Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The highest spire of the Primal Basilica still towered over the rest of Iacon, despite the great age of the city’s center as compared to its furthest reaches. Since the days of the Thirteen, this had always been the home of the Primes, and thus, no building could be taller. For Primus' chosen mech must be able to oversee all of Cybertron, or at least Iacon, from their tower.

Optimus ran his hand along the wall as he walked up to the observation deck at the top of the spire, which one could only gain access to through the Prime’s own habsuite. It was said in the stories that the designs for the Basilica had been imparted to the Matrix by Solus Prime before her death, as one of her final marvels she could gift their world. That the tower had never fallen or sustained damage, a legacy to Prima’s vision for completing it after his sister-Prime had departed for the Allspark before the rest of the Thirteen.

The archivist in Optimus reminded him that the clear evidence of structural repairs he felt under his fingertips, and the notes in the Prime’s section of the Iacon Archives, spelled out a rather different story. The Basilica had been built during the reign of Nova Prime, and this spire had collapsed twice before the proper calculations had allowed it to stand. Yet the romantic within him understood the enticing nature of the myth. A beautiful story which allowed the belief that Primus himself had ordained all things that happened here.

A belief that had allowed too much pain to occur within these walls.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs slowly, feeling the growing hum of the Matrix of Leadership within his chest as he beheld Iacon from this vantage point, as so many Primes before him had done. Was it a familiarity with the glow of the city below which had it spinning in his chassis, or was it the knowledge that finally, there was a Prime holding it who saw these things not as a blessing but a curse?

Optimus wished he knew the answer. Orion Pax might have once laughed at the idea of a Prime doubting themselves as much as Optimus did. But Orion Pax was dead, and where he had stood, only Optimus Prime remained.

He looked out over Iacon from the city’s loftiest perch, reflecting on the way the world looked from up here. Beyond Iacon’s three separate walls, he could almost imagine the skylines of Cybertron’s other city-states on the horizon. But that was an impossible thing to actually perceive in the night sky, as Iacon and her glow stretched as far as could be seen.

The innermost layer of the city, old Iacon, contained the Basilica, the Senate, Archives, Spacebridge, and the Autobot Command Center. That sprawling complex had served as the head of Cybertron’s armed forces for eons, and took up most of the inner city. What space remained served as a sort of private vanity club for the Prime. Theaters, a gladiatorial arena that hadn’t seen a real match in ages, and everything else a Prime could supposedly ever want without having to leave the inner walls.

It was a marvel of construction, one which would have allowed him to never leave the inner city if he didn’t wish to.

As such, Optimus hated it.

The middle city had been where he’d grown up, content and happy with his creators. A sparkling with an insatiable curiosity born to mechs with respectable castes and positions. Mechs who would have celebrated their creation’s fate had they lived to see it. For someone like their creation to be elevated to Prime? A great honor for their sweet little mechling who’d loved the stories they’d told him, and spent many days lost in books and discussing philosophy.

He wondered how he would have explained the despair he’d felt when the Matrix had surged forward into his chest after he’d assumed it would reject him. Yes, the Senate had considered him to potentially be capable of bearing Cybertron’s most sacred relic, but he hadn’t. And Megatron?

The less he remembered the look on his face that morning, the better. Three days before Orion Pax had died, he’d lost the person who had shown him the truth about their home world. The one who had guided him to the path that moved towards a better future. The morning Orion Pax died, he’d prayed the Matrix would reject him, in hopes to regain Megatron.

Instead, the acceptance of the Matrix had cemented his permanent loss.

Shaking his head slightly to clear it of a creeping despair, even if only for a moment, he looked out towards the outermost edges of the city. Iacon’s ills that had spread across the entire planet had begun within its own walls. In the Basilica, in the Senate, and the outer reaches of the city. Where Primes seldom roamed, and poverty and cruelty flourished alongside neglect. Power corrupted. Absolute power corrupted absolutely.

The Matrix spun painfully, and he flinched. More and more often, the pain he felt within was echoed by it, and his spark burned. As the pain slowly eased, he sighed before glancing back out over the city.

How could he fix Cybertron? He’d become Prime to a planet doomed to fight the war now raging across its surface. With his ascendancy, nothing could have stopped these wheels from turning. And yet, he wished desperately that that hadn’t been the case.

All to see one more smile, feel one more gentle touch, he would have rejected the Senate that day, and gone with the mech he’d loved.

“Well,” A familiar voice hummed, startling him. “Surprised to find you all the way up here.”

Optimus turned towards Ratchet as stepped forward, joining him in his observations of the city below. “Still, not the most surprising thing you’ve ever done, but my knees think you’re very stupid.”

Under his battlemask, Optimus smiled. “You could have messaged me to come down and join you, if you wished to spare your joints.”

“Pfft, and miss the sight no other Prime would have ever shared with me?” A laugh. “No thanks, I’ll haul my creaky joints up these stairs at least once for the view.”

Optimus’ field filled with mirth, which had Ratchet smiling too. He’d never expected that so many of his friends from Megatron’s movement would pick him over Megatron, but he was forever grateful for every one of them that had. Ratchet most especially. Cybertron had needed a medic with his talents and convictions.

Still needed, he thought, as he glanced back out over the city, the warmth fading from his mood.

Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back to awareness by Ratchet’s field brushing against his.

“A credit for your thoughts?”

“How much longer until the Decepticons— and Megatron— prepare for their final strike?”

Silence hung between them as they looked back out over the city. That very question had been on the lips of every Autobot and remaining Iaconi civilian for months. Ever since Crystal City, the last Autobot held city outside of Iacon herself, had fallen into Decepticon hands.

Time was running out before the blow came, and Megatron had made it clear he had little interest in negotiating an end to this war until Iacon was crushed under his heel. The last time they had clashed on the battlefield, Optimus had seen the fury in his optics. Rage, and the need to force the Prime to submit to him. Optimus wasn’t sure what Megatron had planned for him should he remain here when Iacon fell. A triumph like the days of old, when Primes had celebrated victories in their own names?

Those events had ended often with the executions of any prisoners. Optimus doubted he’d be so lucky.

“We all wish we knew,” Ratchet hummed. “Fragger’s sure dragging it out though, isn’t he?”

“Jazz believes he will choose to relocate to Darkmount in Polyhex as a forward operating base for the invasion. Soundwave has recently been spotted there.”

Ratchet’s face didn’t visibly shift as much as his field did at the mention of Optimus’ appointed spymaster. “And you trust him?”

“With my life,” Optimus stated without hesistation, which resulted in Ratchet’s frown only deepening, as it did every time Optimus insisted that he trusted the saboteur.

“Jazz was in Prowl’s pocket long before they conjunxed. You know he was, Optimus. And Prowl was Sentinel’s right hand. You should have removed him from service when you came to power. Him and Jazz both.” The venom was dripping from the medic’s tone, hatred easy to see. Optimus let loose a quiet sigh at that.

“Prowl was a cold constructed mech, bought and owned. He had no choice but to serve Sentinel, and I doubt he ever loved him.”

“And I doubt he loves you,” Ratchet spat back. “Venomous coil-snakes, the pair of them, and as slippery as oil spills.”

“Yet somehow,” Optimus fought to keep his own tone in check as his annoyance with this particular argument being rehashed yet again rose. “I remain alive, receiving valuable intelligence and tactical advice that has allowed us to slow the Decepticon advance and save thousands, if not millions of lives.”

Ratchet, however, was ready. “Jazz killed his own brother, mech. His twin. Shot him down without hesistation rather than bringing him in for Ironhide to handle.”

Optimus didn’t deign that with a response. He had his own thoughts on that particular matter, and knew Jazz did as well. They didn’t agree, but Jazz’s position had been firm and unyielding.

“I learned to clean up my own messes, Op. I wish Rico wasn’t one of ‘em, but he made that choice, not me. Only fair I spare you all the problem I created.”

The Head of Special Operations had made what he believed to be the best choice, and perhaps the only choice, for the situation he’d found himself in. And if Optimus couldn’t trust him in that matter, then why did he trust him with anything so important as Special Operations?

He realized Ratchet was still talking, and quickly returned his focus to their conversation.

“Optimus, I’m saying all this because I’m terrified that one of these days, you’re going to take an unexpected tumble from this very damn tower, courtesy of Jazz, and afterwards we’ll find out Prowl already had Megatron’s signature on a treaty of surrender. There’s reasons those two are rumored to have had a hand in Sentinel’s death. Don’t let them have a hand in yours.”

“And do you have any evidence for this theory?”

“No,” Ratchet grumbled. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t worry about it. And Ironhide does too, not that she’ll say it aloud.”

Ah yes. The strange dance the Captain of the Primesguard and his Chief Tactical Officer did. Ironhide and Prowl had known each other long enough to have a tenuous trust, but it was built on shaky foundations. Ironhide would insist recruits follow Prowl’s orders mid-battle to stay alive. But she’d clearly be questioning them herself and verbally tear Prowl apart for the losses afterwards.

“Your concern is noted,” Optimus straightened up. “I’d prefer we shift the conversation away from accusations of future treason with no evidence, and back towards something more productive. Or at least, less infuriating.”

Ratchet snorted. “Not as good at dishing it back out to me these days, are you?”

“No,” Optimus admitted, remembering some of the spats he and the medic had gotten into when he’d still been called Pax rather than Prime. “I suppose it must be all the incense getting to my helm, and bogging down my processors.”

That, finally, got a short bark of laughter from the medic. “Says the Prime who hasn’t seen anything resembling incense since he was publicly coronated. The priests would be calling you Optimus the Austere if they were still here.”

“If they were still here, I’d have bigger problems to deal with than them and their opinions.”

As an easy banter was found between him and Ratchet discussing the priesthood, and how annoyed they found most of them, the Matrix briefly drew Optimus’ attention. Down below, heading out from the command center, a single mech was driving out into the night alone.

He’d signed off on Jazz’s request to drive out to the outer walls of Iacon tonight, off-duty. Prowl had brought the request to him personally. Prowl wasn’t the easiest mech to read, even with the Matrix allowing him far more perception of a mech than most telepaths could glean. He’d seemed to fear Optimus would reject Jazz’s request, given the anniversary of the event leading to it.

As he watched his spymaster drive off into Iacon, he wondered how a mech once among Cybertron’s most wanted planned to atone for the guilt he felt about one single kill among hundreds, if not thousands. He never asked. It was better sometimes not to know, especially when you knew you wouldn’t like the answer.

As he shifted his full focus back towards Ratchet, he thought how much easier it would be to fight this war if all the mechs he needed to advise him stopped trying to tear out each other’s throats any time he turned his back on them.

There were advantages and disadvantages to being recognized as the Autobot spymaster, Jazz had to admit. After Soundwave had compromised his identity as Meister, there’d been plenty of arguments over letting a notorious assassin run something as delicate as Special Operations. However, Special Operations was exactly the place to store a useful high level assassin. So the leap of logic to allowing one to lead them hadn’t been as far as some mechs liked to think.

His compromised alias also meant that, when he needed to, he could dial up the fear to get his way. No one questioned him as he headed to an older rampart on Iacon’s outer wall, facing the direction of distant Polyhex. They all assumed that he had the Prime’s blessing to be here and doing whatever it was he was doing.

Which, technically, he did. But why let them know that, when he wanted to be left alone? Sometimes, dialing up the terror was worth it.

During the drive, a hot and humid wind had picked up off of the Rust Sea, signaling the oncoming arrival of Iacon’s rainy season. The clouds erased any chance of seeing Polyhex himself tonight, but the sight didn’t really matter. After this many vorns, he could imagine the distant city skyline from this wall at all times of the year.

His homeland had simply traded one despot for another during this war. Polyhex was a place so easily converted to the Decepticon cause. Straxxus had sown fertile soil with his leadership that had made it easy for the populace to hope that Megatron might truly destroy the corrupting in the heart of Cybertron once and for all.

Prowl was likely the only reason he hadn’t allowed himself to be caught up in the same wave Ricochet and so many others had. Prowl was always trying to be cautious and careful.  Every move must be planned, information must be gained, and repercussions considered. There were times it drove Jazz up a wall. But it’d also kept him from getting killed on dozens of occasions.

Back when Prowl had initially hired him and Ricochet, before they’d known the Praxian’s true name and role, it’d been a good gig. When the truth had come out, Ricochet had left, refusing to be Sentinel Prime’s pet. Yet Jazz had already seen they were hardly working in Sentinel’s best interest. He’d been intrigued. He’d hardly trusted the Praxian then, but they’d come to an agreement, or perhaps a common goal. Cybertron must be made better. And Sentinel had handed so much power off to Prowl that they’d been able to move unseen behind the curtains, influencing the halls of power.

