to anyway.
“You have a petition, Smokescreen?” Micronus asks. Smokescreen thinks he does so a little too gently.
He nods a fraction, “Yes, I do, sir. I - I’m sure you’re aware of Optimus’ condition, considering this, um..Matrix…connection? I…”
Micronus gives him an encouraging nod. He dives in.
“I need to use the Forge of Solus Prime to repair Optimus. Please.”
You could hear a screw drop in the silence.
The loudest sound is that ever-present song. It’s as overwhelming as the council in front of him. An electrical hum, static rhythm, synthesized beats ringing in his audial receptors like…a sparkbeat.
The silence parts with a snicker. It carries from the back ranks of the council as the shifting form of Amalgamous Prime steps forward.
They’re like a shadow, or a hologram. Never quite solid. Kind of creepy.
What he says is, to say the least, a surprise.
“Come now, Solus, don’t be so sensitive.”
“I’m not being sensitive,” the Prime in front of him crosses her hands behind her back and Smokescreen could swear she sounds indignant, “I’m being realistic. This Cybertronian does not possess the authority or,” She spares a judging glance at him, “the power to wield my forge. Even if his spark is in the right place.”
The last words are softer. Smokescreen feels pride bloom in his chassis despite the inadvertent chastisement. It’s cut short by the next Prime to join the conversation.
A new voice, low but melodic, steps forward, “Optimus Prime is a worthy individual, and has served the Primacy well,” Nexus Prime, a jumble of parts and a head taller than Solus, “But perhaps this war is in need of a change?”
Micronus shakes his head, “It is not his time, he has more work to fulfill. We're too early.”
Smokescreen listens intently, entertaining hope that they won't let his leader pass on, not yet. They at least seem to be taking his request seriously.
Then a voice he recognises, all too familiar, echoes through the space, “The last Primes spark is held, before it is extinguished.”
The massive silhouette’s part to reveal Alpha Trion, long face plates reminiscent of the wizards in Earth stories Raph had shown him once. Smokescreen could’ve cried just seeing a familiar face. Then the words sink in. He feels his door panels sink low behind his back.
“Ex…extinguished?” he whispers.
Alpha Trion continues, a low rumble harmonizing, “The power of the Forge will be necessary to return him to his frame, so he may continue his work.”
Solus makes a noise Smokescreen would call a scoff, if it hadn’t come from a Prime, “Of course, my Forge’s power is capable of any such feat. But my words stand true. Without a Prime to wield it, such power cannot function.”
“Then whatever shall we do,” Micronus turns back to him, wise, piercing optics and a smile which makes him nervous, “without a Prime?”
Solus looks between them, “I don’t like what you’re implying, Micronus.”
“I do,” chimes Nexus, “We haven’t had a real shake up in a while, you know.”
Smokescreen swears he hears a few hums gain volume at that. Are they talking about what he thinks they are? He really doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.
“Uhm, I’m sorry but,” he holds up a servo like a sparkling in a classroom, “What’s he implying?”
Amalgamous Prime appears from behind Micronus and shifts into an uncanny likeness – his.
“What do you think, kid?” The form shifts, gaining height and breadth, and Smokescreen shuts his vents in panic, “You might look good in Matrix blue.”
“Amalgamous,” Micronus steps in front of the Prime which is quickly making their way to the bottom of Smokescreen’s ‘most cool primes’ list, “Let’s not rush a decision, shall we?”
“You – I – “ Smokescreen chokes on his vocals before reminding himself to reopen his vents, “So, wait, Optimus…wasn’t kidding, was he?”
Solus raises an eyebrow at him, “He was never the fun one. And dying mechs don’t tend to make false promises, sparkling.”
Smokescreen feels like his circuits are shorting. He stares at the bots around the room. Gods in their own right, towering figures of myth and legend.
They are actually, seriously, considering handing him the Matrix of leadership and anointing him a Prime.
He doesn’t want it.
He’s not ready.
It wasn’t that long ago Arcee had told him off, and while the others told her to hold back, they hadn’t disagreed.
“There are some technical concerns, of course,” a slim bot with large goggles, to whom Smokescreen’s glitching processor helpfully supplies the name of Alchemist Prime, joins the circle, “Without a standard connection to Primus on this Earth planet, we may have to come up with some minor work arounds.”
Quintus Prime, arms folded, wings flaring, and energon visible in small vials at his hip, hums a response, “There is plenty of power available, if one knows where to find it.”
This is all moving a bit too fast, Smokescreen thinks. His processor can barely keep up, let alone his spark. He’s tired. It must be almost a week since his last proper recharge. Through the thoughts he’s sure are only still clear because of adrenaline, he recognizes the churning of fear beginning to overtake some of his systems, intertwined with excitement, and grief, and awe, and far too many other things for him to handle right now.
Alpha Trion, thankfully, interrupts whatever conversation may have come next, “Smokescreen.”
His processor pauses. Smokescreen, feeling very small, raises his optics to look at the old bot with whom he had spent far too much time. He focuses on that familiar figure as an anchor. He likes to think he’s changed a lot since they last met. From that kid in Iacon, to a functioning member of Team Prime.
A hand stretches out with a reassuring voice, gesturing him to walk across the blue lighted abyss towards the least mythical of all the figures, “Come here.”
So he does. He lets his pedes carry him past the towering figures, keeping his optics fixed on the one in front of him and doing his best not to shrink under their gazes, trying to keep his door panels set high. It feels like he walks for an eternity before Alpha Trion’s servo comes to a rest on his shoulder.
The old archivist's tone is firm, gentle, and comfortingly familiar, “I knew this day may come, although I had hoped it wouldn't be so soon. The Matrix of Leadership is an artifact of Primus, and you will do well to remember what I have taught you of it. It has recognized your potential. However, before you respond to it, I believe there is someone who wishes to speak with you.”
Alpha Trion steps aside.
And there he is. The Last of the Primes.
His commander, his leader, his friend. The one who trusted him when he first showed up and who reprimanded him, kind yet stern, when he needed it.
The one who was dead before he got here.
“Optimus…?”
The mech, in shining red and blue, turns to face him, “Hello, Smokescreen.”
Every fear vanishes. He forgets where he is, whose watching, what they’re asking. His pedesteps carry him forward and before he knows it he’s held close in an embrace. He wraps his arms around one of the most important bots in his life. His plates relax, his breaths circulating around his vents, stinging in his optics and doubts overtaking his processor. Large, warm arms wrap around his chassis, alive and humming.
There are no words for what he needs to say, “I’m – I’m sorry, I couldn’t…I wasn’t fast enough, I –”
Optimus gently pulls back to look in his optics, a soft smile and a servo on his shoulder, “You have done an excellent job, Smokescreen,” His expression saddens, “I am sorry to have put you in such a situation.”
Smokescreen swipes at his optics and shakes his head, “No, I…I get it. You needed to get us out, I know, I know. Just…come on, man,” he forces a smile, “Did you have to go and get yourself blown up like that?”
Optimus smiles in return, “I am fortunate there was a certain guard who came back for me.”
Smokescreen huffs half-heartedly and shakes his head, “I’m sure someone else would’ve been more useful.”
When he glances at Optimus’ face, all he sees is concern. He looks away quickly. There’s got to be a better word for what he’s feeling than guilt.
“Smokescreen,” Optimus keeps his hand on his shoulder and waits until he looks up at him again. The Prime’s eyes are wise, the same shade of infinite blue that surrounds them, “You have become a valued member of our team, our family. You have shown wisdom, despite your inexperience, and invaluable service.”
Optimus’ gaze softens, “I am sorry to burden you with this. It is a burden which should be mine alone.”
Smokescreen feels himself shaking his head, “No, Optimus – I – you - it’s not your fault. But…I can’t. What you’re asking is…” he tries to find the words between his heavy spark and racing mind and doubts, “It’s impossible. A guy like me could never be – well, like you.”
The heavy servo is a comfort on his shoulder as Optimus’ head tilts a nanometer, audials dipping back. Smokescreen hopes it’s not in disappointment.
“You are more capable than you know. Even I was not always…Optimus.”
He’d read the logs. Arcee made him, after he’d been accepted on Earth. He knows the history. He knows there once was a bot named Orion Pax, who had chosen the Autobots - more than once. But surely even Orion knew more about all this than he did. Looking at Optimus, he can’t imagine a world where the leader was even remotely like he is. Apparently, that world did exist, once. He guesses that thought should comfort him.
“However, I understand, Smokescreen.”
He looks up in cautious hope.
“So why are you here?”
And there goes the hope.
Optimus has always been incredible. A leader, an idol, someone to look up to and who gives the best, most inspirational speeches. Standing across from him now, Smokescreen feels that power and wisdom all around him.
Why was he here?
Because Optimus Prime – his leader, his idol, someone he looks up to and who gives incredible speeches he will never roll his optics at again – is dying. Is already . . . And he can’t let that happen. Can’t let that stay.
“Because I need to save you, Optimus.”
Optimus stares at him a moment longer, then nods.
“Then,” his leader steps back, standing tall, framed by a pale blue glow, “I trust that the Matrix has chosen well.”
There’s no way this could be the right choice. Saving Optimus was the right choice, but surely he had more options than what they were asking of him.
Right?
Alpha Trion speaks behind him, “If that is truly your goal, young guard, then it is a noble one. One with which we can assist.”
The harmonics of Almagamous join him, “But all power must come at a cost.”
Smokescreen keeps his optics fixed on Optimus.
“To complete the feat you are asking,” Solus’ voice fills the space, “A Prime’s power must be given.”
Micronus hums, “Do you think you are ready for such a transformation?”