Had it saved them and Cybertron? No. Yet, as time passed, Jazz had felt his and Prowl’s visions for a different future merging. One where enslaved mechs were free, and their children were too. One where the caste system didn’t hold those who were technically free in bondage as well. Where that freedom spread to every mech on the planet, and not just a lucky few.

With their goals aligning, it’d become easy to act as an extension of Prowl in the early days of the Decepticon movement. Prowl had needed an insider’s information, and a Polyhexian desperate for change and skilled in sabotage was what the Decepticons needed too.  Perhaps that was why Ricochet had beat him to the recruitment rallies. When he’d told his brother the lie that he’d abandoned Prowl for good, it’d been so easy to have his brother vouch for him to the ‘Cons. And when whispers of his other name had been murmured in Kaon’s pits, even Megatron and Deadlock had straightened up and taken note of him.

And at first, despite some of their more violent tendencies, the Decepticons had done good work. It’d been easy to work his way throught the system, putting himself close to the heart of things. Including finding out how Megatron was getting information that so many Primes had kept fully suppressed. Information that could have only come from the Iacon Archives.

It’d been even easier to befriend Orion Pax, and watch how he was brought so fully into the movement. As he and Prowl consulted, they’d agreed. Pax leveled Megatron’s temper. Perhaps Cybertron’s future could become something close to their vision if the pair of them were to help Pax, and in turn, Megatron.

They hadn’t been ignorant to the fact that some of that change would have to be violent. The Senate might be able to be convinced, but the Functionist Council never would. Prowl would likely have to go into hiding or on the run until things calmed after Sentinel was no longer in power. And yet, if Pax’s hand had stayed alongside Megatron’s, it seemed the best bet for an even keel into the future they prayed for.

And then the Senate - damn the Senate! Jazz would never forget the shock on Ricochet’s face that morning, when he’d walked away with Pax instead of Megatron. Shock morphing into anger as Pax became Prime, freed Prowl from his prison cell, and appointed Jazz to a position in his new High Command.

An anger that doubled when Jazz had bound himself in spark to the newly freed Prowl, one of many mechs who, under Optimus Prime’s edicts, would never be owned again. A mech Jazz had come to realize he no longer knew how to live without.

Even in those early days, however, there’d been whispers. Could either he or Prowl be trusted? Should they be allowed to remain here at all? And rumors, rumors whispered in quiet corners far away from the Head of Special Operations audials, wondering at what roles he and Prowl had played in recent events.

Optimus Prime had known as soon as he had recovered from bonding with the Matrix of Leadership. He’d fixed him with a long look, and Jazz couldn’t help but wince as his spark had been bared to a mech who had genuinely called him a friend, and trusted him.

“Can I trust you?”

Ricochet’s voice echoing in Optimus’, in Prowl’s. A call without an immediately obvious answer, and yet-

“Mech, if you manage even half the ideals you’ve been pushin’ for, I’ll gladly die for ya. The world needs fixing. Without you, I think Megatron might just try to burn it down.”

Ricochet had never been able to understand why Jazz had stayed. Why he’d came to serve the very thing Ricochet believed they’d been fighting against all their lives. Yet, every time Jazz had come back to his and Prowl’s habsuite, and seen Smokescreen, he knew why.

Cybertron now had a future where children were free to play and be whatever they wanted to be. This had always been his real cause, reflected now in Prowl’s bitty- no, their bitty- in order to give him a better chance.

Whatever Optimus Prime had seen that day had convinced him. And he’d placed his trust back into Jazz’s bloodstained hands.

Perhaps that was why Ricochet’s betrayal stung more than any other.

Jazz started laying out the items he’d brought with him. A finely decorated cloth, a resin incense burner. Sand and a coal puck. An accelerant alongside a lighter. And finally, a prized box, decorated with the same patterns as the cloth, containing crystal resins.

Back in Polyhex, when he’d been small, there’d been a saying that you could always find the homes of hitmechs by merely finding the homes that burned incense more than once or twice a year, as the mechs inside struggled to purify themselves of their many crimes. Jazz had learned the tradition from his originator alongside his twin. After Punch died, he’d stopped doing it. He killed mechs because it was his job, and because they were cruel. His kills didn’t haunt him.

Until Ricochet.

Through his whole life, he’d always tried to protect and cover for his twin, his baby brother. Perhaps that’d been why he’d found it so easy to let Smokescreen, and eventually Blue, become his new causes. To love them so fiercely alongside Prowl that he’d do anything to keep them safe and make their world a better place.

Ricochet had tried to take his bitties. To use them as tools, to either force Jazz to betray the mech who still trusted him despite his flaws, or to leave the fight altogether. A simple threat. The Autobots, or the bitties.

He still wondered if Ricochet had realized, before Jazz pulled the trigger, that when it came to his brother or his bitties, he’d chose the bitties every time. Even with the certainty that his actions that night had been the right ones, the only ones, there was some blood you could never wash off.

If he’d protected Ricochet better their whole lives, then he never would have had to die.

He let the feelings come out of the box he tried to keep them contained in at all times, other than this night, this horrible anniversary every vorn. He should have protected his brother. He should have explained himself better so many times. He shouldn’t have left him alone.

And as he did, Ricochet’s ghost stood over him, reminding him of why he couldn’t leave.

You’d still pick them over me. Don’t even deny it, Jazz. You’d pick that Praxian over your own blood and code.

He spread out the cloth and set up the incense burner, pouring in sand and placing the coal puck in place. With a few drops of accelerant, the flame caught. He placed down the grate and waited for the heat to grow.

“I saw the future he could help make a reality for all of us, Rico. It was a good one. I know you never felt comfortable with the idea of playing two sides, but I wanted to make that future a reality. For those who came after us, even if it couldn’t ever be ours.”

It should have been ours. What would Punch say if he saw you now? His pride and joy, his Meister, playing second fiddle to the Prime?

“What would he say about you holding a blade to the throat of my bitties?”

Adopted bitties.

“That wouldn’t have made them any less mine in his eyes, and you know he would have gutted you where you stood for daring to touch them like that, like he did when someone hurt us.”

Silence. Even the echoes of Ricochet couldn’t argue with that, as Jazz checked and found the coal burning hot enough now to melt the resins. Opening the decorated box, he placed resin on the burner, and watched the smoke rise. He began to whisper the ritual words, meant to cleanse the spark of the crimes committed.

This won’t make me leave, Jazz. There’s some blood that never washes off.

Ignoring the distractions, Jazz finished the ritual words before looking towards Polyhex’s obscured distant horizon.

“I did what I had to do, Ricochet. You were my twin. But Smokescreen and Blue… they might not be from my coding, but they’re my bitties, no matter what you think. I’m sorry. I never wanted it to end this way.”

A long pause of silence, and slowly, Jazz let the tears fall. It wasn’t absolution he gained tonight. Merely a continued state of acceptance that he’d lost something he could never regain.

As the tears subsided, he slowly packed up everything he’d laid out, before going to sit on the wall, looking out at the growing storm. It’d been raining that night. Maybe it’d rain again tonight. Maybe that would finally wash away this sin once and for all.

As the first few drops of acid rain fell, washing his face, Jazz heard the door to this particular rampart open as someone joined him. He might have struck out, but he knew that set of footsteps, and the rumble of that particular engine.

“Want to talk?” Chromia asked quietly.

“No.”

“Alright. You should come in before that rain gets too acidic.”

Jazz nodded as the rain dripped down his face. In the quiet, for just a moment longer, he could pretend this was forgiveness.

When an unpleasant sting finally registered in his low level pain sensors, he sighed and moved to stand up. Chromia was still watching him from the door, and he knew she was analyzing what she saw. Prowl and Ironhide had danced together carefully under Sentinel’s regime. Ironhide had known Prowl was up to things behind the scenes she likely couldn’t support, but as long as he never let her see signs of treason, she’d turn a blind eye to him and ignore the programming she’d been onlined with. Ignoring Jazz’s existence back then had been the same sort of understanding.

And yet, Ironhide assuredly thought, if Jazz and Prowl could work to undermine one Prime, what was to stop them from undermining another? Whatever trust his and Chromia’s conjunxes had had under Sentinel Prime was long gone, and any strange behavior Chromia saw tonight would undoubtedly be brought to Ironhide’s attention.

Just another move in this awful dance he and Prowl were locked into, moving towards the future where their bitties could live freely.

He stopped his movement towards the door. On the edges of his senses, something seemed off.

He turned back towards the direction of Polyhex, deploying his sensor panels and spreading them wide. They weren’t as sensitive as a Praxian’s doorwings or a Vosian’s wings, but they were a whole lot better than most mechs external sensors. Which meant the acid rain immediately began to bite.

Despite their animosity, Chromia knew what that sudden change in movement meant. “Jazz?”

“Trigger the silent alarm. Something’s coming this way.” He turned up his sensors as far as he could, trying not the wince at the burning sensation as he commed Iacon’s Chief of Security.

::Red Alert, I’m at the outer wall, and something’s up. I think-::

The sudden whistle of seeker-deployed missiles drowned out Jazz’s thoughts, as the outer wall of Iacon was rocked by explosions.

Since Jazz had driven off from the Command Center, Optimus and Ratchet had found several topics of conversation that didn’t leave them with the desire to strangle the other. They’d discussed medical supplies levels, where to set up triage centers when the inevitable siege came, and how they wanted to provision them.

They’d turned to discussing the growing clouds of the rainy season on the horizon, and the way they’d need to secure potential triage stations against acid rain, when the light, and then sound of the explosions reached them.

Moments later, Red Alert’s voice could be heard in the audial of every Autobot in Iacon.

::BATTLE POSITIONS, SHIELDS UP, WE’RE TAKING INCOMING FIRE!::

Sirens began to blare all over Iacon only seconds later.

Optimus’ antenna moved back in horror as he saw more explosions rock the outer walls. As Iacon was layered, so were its shields. The inner city would be protected long before the rest of the city was.

High Command’s shared channel came to life.

::Seekers inbound, they’re using the acid rain as cover! Megatron must have found some sort of coating to protect them from taking damage from the precipitation, but our anti-aerial guns will corrode in a firefight if we don’t get those shields up soon!:: Jazz’s assessment came in as Prowl pinged the channel to let them all know he was rushing to the Tactical Hub.

::What kind of missiles they firin’?:: Ironhide barked a second later.

::Unclear!:: Chromia replied. ::Blaster, you managing to get any of the ‘Con’s chatter?::

::Minimal, Soundwave’s got the long range channels locked up tight. Bits and pieces of local chatter between the air commanders and their subordinates, but nothing more than that.::

Optimus stepped into the call. ::Prowl, are you in the Tactical Hub yet?::

::Just arriving. Blaster, any word on if there’s a secondary wave incoming?::

::I’ll let you know if I hear any. Cassettes and I are scrambling for anything up here beyond our own communications.::

Ratchet joined in at this point. ::Optimus and I are in the Prime’s spire, do you need eyes in the sky?::

::Negative, get down from there!:: Red Alert snarled. ::You’re standing in the biggest shiniest target of them all!::

Optimus had his doubts the Basilica was really the priority just yet, considering the first shields were already closing overhead. But he turned to Ratchet.

“The medbay needs you more than I do right now, old friend. Best hurry. I’ll remain here just a little longer.”

“Don’t make me send Red Alert up here after you.” Ratchet plucked his favorite helm-whacking wrench out of subspace to confirm the threat, before rushing down the stairs.

And then, Prowl’s voice suddenly picked up across multiple channels, taking command of Iacon’s defense.

::Garrison Units 3-7, deploy on shuttles immediately! Anti-aerieal manuevers 29 and 57, southern quadrant!::

Orders continued to be barked over comms channels as bombs began to drop from the seekers overhead, damaging Iacon’s mid and outer city. The acid rain was making responding to the attacks that much harder. As the raindrops began to fall around him, Optimus watched the explosions, following along and yet standing apart.

So this was what it had come to? Years and years of helping Megatron and his movement become a force of change, and then watching that movement become nothing more than a desire to burn Iacon to the ground?

Would that fix the sins of the past, the sins of his predecessors? Would destroying Iacon bring back Carpessa, Praxus, Nyon, or Vos?

As the last of the shields finally fully deployed, sheltering all of Iacon under a faint yellow glow, Optimus turned his focus inwards towards the Matrix, as it felt the loss of nearby sparks returning to the Well. As his focus returned to this city, his city, he was left with a bitter taste as he watched the fires burn.

The siege of Iacon had begun.

Chapter Text

The Decepticons, Prowl thought bitterly, had at least waited until the dry season to start the siege properly. Apparently the idea of building encampments outside of Iacon’s walls while acid rain was pouring from the sky had been declared infeasible, but not the aerial attacks. At the start of the rainy season, Iacon hadn’t been able to keep her shields fully up at all times without modifications, so the seeker’s raids had done damage. Thankfully, the shields had been reconfigured in the breaks between storms at Optimus’ orders. Being able to run the outermost shield without engaging the inner shields provided protection for the whole city without excessively draining their energon supplies.  And there were already switches in place to move that shield and its power inward, as Iacon fell.

If Iacon fell, he reminded himself. He needed to be finding a way to stop Iacon from falling. Yet every scenario he ran through his advanced tactical system left him drained as the inevitable conclusion came back over and over again.

Iacon would fall. They were surrounded by the enemy with no allies left on the planet. Reinforcements could not come from the fleet unless they wanted to abandon the refugees fleeing to the colonies, whom the Decepticons seemed to have no quarrel using as bargaining chips. It was why Ultra Magnus was engaging Strika in space. Without his half of the forces, Iacon would never hold out in a siege for long. While the city’s stored resources meant they could outlast the enemy for quite a while, previous Primes had never expected an invasion of the holiest city on Cybertron at this scale. Iacon was a sprawling mess, vast and hard to defend. And even Praxus, the greatest fortress on Cybertron, had been wiped off the face of the planet in this war.

Distantly, Prowl felt his spark ache for a homeland that had created but never embraced him. Perhaps his attachment to the location had not been particularly strong before Smokescreen’s spark had begun to orbit his, but after that? Praxus had become a chance out of this life for his son, and a distant hope one day for his own freedom.

Now it was gone.

He set that thought aside as he began to process new data coming in from positions on the outer walls. The Decepticon patrols had returned to their camp, sending their coded reports to Darkmount. Jazz’s agents had managed to place a signal duplicator into the signal array that dispatched reports to Soundwave and Megatron, so Prowl got the information just as fast as his enemies did.

He tried not to wince at the mentions of how weakly defended the western wall at the shores of the Rust Sea was, and ordered more patrols sent in that direction to discourage any probing attacks. As he sorted through the data, he was distantly aware of the door into the Tactical Hub opening.

“How’s he doing?” Jazz’s quiet voice seemed distant as the ATS took more and more of his processing power to try and prevent the success of their enemies.

“He’s practically been running his ATS all day,” Trailbreaker mumbled. “It’s spit out about three different defense scenarios, but none of them are in his usual preferred range of acceptable losses, and don’t even begin to speculate if they’d break the siege. And now the patrol reports are coming in.”

“He had anything to eat?”

“You know the answer to that.” Trailbreaker shifted back to his station. Prowl felt the prickle on his doorwings as Jazz walked up, and the gentle tug on his sparkbond.

::Divert some power out of the ATS, Prowler. You need to eat. I brought you your rocket fuel and some rations.::

Slowly, Prowl did as requested. He found Jazz standing in front of him, offering up the ration cube first. He drained it quickly, his fuel tank thrilled to have something to process. Then he took the pressed energon and knocked it back, letting the sudden influx of the bitter liquid clear his helm.

“There you go,” Jazz hummed before handing him a new datapad. “Mirage and Hound just got back from Darkmount, and Lockback’s back from Kaon. Figured I’d better deliver the reports myself instead of over the datanet, so I didn’t crash ya.”

It was also technically protocol that Spec Ops reports always be handed over in a hard copy format, but Prowl didn’t remind Jazz of that. They both knew this little song and dance was for the benefit of some of those around them. “Thank you.” He took the offered datapad and began to peruse it as Jazz shifted closer to him, and their hands slipped together.

While Prowl suspected most members of his tactical division would never harm him, one could never be too certain who could and couldn’t be trusted when it came to himself and Jazz. It was easier to rely on old subtlety disguised as conjunxal affection than risk speaking aloud.

<You find anything promising?>

<Negative. I don’t wish to say it, Jazz, but Iacon will fall. All we can do at this point is buy additional time. Undoubtedly, most of High Command has already come to this conclusion, save perhaps Red Alert, but if we are the first to say it aloud—>

<No one will agree with us.> Jazz didn’t visibly shift, but Prowl felt the sigh in his spark. <So we need to get someone else in High Command to say it instead.>

They stood there quietly, fields meshing, until Prowl said the words he’d been dreading. 

<It may be time to discuss the evacuations of the sparklings. Ours, Ironhide’s, and any others left in Iacon.>

Jazz’s field didn’t shift, but the soft hum of their sparkbond roiled at the suggestion.

<That bad?>

<Yes. It is that bad.>

Jazz outwardly sighed this time as their hands separated, glancing at the Tactical Hub’s screen as it displayed the information gleaned from the signal duplicator. “That’s the last patrol report. Soundwave’s updated orders should be coming in soon.”

Prowl allowed his CPU to send more power to the ATS, fully digesting the reports. After a minute or so, he predicted Soundwave’s orders.

They came in thirty seconds later.

“Maintain current positions and orders at present time,” Jazz said. “Well, at least that means the war meeting tonight can continue as planned.”

Prowl nodded, rotating his doorwings a few times, before letting the ATS shut down. It spat out a few more potential plans before fully closing, and he quickly added them to the datapad he’d been working on for his own presentation tonight

“We should make time to eat with the bits tonight.” Jazz said as Prowl gathered up other materials.

“Agreed. Who will be watching over them afterwards?”

“Already talked to Hound, he said he didn’t mind as long as we left him something for dinner.” Jazz tugged at his hand. “Come on, let’s get a move on.”

Prowl nodded to his tactical team as they left, turning up the sensitivity on his doorwings as Jazz deployed his sensory panels, staying on guard in the hallway. Most of the regular Autobots, when Jazz was alone, were either charmed by or respected him, depending on their level of fear regarding Meister. Prowl, however, knew that even among many of the common soldiers, he was less than liked. And for those who had once been in Sentinel’s confidence, or now stood in Optimus’?

There was a legacy he shouldered, one Ironhide had managed to slip free of. He would always be seen as the mech who’d put Sentinel Prime into power through careful planning and shady back room deals. The previous Prime’s right hand, the one who’d never lost his favor even unto his last day. 

How Prowl wished he could force these mechs to understand the truth. How he knew they never would even want to.

When they returned to their small suite in the Command Center, Prowl tried to set his past aside for just a moment. Blue was already back from sparkling care, and Smokescreen was on the sofa animatedly chatting with a small orange mech. Rung, the psychiatrist. It looked like Smokescreen had made them tea, from the small tea set between the pair. A part of every high-caste Praxian’s social upbringing.

Rung looked up from the tea with a small smile. “Hello. Smokescreen and I finished our session a bit early today.”

“So we’ve been talking about the scientific method as applied in psychiatry!” Smokescreen proclaimed with delight, setting down the crystal teacup with the precision that only a child raised with heavy expectations would master. A mimicry of the lessons learned when Smokescreen was being raised under the legal edict of the Primal Foster. 

Prowl simply nodded and moved towards Blue, who was happily babbling in a playpen. Jazz merely hummed.

“You know, bitlet, Rung’s a busy mech. Maybe we shouldn’t take too much more of his time?” 

Smokescreen didn’t hold back his disappointed sigh, which was a sign of progress in Prowl’s books, considering what punishment that would have gotten them both years ago. Even Rung seemed delighted by the childish protest as he chuckled, finishing his tea. “Don’t worry, Smokescreen. We can continue to discuss the difference between singular case studies and larger double blind studies next time.”

As Rung showed himself out, Prowl lifted Blue into his arms, glad to have the newspark giggling and laughing as he did so. “You enjoy your time with Rung more than any other mech on this base does, Smokescreen.”

“He’s nice, and he teaches me a lot of things.” The enthusiasm was genuine. “I think I want to be like him.”

“It’ll take a lot of studying to become a mind-medic, ya know.” Jazz reminded Smokescreen as he cleared up the tea set. 

“I know, but you don’t have to have specialized hands to become one of them like you do if you’re a regular medic.” The words of the Functionist era slipped out of Smokescreen’s mouth automatically, and Jazz winced. Smokescreen saw it, and immediately shut his mouth with an audible snap. Prowl’s earlier delight at Smokescreen’s willingness to be a little childish faded as he saw an old survival tactic accidentally slip into place. 

Functionist sentiment was still being spoken from the mouths of many officers and grunts alike. Smokescreen was only parroting what he’d been told and taught for years, the words he still heard, and such habits were not so easily broken overnight. Prowl came over, and supporting Blue in one arm, gently set a hand on Smokescreen’s shoulder. Pulsing certainty over his field that no punishment was coming for the misspoken words.

“If you would prefer to be a medic like Ratchet, Smokescreen, you can do that. Nothing, not even special medic hands, will stop you.” He let a strong conviction fill his words. For years, Smokescreen had been told by Sentinel what he would become. Now he needed to know he was free to be whatever he wanted to be.

Smokescreen took a deep vent, jaw slowly relaxing and tension fading from his frame. “I know. I didn’t mean to, but— I’ll do better—”

Jazz, with the tea set’s tray carefully balanced, nodded before the apology became another form of punishment. “I know you didn’t mean it, bitty. Just one of the things we all have to work on getting better about. Come on, let’s get these washed up and then make dinner.”

And, just as easily as that, the glimmers of childhood returned to Smokescreen’s optics despite the shadows still in them. “I like being with Rung more than Ratchet anyhow. And can I help you make dinner? What are we making?”

As Jazz and Smokescreen headed towards the small kitchen, Prowl looked down at Blue, who was staring up at him with those huge blue optics that had gained him his newspark name. The only optics found to still be glowing with sparklight after that horrible night in Praxus. A child whose parents could never be known among the thousands upon thousands of dead, crying out for love. He and Jazz had had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to adopt the newspark, but once Optimus had allowed them to do so and the sparkbonds were established?

It’d been so easy to love this little newspark, who knew nothing of the pains the rest of his family had gone through. 

One day, after his first upgrades, they’d have to tell him the truth. But for now, Blue was just happy to snuggle up against Prowl, content to have his adopted creators here with him. And Prowl felt honored to be allowed to provide him that comfort.

In the kitchen, dinner now seemed to be underway as Smokescreen was reenacting an earlier part of his day for Jazz.

“—and then,” Smokescreen motioned excitedly, nearly bouncing on his feet. “Sunstreaker threw himself at Sideswipe, and Ironhide and Chromia were so mad! But they’re trying to teach us how to fight to defend ourselves, so I don’t know why they didn’t realize that Sunny and Sides were going to try to fight each other. It’s not like it’s fair if they only practice with me, I’m bigger!”

Jazz chuckled as he stir fried something. Prowl wasn’t certain what, but he trusted the promising aroma from the kitchen meant that dinner would be delicious. “Siblings are always going to find an excuse to fight each other, because they have to go through everything together.”

“Chromia says it’s got to be a twin thing that makes them fight all the time. Which makes sense to me. Blue’s too little to fight with. I don’t even know what he could do to make me ever want to fight him.”

Prowl felt a painful echo in Jazz’s spark, but a curious brush had Jazz pushing him away. Not in rejection, but simply as a way to contain the feelings they never discussed after that night. Prowl knew Jazz handled it in his own way, and didn’t know the words that would ask his conjunx to confide in him instead. He wasn’t even sure that he should say them if he did. 

After all, brotherhood was rather a complicated subject for Jazz.

“You’re a good brother,” Jazz managed. “Now go grab some noodles, will you? The quick cook ones, they’re always easy to add to this for a meal.”

Smokescreen took to his assigned task with glee as he vanished into the pantry. The second he was out of audial range, Prowl looked towards his conjunx, but Jazz cut him off with a smooth motion of his spoon. 

“I’m alright, Prowler. You just focus on how we convince someone like Ratchet to admit that we can’t save Iacon forever.”

Prowl was fairly certain Ratchet was already aware of that fact, but Jazz wasn’t incorrect in judging him to be one of their biggest threats.

Dinner passed quickly after that. Blue took down his newspark-grade energon with no complaint. Jazz had turned a pantry full of less than desirably gears and plastics into a flavorful meal with only a few crushed crystals and flavor packets. Smokescreen went on and on about his friends, his classes, and anything else he wanted to share, as one of the few sparklings still residing in the besieged city.

When Hound arrived, Smokescreen happily played host as Prowl got Blue to nod off, and both he and Jazz collected themselves for the upcoming battle ahead of them.

Prowl had to admit, he preferred the real battles against tangible enemies to the fights raging within the factions of Autobot High Command.

Ironhide always arrived in Optimus’ quarters before these meetings, in a personal sort of habit that Optimus could only discourage her from doing rather than break. As the last mech standing of Cybertron’s oldest legion, the Primesguard, she took seriously the duties that had been handed down to her. To stay at the Prime’s side, to protect and prepare the Prime, and lay down her life if necessary for the Prime. It was the purpose she had been constructed for, and programmed to do.