Smokescreen hesitates. He can’t let Optimus die. He’s come here looking for a way to save him. He’s not going to leave with nothing.
“Are…” he shuffles his pedes, already knowing the answer to his next question, “Are you sure I can’t just…borrow it?”
Solus huffs as Nexus rumbles, “This is a permanent change, young spark. There are no powers on Earth which could lend you what you seek.”
“On Earth?” Smokescreen’s systems jump and he turns to face the figures of legend, “Does that mean…there might be something out there, that I can use instead?”
A few lower their gazes, but Alchemist steps forward, “What time do you have, Smokescreen?”
Smokescreen drops his helm. He has none. Optimus is between life and death.
The Primes watch patiently as he thinks.
A Prime. The first since Optimus to be anointed. The first time since the Thirteen that there would be more than one on the same planet.
Could he really do it?
According to his teachers, a Prime is a cybertronian who has been chosen by Primus to act in the service of all of Cybertron. They are linked to the Matrix of Leadership, an ancient artifact of unknowable power. They are strong leaders, expert diplomats, great warriors, and even Primus’ prophets to some. He glances at those gathered in front of him. He’d have some pretty big pedesteps to follow in.
He vents, a weight tightening around his spark, “Is this…is it really the only way I can save him?”
He looks up, optics scanning the group for any other option. No one offers one.
“…I see.” Smokescreen clenches his servos. He can’t bring himself to say much else.
Destiny seems kind of intimidating, right now.
“Smokescreen,” Optimus’ voice is a comforting presence behind him, “I sense there is none better suited to this than you are, right now. However, it seems I am not the only one who has faith in you.”
He forces his gaze upwards as another figure, the Prime he thought would just lurk in the background as a glowing light the whole time, hovers past its companions to stand across from him.
He freezes. Then he just tries not to drop his jaw in awe. If he wasn’t short-circuiting before, he surely is now.
Prima Prime. A good bit taller than the rest, a ghostly Starsaber holstered on their back.
The first Matrix bearer. The melody of the Matrix solidifies into a choral hum. The firstborn of Primus is indescribable, so Smokescreen settles on ‘impressive’.
The first Prime looks at him with an expression he can only describe as kindness.
Their voice is unspoken sound, “A Prime, it seems, is often born from tragedy.”
They drift a little closer. He feels the cables in his neck strain to look up at them and fights to urge to kneel at their feet.
Their voice carries weight, and he’s surprised to hear…sadness, “We were created to defend Primus. Optimus was anointed at the start of a war.”
They look at him. Really, really look. Their optics are complex, piercing rings of spinning blue. They tilt their head, and it feels like the temperature drops. Smokescreen feels exposed, as if his beating spark were on a scale.
The moment goes a little too long to mean nothing.
When they finally speak, it carries, “Will you accept this calling?”
Smokescreen can’t look away. He wants to look at Optimus. At Alpha Trion. Scrap, even Almagamous would be interesting to check in with right now.
He feels very alone. He wonders if this is what a human in the middle of a cybertronian warship might feel like. Or one sent to cybertron, to the depths of Vector Sigma, alone.
It can’t be this easy. Just say yes, and everything is fixed. He’ll be a hero. Optimus will be fine.
In his spark, he knows that’s not the whole thing.
What is he willing to sacrifice, to save Optimus?
He might not be able to race with Bumblebee anymore. Or play that game with him and Raf. Or get told off by Arcee. Or lob with Bulk and Jackie. Convince Jack to break- bend some rules. Go to that concert Miko wanted to bring him to. Annoy Fowler. Stress out June. Listen to Optimus’s speeches.
Will he even still be himself?
But as a Prime, he can help them. Maybe, he’ll stop making dumb decisions. Maybe, he’s meant for something more. Maybe, he can save them from more pain.
Prima is still looking at him. He can’t hear anything other than that humming.
He needs to save Optimus.
If there’s no other way.
“I…yes. I will.”
Prima nods. They step soundlessly towards him, and they must be more than double his height. Heck, they may be double Optimus’s height. Their sheer power radiates like an EM field, and he finds it difficult to keep air circulating at their approach.
“You, dear Smokescreen…”
The council of Primes steps forward. Each places their servo on the shoulder of the bot beside them. Prima’s servos are a heavy weight as they are placed on his own shoulders. He recognises Optimus’ servo press onto his back, firm and steady.
“…are anointed to save the life of another.”
His spark buzzes. It feels like it might burst out of his chest-plates. The ever-present hum of electricity and power begins to rise around them.
“The council of the Primes recognises your worth. Child of Primus, citizen of Earth, by the authority of Primus you are called. To serve Cybertron. To protect its people. Till all are one.”
A chorus of voices replies, “Till all are one.”
The humming rises to a deafening pitch. It rings through his frame, pulsing through his spark, weighing on his shoulders, and it feels like he might crack and explode.
“We welcome you, Salvus Prime.”