Optimus had never wished to keep a full contingent of Primesguard. He hadn’t even believed he should give Ironhide back the job after giving her freedom, fully content to dissolve a unit that had often filled its ranks with cold constructs in order to make blaming them for any failures that much easier. If Ironhide had asked, after the loyalty coding had been purged and her freedom granted, for a one way ticket to Caminus and to never see a single mech calling themself the Prime ever again, he would have fully understood.

Instead, well…

“Ironhide, I do not wish you to think I’m ungrateful, but—”

Ironhide fixed him with a look that said she knew exactly where this conversation was going.

“—surely you would prefer some other title or position than Primesguard Captain?”

“If you’re about to try to float just bein’ your bodyguard past me again, I’m not going to be nice about it.” Ironhide shrugged. “I’ve been Primesguard nearly all my life. I know what it means to be one, and how to do my job well.”

“There are other things you can do in life, Ironhide. Your skills are more valuable being taught to our new recruits than in protecting me.”

“Optimus, I ain’t entertaining this conversation again. You’ve changed the definition of what the Primesguard does by letting me train recruits, but that’s still doing my duty as a Primesguard member. It’s not a title that’s always meant much, but it’s my title, alright? Let me have it.”

“I just don’t want you to feel that you have no choice in your loyalty to this cause, Ironhide. I know that my predecessors—”

“Don’t compare yourself to ‘em.” Ironhide waved her hand, before shutting it in a way that indicated she was the one talking now. “You ain’t Nominus, or Primus forbid, Sentinel. You let me speak up, say what I mean, and you listen to me. You freed me from the Pits, let me decide where my own loyalties lie, and brought my Chromie back out of exile. You gave me my family back, and if that means I can help you in return, I will.”

“You owe the Primacy nothing, Ironhide.”

“No, but I owe you for a lot of things. And this is a job I know and can do well for ya. So let me do it.”

Silence fell between them as the argument stalled out in the exact same place it always did, until a knock on the door had Ironhide carefully opening the door. A member of the Basilica staff appeared, looking nervous, but Ironhide smiled.

“Sweeps, what do ya have there?”

As Sweeps stepped inside, Optimus recognized the mostly brown mech with yellow accents. He’d seen Ironhide and Chromia, on the rare moments they allowed themselves relaxing social time with other adults, often interacting with this mech and another. With most of the Basilica staff gone by this point among the evacuees to the stars, Sweeps must have had some reason for staying behind.

“Blaster needed the Prime to look at something before tonight’s meeting. I— I was available to bring the datapad over—” Sweeps was frantically not meeting Optimus’ optics, nervous.

“He ain’t gonna bite ya. Come on in.” Ironhide said, motioning the mech in after a quick security check. Sweeps looked more terrified at being invited into the entryway of Optimus’ quarters than anything else, having clearly expected Ironhide to just take the datapad and let him leave. So Optimus tried to smile and comfort the mech.

“Hello, Sweeps.”

If the look he was given meant anything, he was frightening Sweeps even worse. 

Ironhide gave a small indulgent smile. “You have to hand him the datapad, Sweeps.”

“Oh!” The panicked look was combining with hurried scrambling as the datapad was placed in Optimus’ extended hand, and Sweeps began to dip into a low bow before recalling that that formality had been one of the first things Optimus had told the staff not to do. Ironhide bit back a laugh.

“Sweeps, could you check if the rest of High Command has gathered and report back?” Optimus spoke calmly. “I would prefer to read this report here but I can read it on the walk if they’re already waiting for us.”

“I— yes, I can do that!” Sweeps nodded, and then nearly bolted out of the room. Ironhide did let out a small bark of laughter after she closed the door. 

“He’ll probably be panicking to his poor conjunx for the next three hours now. He ain’t ever been a bold one. But it’s good for him, not that he’s gonna thank me for it.”

Optimus considered the words. A conjunx? That would have explained why Sweeps had not already left the planet with most of the Basilica’s staff if his partner was still stationed here. 

“It was a little cruel of you to tease him like that in front of me,” Optimus hummed, but kept his tone free of any anger. “Especially if he’s that skittish.”

“Eh, kid needs it. I ain’t always gonna be able to watch over him.” She made a shrugging motion. “Especially since he’s about one of the only staff members we have left hanging around. He’s about to get a heck of a promotion.”

“Speaking of promotions,” Optimus let his optics narrow, but Ironhide picked up the playful tone in his field. “I hope you don’t expect Elita One to be permanently handing her seat in High Command over to Chromia.”

“Nah, that’s just for a lil’ while,” Ironhide smiled. “Of course, I think the fact you signed off on it after Delta Magnus threw a hell of a fit about the Vanguard not getting a seat at the table might be a statement all of its own.”

Optimus chuckled. Chromia’s original unit, the Primal Vanguard, had been Sentinel Prime’s passion project. They’d used Chromia to gain quick, cheap points of public approval about accepting colony mechs in their ranks, and tossed her aside just as quickly when they felt she was a liability.

Yes, Optimus might have approved Chromia’s honorary assignment just to get under the Vanguard Captain’s plating just a little, but he’d never let him know that. Let Ultra Magnus deal with Delta out in space. Optimus had no use for gloryhounds like him on Cybertron at the moment.

He wished he had a mech like Magnus around however. He’d been the first of Sentinel’s old generals to support Optimus’ plans for the Primacy when he’d spoken to the Senate after his ascension, insisting they listen to the new Matrix-Bearer’s vision. Words of support to a body Optimus had believed he would have to sway entirely on his own. Ultra Magnus had shown him he was not the only mech in real power longing for a change. They might not always agree, but Optimus trusted him.

And trust? That was a harder and harder commodity to come by these days.

It was also why Ultra Magnus was already in space, managing the evacuations and stopping the Decepticon attacks on the refugee convoys. Strika and Ultra Magnus had been engaged in a cat-and-mouse game across three different systems for an unbearable amount of time, but without Ultra Magnus’ efforts, few Autobots and even fewer non-affiliated mechs would have reached truly neutral space. The Decepticons had the advantage on the surface of the planet, the Autobots in space.

As he read through Blaster’s notes, he broached a topic of concern. “Do you know if any of the reports Elita One sent for Chromia to read tonight involve the state of the colonies?”

“A few, but I don’t know much more than that,” Ironhide admitted. “Chromie was up pretty late last night on call with Elita, and then Windblade. Caminus remains loyal to a properly seated Prime, but as for the rest—”

The knocking at the door cut Ironhide off, but when she opened the door, it was just Sweeps.

“High Command has gathered, my Prime— I mean, sir!”

“Thank you, Sweeps.” Optimus dipped his head in acknowledgment, and Sweeps took the dismissal for what it was and hurried away. A part of Optimus hated that.

::I don’t want mechs to live in fear of me, Ironhide.::

::They won’t. They just still don’t know what to make of you, even after all this time. But when the war’s over and the Decepticons are dealt with, they’ll realize you ain’t half bad.::

Ironhide’s confidence in their outcome was meant to buoy him, but Optimus couldn’t pretend to be optimistic. He doubted tonight’s reports would change his mind on the state of things as he stood.

An awkward spasm had Optimus pause for a moment. It had run along his lower back and into his pelvic struts. He grunted as he adjusted his weight, until the sensation finally eased. Ironhide was looking at him with mild concern.

“Ya alright?”

“I believe I just got stiff. Too much of my day spent sitting, presumably.”

A pause, and then a nod. “You should come out to the training fields tomorrow then. Neither you or I are built for long term desk duty. I still don’t get how Prowl can stand it with an Enforcer frame like his. They’re generally some of the worst mechs to keep still.”

Optimus shrugged as they began their way to the meeting. “Prowl is hardly an average enforcer, and the ATS tends to use most of his fuel.”

“Trust me, I know. Feels like I spent half my time under Sentinel bullying ‘im into actually making sure he ate.”

“And the other half?” Optimus hummed.

“The other half I need permission from my conjunx to share with ya.”

Optimus chuckled, and as they reached the war room, Ironhide opened the door. He’d quickly gotten rid of formally announcing his presence before he entered a room, but conversation still stopped as all of High Command, other than Ironhide, hurried to their seats. 

“Good evening,” Optimus offered, as he headed to his seat and Ironhide sealed the door. “Blaster, will Ultra Magnus be able to join us over a long distance relay tonight to provide us with a verbal report?”

“Negative,” The communications officer lifted up a datapad. “He’s engaged Strika’s fleet in battle near Iluxtra. His report was submitted in code, I have my cassettes decoding it right now.”

Optimus nodded as he looked around the table. Already, he could see the small factional groups clustered together. Ratchet and Wheeljack kept to themselves. Jazz and Prowl stayed close to Blaster, and Chromia and Ironhide were near Red Alert. 

Now, he just had to keep all these factions from fighting.

Primus help him, it was going to be a long night.

Wheeljack hated High Command meetings. One, he technically wasn’t a member, he was only here because he was leading a project High Command considered vital for the war effort. Two, Ratchet was perpetually agitated at these things because somehow he always managed to end up across from Prowl or Jazz, and he wanted to strangle them. Which made Wheeljack agitated because his conjunx was agitated. And three, having to argue for permission to augment the design he’d been working on was not his strong suit, and he really wished he could send Perceptor up here in his stead while he worked on proof of concept.

But no, here he was, fighting with Red Alert about how additional power would be a massive boon for Project Teletran instead of doing anything useful.

“Where would the power even come from?!” Red Alert finally snapped in frustration. “You’d have to either completely rebuild the engines or redesign the ship. Neither is feasible at this stage of development.”

Wheeljack could feel Prowl’s eyes on him as he offered his solution. “I was hoping to use parts from the Crystal City Spacebridge. It was decommissioned before our retreat, and the parts—”

“Are currently being used elsewhere.” Jazz shook his head. “We need that power to keep Iacon’s shields up, Wheeljack. We can’t sacrifice it.”

“You could find another power source for the shields,” Ratchet crossed his arms. “We should start moving all unnecessary energon in the power supply inwards. We could house the entire population of the city that’s left within the inner two rings. Even that’s probably being generous. We make it so the only power in the outer ring is the power that runs directly to the walls and shields.”

Prowl’s optics darkened. “That would not buy us much time, and the shields would be weaker than they currently are. I cannot accept that idea.”

“You don’t accept anything—” Ratchet snapped, only to be cut off by Optimus growling his engine. Everyone went silent.

“Wheeljack, you may continue to work on these designs and find ways to potentially implicate them in the future as long as it doesn’t distract you from the task at hand,” Optimus spoke firmly. “However, for now, you must stay on course with the present design. Prowl is correct in his assessment that reassigning components of the Crystal City Spacebridge away from our direct defense and into this project is not the correct call to make at the present moment.”

Wheeljack offered an alternative. “I could use components from the Iacon Spacebridge, if it were to be decommissioned in the future.”

That made the room go quiet, and Ratchet was clearly trying not to put his faceplate in his hands over that card being shown. Ironhide finally spoke.

“Let’s not even propose that it’s going to get to that point,” She crossed her arms, glancing around the room. “The recruits are training well. I’ll have ‘em field ready in a couple more weeks to bolster our outer wall defenses. The ‘Cons haven’t been trying anything more than the occasional probing attack at this point, and more bombing runs.”

“That could change overnight,” Jazz glanced at Blaster. “Spec Ops agent reports indicate Kaon’s emptying out into Polyhex. Megatron’s got his army on the move, and I don’t think it's to bring us aid and supplies.”

“Which means we ought to discuss evacuations of the Iacon Archives, and other cultural heritage.” Prowl glanced at Chromia. “Elita One’s report indicates that Caminus is one of the most stable colonies in our sphere of influence. Would the administration there be willing to take on such items?”

Chromia glanced at Ironhide, and then turned to Prowl. “The Mistress of Flame would be willing to take artifacts. Archive data, I’m less certain on. My amica Windblade may be willing to act as an intermediary on that end, but I make no guarantees.”

“I would like to be kept apprised of this project, and—” Optimus almost winced before he said it. “—I would be more than willing to grease the wheels with the Mistress if necessary.”

Wheeljack felt Ratchet’s laugh in his spark. Optimus hated playing up being a Prime, but Caminus was deeply religious. If the Mistress of Flames had any reluctance on her end, a direct request from the chosen mech of Primus, who carried the greatest artifact of Solus Prime in his chassis, would likely sway her.

But Ratchet’s laughter faded as a thought passed through his helm. Wheeljack turned towards his conjunx, concern in his field.

“Optimus,” Ratchet turned towards the mech. “With the news of the Decepticon army’s relocation, I think it’s time for a mandatory civilian evacuation as well. Including every immature Cybertronian left in the city, such as those whose creators are members of High Command.”

Ironhide and Chromia both visibly bristled, but Jazz looked relieved for half a second even as Prowl had no visible reaction. Wheeljack suddenly got the opinion Ratchet had played right into their hands.

Ratchet noticed as well, but he only grumbled minimally about it over their conjunx bond. It was reaching the point that it was the only right call, no matter how much he hated the Chief Tactical Officer and the Head of Special Operations.

“I disagree,” Chromia’s lips were pressed together in a thin line. “Sending our sparklings away will be seen as a sign of surrender among the rank and file. It implies we have no confidence in our ability to hold the city.”

“It implies we care about our newbuilds,” Blaster countered. “If my cassettes were not fully mature mechanisms, I would be onboard for this decision. Megatron is preparing a larger force to continue this siege. Our young ones deserve to be spared the ugliness of the battle.”

Red Alert groaned. “Protecting the evacuations is already spreading our forces in space thin. How would we ensure that the sparklings escape successfully? Especially Blue. The safety of Praxus’ last spark is not something that should be taken lightly.”

Silence. Optimus glanced around the table. Wheeljack could see every set of optics was tired and frustrated. Yet, no one was totally wrong in their assessment of the situation.

“We will not make that decision tonight,” Optimus finally offered. “We are too tired and frustrated. But I believe that Ultra Magnus would be happy to work with us on this matter, and will find a unit suitable and willing to assist with such delicate evacuations as soon as we need it.”

“There are units in the fleet which have experience with young sparklings.” Prowl’s tone was neutral. “They may be our best option, even if their personalities are— less than ideal.”

Wheeljack didn’t really need to check what Chromia and Ironhide’s reactions were. Ironhide seemed contemplative about the unit Prowl was referring to so obliquely. Chromia, meanwhile, was just short of gouging lines into the tabletop with her fingers over that suggestion.

Wheeljack was very glad he and Ratchet had no reason to be entangled in the domestic drama Chromia would be having if that particular unit was the one chosen for this assignment.

“We will need to discuss this at tomorrow night’s briefing. Unless something should shift in the war, the evacuations of the archives and Iacon’s remaining civilians will be the only topics of discussion. If anything else urgent needs to come before this meeting, please speak now.”

Silence. Optimus nodded, standing up.

“Meeting adjourned. Please retire to your personal quarters.”

Ironhide took the dismissal. As soon as the seal was broken, she and Chromia strode out, their footsteps sharp and irritated against the floors of the Command Center. Blaster and Red Alert weren’t far behind, heading towards their respective stations for final check-ins. The pair chatted quietly, even as Wheeljack kept his eyes on those who’d stayed behind.

Prowl kept his doorwings perfectly calm and placid as he cleaned up from his presentation, and Jazz’s field was tight and his expression schooled. The air between them was heavy, the younger couple not quite as subtle yet with their spark to spark communication as he and Ratchet could be. It came with time, and although the war had been long, Wheeljack was pretty sure he and Ratchet had been conjunxed longer than either of those two mechs had been alive.

When Prowl glanced at him, Wheeljack kept himself impassive, but he was sure his optics narrowed despite best efforts. Yet, the Praxian just let his eyes slide elsewhere as he and Jazz exited, and Ratchet spoke quietly.

“Optimus, I know Ironhide and Chromia are sensitive about the idea of being separated from their sparklings, but it’s going to have to happen at some point. If the Iacon Spacebridge gets decommissioned before the sparklings leave, it’s going to be much more dangerous.” 

“I know, old friend,” Optimus sighed. “I would ask them both to depart with the sparklings, but-”

“Ironhide won’t go,” Wheeljack hummed. “As long as the Primesguard lives on in her, she won’t leave your side.”

A nod, and then Optimus went to take a step, but stopped, placing a hand on his lower back. Ratchet immediately paused, assessing the situation.

“Is something out of alignment?” Ratchet’s tone bordered on annoyed concern, as it often did.

“No, I’m just stiff,” Optimus rolled his shoulders, and Wheeljack heard the crackle of cables that had become slightly pinched rolling back into place. “Don’t concern yourself with me right now. You both have too many necessary tasks for the war effort.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed slightly, but Optimus’ next steps were completely steady, so he sighed, clearly deciding not to get into an argument about it right now.

“Still, you can come to the medbay and get checked up. And if you try to pull the same slag your Primesguard captain does, by refusing to properly rest after her injuries, I will weld you to a medberth. Understand?”

Optimus chuckled. “Understood.”

They all headed out to their quarters. Wheeljack pulled out a datapad, continuing to fiddle with his proposed design changes, and then handing them over to Ratchet so he could check the math. 

After all, on Cybertron, mechanical engineering and medical degrees weren’t that different.

Chromia didn’t stop Ironhide as she entered their suite and headed straight for the twin’s room, wanting to check over Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, like she didn’t trust that they were still there. She locked the suite door and then headed in after her. 

In the low light, she could see that Sideswipe had crawled out of his own bed again and was curled up against Sunstreaker’s side while Sunny sprawled to take up as much of the berth as possible. The second bed, to be honest, was more of a decoration for the split-spark twins. One day they’d want their own space, but for now?

It was sweet to see them together like this.

“Hey,” Chromia wrapped her arms around her conjunx from behind, hoping the hum of her sparkbeat comforted her as they observed their sleeping mechlings. “It’ll be okay.”

“If Prowl and Ratchet agree, Optimus is going to listen to them over us.” Ironhide murmured softly. “Which means we’ll be separated from the twins. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Chromia held her beautiful sparkmate just a little tighter at that, as bitter memories soured the taste in both of their mouths. Under the Functionist Council, cold constructed mechs were not allowed to conjunx hotspot sparked or internally forged mechs. Cold constructed property of the Prime was never to conjunx. And cold constructed property of the Prime was never to allow themselves to be sparked unless the Prime himself ordered it.

All three laws that Ironhide and she had broken in order to find some compassion and tenderness in a world that seemed to hate them both. Broken laws that had forced her to live in exile on her homeworld of Caminus unless she wanted to lose her head. Laws that had lost Ironhide her title as Primesguard Captain, and seen her sold to Kaon’s pitmasters, to fight as a gladiator until her frame gave out. Laws that meant the twins had had to be smuggled off of Cybertron to live in safety with their sire on Caminus, and that they hadn’t gotten to be in their carrier’s presence again until they’d already had their first upgrades. 

Ironhide had missed so much because of Sentinel’s cruelty, and now they were both missing so much more because of the war. 

“We’ll go with them,” Chromia spoke with certainty. “If they have to evacuate, so do we.”

“No, Chromie. I can’t. My duty’s here, with the Prime.”

Chromia couldn’t hide the sudden rigidness in her frame at that statement, as she pulled back from her conjunx. Ironhide turned, and Chromia tried to keep her voice low, aware of their sleeping sparklings being so close by.

“Either we both go, or we both stay.”

Ironhide fixed her with a look, the same one she’d had when Chromia had begged her to flee to Caminus with her when they were found out to be conjunxed and had only hours before Sentinel would know. In the faint light, the determined glow was one that drove Chromia to near madness.

“I’m not leaving you again.” She stated more firmly, hoping something would get through Ironhide’s thick helm.

“You’ll have to. Prowl and Jazz can’t and won’t leave, and those four sparklings are gonna need someone they know watching out over ‘em. The twins need you. Smokescreen and Blue know ya. You have to go if they do.”

“And what about you?” Chromia hissed, her finger landing firmly in the center of Ironhide’s chest. “Other mechs can train the recruits. Other mechs can guard the Prime. But the twins need you. I need you.”

“I have a duty—”

“You have a duty to your family, ‘hide. You promised me that this would never happen again. I am not letting you stay behind to face all the danger alone while I’m spirited away by the—”

“Sire? Carri?” Sideswipe’s tired voice rose up, and both of them fell silent. Ironhide turned and bent over, brushing a hand over the mechling’s helm, and adjusting the insulation sheets.

“Sorry, Sides. Go back to sleep. Carri and sire didn’t mean to wake ya up.”

A faint blue hint of optics light regarded them, and then nodded, snuggling closer to Sunstreaker. Chromia took in the image, wondering yet again if this was the last time she’d ever see Ironhide with their children. After a moment, Ironhide stepped away, and they went back out into the living space.

They were silent for a few minutes, the tension heavy enough to be cut with a knife. Both of them fuming, but also wanting to make sure Sideswipe actually fell back asleep. Finally, Chromia had to speak.

“You’re acting like that loyalty coding’s still in your helm. You’re letting it make the choices instead of your spark.”

“That coding is long gone, Chromie.”

“Then why are you acting like it’s still in there?! Optimus would let you come with us if you asked! Don’t make me leave with them like this again. Don’t make both of us, and the two of them, have to relive the nightmare.”

“We owe everything to him, Chromie. I have to repay that debt.”

“And you want to repay it at the cost of repeating this all over again? By not seeing your children, asking me to pretend it isn’t killing the both of us to have to be separated yet again?!”

Ironhide wouldn’t meet her eyes, and Chromia wanted to get even louder, to yell, but the twins were right there. 

“Ironhide. If we leave, and you die, I am going to have to raise the twins alone, knowing that I could have been here. That I could have saved you. And that you’re the one who refused to let me stay, or to come with us.”

“And what if Ratchet’s right, and the biggest danger the Prime’s facing is coming from within? I can predict Prowl somewhat, I can do my damnedest to make sure Jazz stays in line.”

Chromia couldn’t believe this was the argument that Ironhide thought would sway her. “You place your life in Prowl’s hands on the battlefield constantly, but now you want me to believe that you don’t trust him at all?”

“He has a habit of killin’ mechs who get in the way of his plans.”

“Allegedly.”

“You know there’s reasons those rumors persist, Chromie! And you don’t fully trust them either.”

“No, I don’t. But I also am finding it hard to believe that you fully believe what you’re saying. We know Jazz and Prowl are top kill-on-sight priorities for the ‘Cons. What benefit would they have siding with them? Their survival rests on Optimus’ mercy, and you know it, and you know Prowl well enough to know that he won’t risk fragging that up!”

She stepped closer to Ironhide.

“Please, ‘Hide. Look me in the eyes and tell me what good reasons you have for sending me away while you stay put. Convince me.”

But when Ironhide’s optics met hers, she knew she wouldn’t be convinced. There was nothing either of them could say to the other to change their minds.

Chromia slumped onto the sofa, and Ironhide sat next to her, hands in her lap.

“I’m a member of the Primesguard, Chromia. I have to do my job. We agreed to that when we conjunxed. We had to do our jobs.”

“Because we were living in secret. Because we had everything to lose if we were found out. Because we almost did lose everything. And now you’re going to make me do this all over again.”

The silence stretched on between them, and Chromia tried to keep herself from crying. All those years of pain, of separation, of watching and raising their children on her own. It was supposed to be over. It was never supposed to happen again.

And now, here it was, history repeating itself yet again. And despite it all?

Ironhide was pulling her into an embrace, and they clung to each other, even as they managed to stumble to their berthroom, and with a quiet desperation, merged. Two sparks becoming one, a cry united.

And when they finally returned to their own frames, they both knew what they had to do. No more words were said as they both drifted off into an uneasy recharge.

Chapter Text

Three days after the decision had been finalized to evacuate all remaining civilians in Iacon, including the sparklings of High Command, Ratchet walked into his office to find it visibly disturbed. He might have leaned out into the medbay and shouted for Hoist and First Aid to come explain themselves, but the source of the disturbance was pretty obvious.

“How’d you even get in here?” He asked Smokescreen as the mechling fiddled around in his chair, not even slightly repentant for his crime of breaking and entering into the CMO’s office. He’d give Prowl this, his bitlet knew how to control his faceplate.

“Snuck in when First Aid dropped some reports onto your desk,” Smokescreen’s doorwings flicked slightly. “I’m hiding from origin, and he doesn’t like to see you, so he’ll never find me here.”

Ratchet hummed. Smokescreen had observed that his creators had Hoist serving as their medic rather than Ratchet, and had a rough idea of why. He’d barely been in his third frame for a vorn, so he still mostly acted like a sparkling rather than a youngling, but Smokescreen was quick and his processors were sharp as a knife. Rung had nothing but glowing praises for the bitlet’s ability to grasp concepts most mature mechanisms struggled with.

But he was also still a mechling who wasn’t always making the correct judgment calls.

“You’re probably right that he won’t find you here. However, I also don’t want you in here.”

“Please, Ratchet! I’ll be quiet, and I won’t bother anything!” Smokescreen’s mask slipped slightly, genuine agitation shaking in his doorwings before he schooled it out of his frame. Ratchet paused, and then sighed.

The newbuild does not carry the guilt of the creator.

“Alright, let me sit down,” Ratchet grumbled, pulling out a wrench and waving it around with absolutely no intention of using it as anything other than a tool to gesture with. “Do you want to look at some processor scans in my textbooks? Rung said you were asking about how processor damage can affect a mech’s personality.”

Smokescreen nodded his head as he got out of the chair, and Ratchet sat down, producing a textbook datapad and scrolling to the proper chapter. Smokescreen stepped closer to observe, and Ratchet discussed the scenario, but it soon became clear Smokescreen was only half listening. Looking for a distraction from whatever was bothering him.

He hardly even noticed when Ratchet stopped reading, until Ratchet reached out and tapped his arm gently. Smokescreen startled, doorwings fluttering anxiously.

“Alright, mechling. Why are you hiding from your originator? It’s not your curiosity on processors, or else you’d be listening.”

“I was reading,” Smokescreen tried to counter, but when Ratchet raised an optical ridge, the mechling knew he was about to be asked a question he couldn’t answer, and folded. “It’s about the evacuation.”

Ah. 

“Your creators discussed it with you?”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen’s mask slips off fully, and Ratchet brushes his field against the mechling’s. There’s anger, hurt, and fear on the surface. “They aren’t coming with us.”

From an unbiased outsider’s perspective, Ratchet could have argued that Prowl and Jazz’s roles in High Command made them essential personnel, so of course they had to stay behind. But Ratchet wasn’t unbiased, and Smokescreen wasn’t stupid.

“So you’re hiding from them because of that?”

“I get why we have to go. I get why they can’t. But I don’t have to like it, and origin doesn’t understand.”

Hmm. That statement could mean eight different things when it came to Prowl. Ratchet wasn’t qualified to speculate on any of them. 

“So you’re avoiding him so you won’t have to talk about it?”

Smokescreen looked down at his pedes. “Don’t want to make him upset again.”

Ratchet didn’t have the answer for that either. Smokescreen might one day have a processor as quick and sharp as Prowl’s, but his compassion was far greater than the muted state of emotions his originator experienced. 

“If you make him upset, he’s the adult. He can handle it.”

“I don’t like making him upset,” Smokescreen’s doorwings canted into slight hostility. “He has enough on his plate.”

“Not the healthiest way to handle your emotions, Smokescreen. Don’t think you need Rung to tell you that.”

Smokescreen’s hostility decreased slightly, and then he murmured. “If I get upset, it’s going to make Sunny and ‘Sides more upset too.”

Ratchet sighed, letting go of the notion he could do anything about this right now other than stress Smokescreen out further. “Alright. Do you want to join me on my rounds? You might have to leave if anyone needs to talk to me about their conditions, but you can hold my tools.”

Smokescreen nodded, quickly taking the medkit from Ratchet. It seemed the sight of his yellow chevron and smile was the best medicine some of the troops had received in a long while. Smokescreen even began playing cards with a few mechs who were still integrating new limbs. Ratchet was pretty sure the mechling was learning how to count cards, because he’d amassed quite a bit of credits by the time Jazz came into the medbay, looking only slightly irate.

Ratchet instantly turned his optics towards the game as Jazz approached and knelt down to talk. Smokescreen’s doorwings flared slightly, unhappy, but after a few seconds of hushed conversation, they dropped, and Ratchet moved to intervene. 

By the time he got to the table Smokescreen was wearing a smile again, even if it wasn’t as strong as it had been before, while he redistributed the credits among the players. 

“Thank you!” He said, but then he saw Ratchet, and quickly tensed. Jazz looked up.

“Ratchet.”

“Jazz,” He kept his tone clipped and polite, but the threat was implied. “Smokescreen was acting as my assistant today. I hope it caused no trouble.”

Smokescreen glanced between them, and then settled into his give nothing away stance. It hurt that a mech so young felt he had to have one, but it’d surely been a survival tactic in the middle of Sentinel Prime’s reign.

“No, no trouble at all.” Jazz’s tone was even, giving nothing away. “C’mon, Smokie. Ori’s not gonna wait much longer for dinner.”

Smokescreen nodded, and waved goodbye. Ratchet did the same, even as he watched Jazz go.

He hoped that Rung could undo even half of the damage that kid had already gone through.

Ironhide was tired. So fraggin’ tired. She’d just dismissed all her cadets after they’d done hand-to-hand combat drills long enough she’d gotten bored of watching. She made notes on her datapad, and the incoming comm was almost a pleasant distraction.

Almost.

::Sunstreaker has taken to using his paints on our walls to express his anger.:: Chromia’s tone was beyond defeated.

::What’s he drawn?::

::I think it’s supposed to be Optimus being torn apart by alloygators that he’s commanding through some method. Possibly mind control? Unclear. The vaguely mech-shaped blob is red, so it could be you instead.::

A long sigh as Ironhide pinched her nose. ::Have you taken his paints away?::

::I did, but then Sideswipe tried to break into the cabinet I locked them into and broke his nose when he fell. I’m using my Ri’s old trick to fix it. Meanwhile, Sunny’s disappeared somewhere. I’ll track him down as soon as the bleeding stops.::

Primus damnit.

::Need me to come handle it?:: 

::Either they’re going to glue themselves to your legs or try to bite you, so I wouldn’t advise it.::

Ironhide took a few deep vents, trying not to do anything stupid, but their sparklings seemed to be determined to drive them to madness. When they’d informed them about the upcoming evacuation, they’d been surprisingly calm at first. Sideswipe had giggled that Smokescreen and Blue had never seen space before, so they’d have to tell them all about it. Sunstreaker had nodded, and then turned to Ironhide with extended hands.

“Maybe auntie Windblade can show you around Caminus, carri! Sire says you’ve never been!”

When Ironhide had said she wouldn’t be going with them, the nonstop tantrum had begun.

::I’ll talk to them about it tonight, see if I can calm them down. Wish I could steal Prowl’s handbook on explaining it.::

::His handbook is that Smokey’s old enough to think about it with a little bit of logic, and Blue’s too young to know what’s going on.:: Chromia sighed. ::We hit the sweet spot where no explanation is or will be good enough with these two.::

Ironhide just mumbled something incomprehensible back, before she registered that Optimus was approaching. ::Got to go. Let me know if you need me to come back.::

An affirmative ping, and Ironhide pulled herself out of her seat as the Prime arrived.

“Need anything?”

“I would like to discuss the upcoming evacuation with you, if you’d permit it.” Optimus kept his tone gentle, even though Ironhide already knew where this was going. “I understand Chromia has requested to go with the sparklings?”

Ironhide just nodded, sitting back down as Optimus did. “Someone has to.”

“I agree, as do Jazz and Prowl. Hound has requested permission to leave and act as Smokescreen and Blue’s guardian in their absence.”

Ironhide considered that. Hound, Mirage, and Lockback officially all had been in Spec Ops longer than Jazz, but once he’d proved himself, they were loyal to him as their commander. Out of the three of them, all that was left of Special Operations on Cybertron save deep-cover agents, Hound was definitely the most fond of the sparklings.

It wasn’t a bad call. Hound’s sigma might even be useful if the minimal number of enlisted Autobots evacuating found themselves facing Strika’s forces.

“You should let him. Mirage needs someone watching his back, but Hound and Lockback have spent years trading off on that job.”

“I will,” Optimus paused. “However, I wonder if a third guardian might not provide greater protection to the most precious among us.”

Ironhide held up her hand. “You need me here.”

Optimus took that hand, gently pushing it down. “With all respect, Ironhide, I can let you go. You’ve trained the last recruits we’ll get to the best of your ability. They’re ready for field action, and you deserve to be with your family.”

Ironhide shot a look to the Prime, but he didn’t back down.

“When Megatron first brought me to the pits when I was still Pax, you told me you’d do almost anything to get your family back. But now, when they need you most, you won’t go. Why?”

“You gave me my family back, Optimus,” Ironhide hissed. “Do you know how many Senate mechs expected you to leave me in Kaon to rot? Primesguard don’t survive getting tossed aside, and they’re never reinstated. Sentinel sent me off to the Pits so I’d die, and he wouldn’t have to have the death of newsparks on his conscience.”

Optimus’ optics nearly blazed with fury at the reminder of what Sentinel had done. It was the same look he’d had as Orion Pax had when he’d first heard the story, only more intense due to the Matrix. “I am not owed anything for meeting the bare minimum of decency in reuniting you with your loved ones.”

Ironhide stood up, feeling the warmth of the Cybertronian sun through the shields, and turning towards her Prime. The third Prime she’d served, so young, and frankly the most decent mech to have ever held the position.

“You gave me back my family and my purpose. I know you and Ratch’ both worry some sort of inbuilt coding’s still making me loyal, but it ain’t. I’m loyal ‘cause you’re a decent fragging mech and because this life, when it’s at your side, ain’t half bad. Understand?”

Optimus seemed to struggle for an answer, but Ironhide had an easier solution.

“Alright, mech, you want me to go? Head out into the dirt and wrestle with me. If you win, you’ve proved this old mech can’t offer you any protection you can’t give yourself. If I win, you understand I’m choosing to stay and nothing’s making me. Got it?”

Optimus finally nodded, and Ironhide commed Prowl. ::When you inevitably get a report that I’m out here thrashin’ the Prime, let ‘em know it’s alright, just a friendly game.::

Prowl’s response didn’t come at first, but by the time Ironhide had Optimus pinned to the ground, with several Autobots having gathered around to watch, an exasperated message came in.

::Ratchet is currently threatening to dismember you in my Tactical Hub.::

::Sorry, not sorry.::

Chromia had a helmache forming behind her optics. For weeks now, this evacuation had been getting organized. The Iacon Archives had been reduced to neatly packed crates and datasticks, all ready to head for Caminus to be cared for and maintained. The twins had finally settled down somewhat, but tantrums and crying fits were still easily provoked. Currently, they were clinging to Ironhide’s sides, sniffling and trying not to cry as their carrier told them stories from ages past.

The air was tense today. While most of the civilians had already departed through the Iacon Spacebridge, this particular evacuation was waiting on an additional escort. Ultra Magnus had informed Optimus that the assigned unit had requested the mission. Chromia feared she knew what that meant. 

In the night of Iacon, she could see a distant glow which indicated the Spacebridge had opened up to let a ship through. Shortly afterwards a comm channel she rarely responded to, and yet couldn’t bring herself to block, lit up in her helm.

::Hey, bit. Heard you need to get off-world again.::

She was going to kill him. She buzzed a busy tone at him, before heading out of the small office room she and Ironhide shared, heading over to the twins.

They weren’t anywhere near asleep, clinging to Ironhide’s side. Chromia sat down slowly, and gently brushed her hands over each of the twin’s helms, before looking at Ironhide.

“They’re here.”

Ironhide nodded, vents opening and releasing the air slowly, and then looking down at their sparklings. “I hear a rumor there’s a surprise down at the Spacebridge that’s heading up to see us. Want to go find out?”

Sunstreaker snarled and buried himself into Ironhide’s side, but Sideswipe let Chromia pick him up. Ironhide finally manhandled Sunstreaker into a proper hold, and the mechling wrapped his arms around his carrier’s neck and buried his faceplate into her shoulder.

“Don’t wanna go,” He growled.

“I promise the surprise is good,” Ironhide rubbed Sunstreaker’s back as they left the suite. 

Sideswipe whispered into Chromia’s ear. “What’s the surprise?”

“Can’t tell you, wouldn’t be a surprise then,” She hummed. “But you’ll like it.”

They weren’t the only mechs leaving the Command Center. After all, shift change was nearly upon them, but they were probably the only ones heading vaguely towards the Spacebridge at this hour.

In some quiet corner of the plaza in front of the Primal Basilica, Chromia stopped, and then pinged her location to the frequency she’d ignored earlier. An affirmative response came as she leaned into Ironhide’s side.

They both knew there was a chance this might be the last time they stood together as a complete family. Ironhide leaned back into her, and they took in the quiet state of Iacon tonight.

The end of their moment was marked by the sound of scrambling pedes, very small ones, and then a laugh.

“Found you!” Arcee crowed like a rooster as she rushed forward, hardly much bigger than the twins. Sideswipe’s optics widened, and even Sunstreaker looked up in surprise.

“Arcee!” Sideswipe all but scrambled out of Chromia’s arms, definitely leaving a few dents on the way down, and the pair tackled each other. Chromia could not determine if it was meant to be a hug or a wrestling match. Sunstreaker paused, and then glanced in the direction Arcee had come from as a few other mechs started to appear.

Impactor’s one hand was holding onto Springer. Springer was definitely the biggest of the four sparklings present despite also being the youngest. He was visibly trying not to yawn, clearly exhausted. A few of the other Wreckers appeared as well. She recognized Roadbuster’s outline, and then the other split-spark twins she knew, Twin Twist and Topspin.

And, of course, there was one familiar outline with a cygar stuck out of his mouth.

Sunstreaker immediately reached out towards the mech. “Grandsire!”

Kup approached, taking the yellow sparkling from Ironhide with ease. “Hmmph, you’ve got heavier since I last saw you, didn’t you?”

Sunstreaker made a non-committal hum as he pressed himself closer to Kup’s plating, and Ironhide nodded. 

“Good to see you, Kup.”

“I’d say the same if the circumstances were better,” Kup and Ironhide always had such ease with each other that Chromia couldn’t decide if she was envious of or not. “Arcee, stop tearin’ your cousin apart.”

Sideswipe sat up so fast he awkwardly clanged his helm into Arcee’s arm, apparently having not heard his twin’s earlier proclamation. “Grandsire!” He darted forward, and Arcee stuck out her tongue at his fast retreat before Roadbuster scooped her up and out of the way.

“You can fight later,” Roadbuster technically meant it for Arcee, but Chromia suspected she might want to remember the advice herself, as Sideswipe glued himself to Kup’s legs, and she stepped forward.

“Kup,” She politely intoned, and Impactor stifled a laugh. Bastard.

“Bit, I-” Kup started, but Chromia cut him off. 

“We’ll talk in the morning. Let’s get your quarters sorted out.”

The old mech’s optics definitely did something painful at that, and Chromia tried not to think about it. Impactor somehow picked up Springer with his one hand and harpoon as she started to lead them all in the direction of the Command Center.

“They’re fighting again,” He stage-whispered to Springer. All the Wreckers save Kup snickered.

Ironhide took Chromia’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Chromia let all her anger and anxiety spill down their bond, and Ironhide did her best to take it away, but this wasn’t something Ironhide’s love could fix.

She’d need to talk to Kup in the morning. But until then, she just wanted to sleep.

Optimus understood from Prowl’s messages that the Wreckers had arrived late last night, escorted into the Command Center and given quarters by Ironhide. Despite technically having been on leave, no one had denied her request, and the Wreckers had been given a considerably large suite to stay in.

One he was now entering to see how things were going, after Prowl had informed him most of the Wreckers had stepped out, save one.

Inside, Ironhide was currently supervising the construction of cushion ramparts on one side of the central room, filling toy blasters up with foam discs to shoot. “Now, reminder, the goal of this exercise is to not get shot. Doesn’t matter how many times ya shoot someone else, ya don’t want to take any fire, alright?”

The four sparklings muttered their assent, although Optimus expected that promise wouldn’t even last a minute.

“Alright, prepare yourselves,” Ironhide passed out the blasters and then grinned as she crouched down, the twins behind one side of pillow barricades, and Arcee and Springer behind another. “Ready, set— fire!”

Immediately, the scene descended into chaos, but Ironhide just stepped back and watched it go that way as Optimus leaned down.

“Your newest recruits, I believe, are not passing muster,” He teased, and Ironhide snickered.

“Just wait until I make them find and sort all the discs by color.”

Optimus chuckled before glancing up towards the other side of the room. Chromia and Kup were whispering over cubes of pressed energon at the table. Although he couldn’t hear it from this distance, especially over the war cries of incredibly enthusiastic sparklings, the Matrix allowed him to understand how well things were going.

And the answer was poorly. Chromia’s field and spark were deeply agitated, and Kup’s was attempting to be apologetic, but his own anger and pride were present. This was an old argument, not really rehashed so much as never truly concluded. Optimus only knew the broadest strokes, which did not paint the picture clearly.

Kup, during his time with the Primal Vanguard, had done a tour through Caminus, where he had apparently had a rather torrid affair with a local pharmacist. Later on, he had left the Vanguard for the Wreckers, citing issues with Delta Magnus’ command.

Eventually, the Camian child he’d never known he’d had had gone to the Vanguard hoping for answers on her parentage. Instead, Delta Magnus had recruited her, and spent years alternating between making her the unit’s poster child and its punching bag. Sire and creation had not met face to face until Chromia was fleeing Cybertron while Sentinel was baying for her energon to be spilled.

As for the rest, well, he could only guess.

A shriek brought his attention back to the fight that he could understand, as Arcee and Springer were advancing behind a single cushion shield, and Sideswipe shouted.

“Ri! Ri, it’s not fair!”

As Ironhide tried to stop the brewing physical fight from occurring, Optimus registered the slamming of a cube into the table, and watched Chromia hurry out of the room. Kup followed closely behind. 

He wondered if he should go after them, but Ironhide grabbed his arm and stopped him. 

“Leave ‘em. Better they get tired of arguing here in Iacon where they can actually get away from each other than when they’re stuck on the Xantium en route to Caminus.”

Optimus decided to leave this judgment call to Ironhide, especially when Sunstreaker leapt over the cushion barrier and ran towards Springer and Arcee, trying to kick Springer’s feet out from under him. It quickly descended into a brawl that had both Prime and Primesguard captain desperately trying to untangle flailing limbs, and wondering where and when those sparklings had learned those words.

Chromia just kept her feet moving until they reached the second wall. It was barely guarded at the moment, which made it very easy to use her clearance codes to find some place she and Kup could scream at each other until their vocalizers gave out without interruption.

Which, once she had found the perfect place (a corridor she could seal off) she promptly did, spinning on Kup and snarling.

“Don’t you even begin to think you can tell me how to raise my own sparklings! You don’t have that privilege!”

“I wasn’t trying to imply you were doing a bad job, I just thought—”

“You thought what? I’ve been doing this job a lot longer than you, you old jalopy! Arcee and Springer are half-feral, but Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are the ones that need discipline?”

Kup crossed his arms, his unlit cygar hanging between his teeth. “My kids don’t paint all over the walls.”

“Your kids don’t have any hobbies besides throwing punches, hunting down targets, or blaster practice! I want mine to have some clue of what life might be like when there isn’t a war! Like I did!”

“Like you did? You served as a city speaker’s bodyguard, joined up with the Vanguard, and then started a fight with Sentinel by conjunxing his Primesguard captain. Your whole life’s been war, Chromia, and you’ve been on the backfoot for most of it!”

Chromia’s plating flared. “Leave Ironhide out of this. She admires you.”

A raised hand. “She’s a good mech, Chromia. I’m not insulting her. But you nearly ruined her life—”

“I nearly ruined her life?!” Chromia sputtered with rage. “You’d rather she’d have stayed miserable and do everything but suck Sentinel’s spike than have had your grandbitties? You’d rather that I still be in the Primal Vanguard pretending you didn’t exist? Or would you rather be living without Arcee and Springer? Because I know the only reason you took them in was that you discovered I existed and suddenly got filled with sirely longing I couldn’t exactly fulfill anymore! And the only reason that happened, according to you, is me nearly ruining her life!”

Silence. Chromia hissed.

“I don’t care that you’re raising Arcee and Springer! I don’t. But my sparklings are mine, not yours, and I may be from your coding, but you didn’t raise me either. So stop acting like you get to have a sire’s say in my life!”

They fell into silence again as Chromia stormed over to a small slot window, looking out at Iacon’s outer city. She could hear her carrier’s lecture in her ear already, Suja reminding her daughter that she’d chosen to be a single parent. That Chromia didn’t need a second creator, especially when her sire had just been a rather charming scoundrel. And Chromia didn’t need him. Didn’t really want him either.

But he wanted to be in her life, and to be in her sparklings’ lives. She could deny him his want to be in hers, but denying him Sunstreaker and Sideswipe?

That burden was much more difficult to bear. Especially when Ironhide had always been so fond of Kup, and contributed a few of his lessons during Nominus’ reign for being the only reason she’d survived the Pits of Kaon. And the twins adored their grandsire and his stories.

She was aware of him coming up alongside her. Keeping his distance, but closer than they normally let themselves be when they were alone. After a while, his optics slid off of her as he looked out the next slot window. 

The silence held for a good long while, long enough she could pretend his field wasn’t trying to brush against hers.

And then—

“I would have been there if I’d known. I understand why your carrier didn’t tell me. I understand why you didn’t contact me. But— please. Let me be here now.”

Chromia was silent. 

“Please.”

“I don’t need a sire. My carrier was the only creator I ever needed.”

Another long pause. And then, for the first time ever, a response she can live with. 

“I know. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could have been one anyways.”

Chromia adjusts her gaze, meeting Kup’s optics slowly. He’s removed the cygar from his mouth, looking every ounce a tired old mech whose long life seems destined to stretch on even longer, perhaps longer than he wishes it would.

She prays that won’t be her fate some day.

“Hand me one of those things,” She finally grunts, gesturing at the cygar. Kup blinks, and she gestures again. “Before the ghost of my carrier figures out what I’m doing from the Afterspark and comes back to haunt me, understand?”

Kup produces the case from his subspace. He cuts the end off of the cygar and hands Chromia the lighter.

It takes a few tries before she gets it properly lit, and a few more to figure out the rhythm of actually inhaling the smoke. When she hands the lighter back, Kup lights his own.

“Ironhide wants you to see the twins, and for them to call you grandsire,” She says as she leans against the wall. “And the twins love you.”

“I know,” Kup mutters. 

“So can you tolerate having grandcreations, but not a creation?”

The sounds of Iacon’s night are nothing as the two of them stay in that question for a long while. It all hinges on this, and they both know it.

When the mech who sired her fails to respond, Chromia decides to offer him an offramp. She’s being generous, but she’s about to have to spend months with him on a ship again and would prefer not to be wholly miserable during it. 

“Arcee, she’s-” Where was she going with this? Actually, this may have been a bad idea. She goes silent, trying to gather her thoughts.

“I hope she grows up to be as brave as you are,” Kup hums.

Chromia blinks. Kup’s looking out the slot window, puffing away on the cygar. 

“Thought you just implied I can’t stop losing the war that my life is.”

“Most mechs would’ve cracked under the circumstances you and ‘Hide have gone through. I know Delta wouldn’t have been good to you since he was still smarting from how I left the Vanguard. And Sentinel, well— Sentinel was Sentinel. Exile, raising your bitties without their carrier, and deciding to risk bringing them back to Cybertron, even knowing your neck was the one on the line?” Kup shrugs. “We’re losing this war too. Yet the two of you just keep fighting. Takes courage to keep going like that, even when the odds are stacked against you.”

They stand there quietly, until Kup finally answers her earlier question.

“I’d like a creation, but I have to earn that. If all I can ever have is an acquaintance who lets me call her bitlets my grandbitties, well, I’ll learn to live with it.”

Chromia takes a long inhale from the cygar, sighing. “Guess I’ll learn to live with it too.”

She goes to take another drag, but something goes wrong. Chromia isn’t sure which vent she’s coughing the smoke out of, but it’s not the correct one. Kup takes the cygar from her to keep her from burning herself as she coughs the last of the wayward smoke out.

“Want it back?” He offers, when she’s done.

“No,” Chromia shakes her head. “Pretty sure that was my carrier’s ghost getting here and kicking some sense into me.”

Kup snorts.

Soundwave was exhausted. It made perfect sense to relocate all their resources to Polyhex to prepare for the march on Iacon, but Megatron had a different idea of the timeline for the siege than Soundwave did. Relocating all the necessary mechs in time to please Megatron had been a difficult task. He was looking forward to taking these datapads to his office and leaving them for the morning. It wasn’t normally like him to do this, but his processor was just bogging down enough that it was so, so tempting.

At least until he opened the office door and an all black Polyhexian smiled up at him from his chair.

“Heya, Sounds,” Jazz hummed. 

“Jazz.” Soundwave would say nothing further until he obtained Jazz’s purpose.

“Aw, I put on my Meister outfit and everything and you just call me Jazz? I’m hurt.” Jazz spun around in the chair, a bold decision considering the fully armed mech behind him, but Soundwave knew better. Jazz only showed himself when he wanted to be seen.

“Jazz: Purpose of presence requested.”

Jazz stopped the chair from spinning, glancing up at Soundwave and lacing his fingers together. “It’s about the unofficial agreement you and I have. Our kids and cassettes treaty.”

Soundwave cleared the fatigue from his processor, subspacing his datapads as he sat down.

“Soundwave: Listening intently.”

Jazz grinned. “Good. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Text

It was the early morning hours. Too early to actually want to be awake, but Prowl couldn’t sleep. Jazz was stretched out on the couch, Smokescreen asleep at his side and Blue on his chassis. All three still in recharge as Prowl watched them.

Today. Today, he would have to place his trust in Hound and let go of his creations with nothing but hope that he’d see them again. How could he bear to let go? How could he risk keeping them here?

He considered making some pressed energon, but the noise of the press would wake up Jazz, and then the bitlets. And they all deserved to sleep as long as they could today. So, quietly, he slipped out of the habsuite and headed off for the Tactical Hub and the press inside.

The Command Center was quiet today. Most of the Decepticon forces had trickled into the encampments around Iacon over the last few days. Jazz had promised Prowl that his secret conversations with their enemy had gone well. Soundwave would not let a new opening salvo be fired against Iacon until he knew the sparklings were gone. Jazz was supposed to encode something in the Prime’s next message to Megatron to signal their absence, but Prowl and he both suspected a spy would pass the information along much faster.

They didn’t like to think about the enemy agents certainly disguised within their ranks, but they were no doubt there, closely watching. 

With so much of High Command soon to be distracted at the Spacebridge, he’d scheduled extra patrols and reinforcements directly behind the outer walls today. No reason to let Soundwave in on the exact time of the evacuation, but also no reason to not be prepared for the attack to come right afterwards, while High Command remained out of the Command Center.

He mixed crystals to create his favorite infusion, and then set the press to the correct temperature and time, before glancing at the footage that never stopped rolling in. He could see the Decepticon’s current command center. Megatron was standing outside talking to his favorite pet assassin. Deadlock’s face was calm, listening quietly and nodding.

Soundwave remained the Decepticon second-in-command for the moment, but it was well known he had little interest in actually leading the movement if something happened to Megatron. At some point, Megatron would have to appoint an actual SIC. Either Strika or Deadlock were the likely shoe-ins for the position.

Prowl himself was technically the acting SIC for the Autobots, but the real succession would always be as the Matrix of Leadership decided it would be. If Optimus was deactivated, Prowl would run the day to day affairs while Ultra Magnus took over actual leadership of the faction until a new Prime was selected. Prowl could handle having to work with Ultra Magnus closely, and was glad that the actual center of power would never fall into his hands. 

He knew what the others thought of him, after all.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this early,” A familiar voice hummed. “Energon press in your hab die?”

Prowl looked up at Ironhide as she waltzed into the Tactical Hub. He lifted away his cup as it finished dispensing.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Couldn’t sleep, thinking about the twins leavin’.” Ironhide came over and began to prepare her own crystal blend. “Chromia hasn’t either, but we both needed a bit of time to ourselves.”

A nod, and Prowl stepped aside to let Ironhide use the press. Once she had her drink brewing, they existed in a quiet and peaceful silence for a few minutes.

“It’s gonna be like old times with all of them gone.” Ironhide finally murmured.

“Old times?”

“You know, back when Sentinel was running this place like his own personal kingdom. It’s about as tense now as it was back then. No bitlets, our conjunxes having to go off and do dangerous slag without us. Old times.”

Prowl sighed. “You have a very different recollection of the old times than I do.”

“Doubt it.”

Prowl doubted it as well. But the comparison wasn’t wrong, even if he and Jazz hadn’t been conjunxed until after Sentinel’s death. 

They lapsed into another round of silence until Ironhide took her cup from the press.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but— Sentinel. How much of a hand did you and Jazz have in him getting scrapped?”

Prowl was glad the Tactical Hub was empty as he was casually accused of treason. “Why the sudden interest?”

“You know why.” Unfortunately, he did. “Too much changed while I was gone, and I wouldn’t say I fully trusted you before that.” Ironhide turned. “Sentinel was right that no other mech has a processor like yours. He was also wrong to believe that you were loyal to anything or anyone but yourself or what you saw as yours.”

Prowl had a number of responses he could have given to that, but he preferred to keep some decorum in case someone was listening in. “We were owned mechs, Ironhide. Slaves. This upheaval in society is as much for mechs like us as it was for ones like Megatron.”

“I’m not disagreein’,'' The Primesguard captain sighed. “But you know why Ratchet doesn’t trust you, and why I can’t either. And keep in mind, I know more than Ratchet does.”

Prowl kept the distant hum of pain in his spark at that lack of trust muffled. Ironhide was leaving a lot unsaid, years of questions he’d refused to give her real answers on.

Did you scrap Sentinel? Who’s Smokescreen’s progenitor? Why did you hire a hitmech to work for your agenda, rather than the Prime’s?

So, as he often did, he deflected.

“Do you trust that I want to see Cybertron made better?”

“Depends. What’s your vision of better?”

“An end to the war, and safety for all. A place where our creations can grow up to do anything, be anything.”

“I’ll buy into that. But here’s my question. Where’s Optimus’ place in this hypothetical future you’re making? You put Jazz into the early ‘Con movement as a spy to shop for Sentinel’s replacement long before he headed to the Afterspark. I won’t say anything about that. He deserves to rust. But Optimus don’t.”

“All mechs can be corrupted with time,” Prowl cautioned.

“That include you?”

Prowl didn’t answer. Ironhide sighed.

“I suppose that’ll be another little unanswered question then.” She knocked back her pressed energon, and then looked at the camera feeds. “They’re going to make their move soon. Have your team keep an eye on Meg’s location. He’ll want to be the first one through any sort of breach. Follow him, you know where to be ready to fight.”

Prowl nodded. Ironhide’s assessment was similar to his own.

“I’d better head back to Chromia. Don’t stay here too long.”

And with that, Prowl was left alone with his thoughts and regrets once more. There’d been a time he’d only cared about escaping Sentinel himself. A time he’d thought that he could be bought and freed, and maybe even be granted a spark-type exemption which would have given him the same status as any hotspot sparked or internally forged mech. A time when he even thought he might be able to love the mech promising him all these things.

Instead, Sentinel had towered over him, letting the power of the Matrix press down onto Prowl fully, the threat in his optics unspoken. 

“Don’t ever try that little trick on one of our allies again, Prowl. You are my property, and you will stay that way until my frame has greyed. But don’t worry. You can still have plenty of use for our mutual friend while continuing to be mine.”

His doorwings quietly trembled in agitation at the memory. If only he’d been bold and brave enough to end the mech’s life then and there. Maybe Cybertron would be much different today if he had.

Or maybe it would be worse.

He banished those feelings from his processor, however, when he felt a familiar flutter in his spark.

::Where ya at?:: Jazz’s groggy tone came in a few seconds later.

::I did not wish to wake you or the mechlings, so I went to the Tactical Hub to brew my pressed energon.::

::Hm. Bits are still asleep, but I’ll need to move soon and wake ‘em up.::

::I’m on my way.::

Wheeljack watched the various processions headed down towards the Spacebridge from where he was seated, fiddling with a couple of spanner wrenches for Ratchet. The Wreckers went first to get their ship powered up, followed by Chromia, Ironhide, and their newsparks. Chromia had to sign off that everything in the Iacon Archives that could be evacuated had been.

About an hour later, Jazz and Prowl came out, Hound and Optimus with them. Prowl was holding Blue as Smokescreen rode on Optimus’ shoulders, surveying Iacon from them. In his third frame, some would argue he was too old for such an act, but Wheeljack was glad the kid was getting a couple more moments of childhood in. He deserved it.

He felt his conjunx approach, and turned towards him, offering up the clean tools.

“Here.”

“Thanks.” Ratchet stored them, and then watched the procession head by. “We should take a walk. Soundwave’s probably reasoned with Megatron to allow them to evacuate, but he won’t wait long after that.”

“So you’re saying we might not get out for a while?”

“Something like that.”

Wheeljack nodded, standing up to stretch. “Alright. Let’s make it a long walk. It’d be good to stretch and move.”

Ratchet’s hum of approval followed as the pair headed out into the outer city. When they passed the road towards the Spacebridge, Ratchet stopped. They couldn’t see anyone, but Wheeljack knew his conjunx’s thoughts.

“You wish I was going with them?”

Ratchet didn’t disagree. Wheeljack sighed, reaching out and grasping the medic’s hand, carefully so as to never damage the sensitive mechanisms within, but letting him feel his presence.

“Now, what would I do if I blew myself up out there without my handsome conjunx to fix me up? Can’t say I fancy Impactor’s harpoon much, but I suppose you’d get used to it eventually—”

“Alright, shut up. Your point is made.” Ratchet’s chuckle is rarely given, so it makes Wheeljack grin behind his battlemask, leaning up to press their helms together. 

“You know you love me.”

“Indeed,” Ratchet’s voice is whisper soft. “I do.”

Jazz somehow ended up with Blue in his arms while Prowl checked through Smokescreen’s bag, making sure he had everything. As if Prowl hadn’t already scoured their entire habsuite from top to bottom twice before bringing the mechlings here.

“And this?” Prowl said, examining an object he didn’t recognize. Hound rolled his eyes, and Jazz shrugged, before flicking his gaze over towards Optimus. The walk seemed to have winded him slightly, but Smokescreen’s weight shouldn’t have bothered him that much. Right?

“Origin, it’s a datapad Rung gave me so I could keep up with my studies,” Smokescreen sighed, pure exasperation in his tone. “I already told you, I have everything I need and want. Worry about Blue instead.”

“Eh, everything’s packed there,” Jazz hummed. “Blankets, supplies, about a dozen story datapads, and those toys you’ve got him, because you’re the world’s greatest big brother.” Jazz leaned down, gently bopping Smokescreen’s nose. “Now, you’re gonna listen to Hound, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I trust you. Don’t make him give me a bad report, alright?”

Smokescreen nodded, and Jazz handed Blue over to Prowl to give Smokescreen a tight hug, and a kiss to the helm. “I’ll miss you, bitty.”

“I’ll miss you too, geni.”

Every time Smokescreen called him that, Jazz felt his spark dance. He’d never expected to receive the title, but one day, Smokescreen had asked him and Prowl if it was okay, and Jazz had about cried. Sure, the bit still just called him Jazz sometimes, but that made these moments all that much more precious.

“Love ya, bit.” Jazz pressed another kiss to Smokescreen’s helm. “We’ll be back with you as soon as we can.”

When they parted, Prowl seemed to be whispering similar promises to Blue, giving him a tight squeeze. Jazz took their smaller bitty back as Prowl knelt and he and Smokescreen chatted.

Blue’s wide optics cycled, and he waved his little grey doorwings in a happy-safe-loved gesture.

“Yeah, love you too, bitty Blue.” Jazz placed a kiss on the newspark’s helm. “Be good, okay?”

A little chirr, content, and Jazz handed the mechling over to Hound. Hound adjusted him carefully, before looking at Jazz.

“Promise to keep Mirage and Lockback from getting themselves killed?”

“Yeah,” Jazz wiped at his optics even though he doubted any tears had appeared. “I’ll keep ‘em safe.”

Hound nodded, picking up both of the bags he and Prowl had brought for their sparklings. Across the platform, where Ironhide stood with Chromia, Jazz could hear wailing from the twins.

“Please, carri! Please come with us!” Sideswipe was beyond distraught, and Smokescreen’s doorwings began to react to the sound of his friends being so upset.

Prowl noticed as well, and Jazz heard him whisper. “Don’t wear yourself out keeping others afloat, Smokescreen.”

“I won’t,” Smokescreen’s voice was reaching its breaking point, and Prowl squeezed him tightly in one last hug. Prowl had a harder time voicing his love aloud at this moment, but his field was full of it as he and Smokescreen finally parted.

Smokescreen, bless him, stood up and did a formal Praxian bow, often given at meetings and departures. Prowl almost startled at the gesture, but then returned it. The significance wasn’t lost on any of the present mechanisms. Even Optimus seemed to approve as Smokescreen turned and trailed after Hound towards the Xantium, where Arcee and Springer were waiting at the top of the ramp, clearly eager to greet their new companions.

It’d be a much quieter mission for the Wreckers than most. Jazz doubted that between Impactor, Kup, Chromia, and Hound that any harm would befall the sparklings. Every mech aboard would die, down to the last, to keep them safe.

Hopefully Primus would keep it from ever reaching that point.

Ironhide was pulling both the twins into a massive hug now, pressing kisses to their faceplates, before handing them both over to Kup. Jazz felt Prowl’s hand find his while Sunstreaker and Sideswipe howled like wounded beasts as they were carried into the Xantium by their grandsire as Chromia and Ironhide said their own goodbyes.

Jazz remembered a similar goodbye he’d watched so long ago between the same two mechs, one Prowl was also recalling from the tight squeeze he gave Jazz’s hand. It wasn’t fair, but lives like theirs never were.

When Chromia headed into the Xantium, and the ramp closed, a mech who worked the Spacebridge appeared at Ironhide’s side, offering her a rag. Ironhide took it gratefully, wiping her optics.

::Who’s that?::

::Pivot-Point, he’s conjunxed to Sweeps in the Basilica Staff. Ironhide’s rather protective of them, Sweeps is a cold-construct like her, and Pivot-Point is hotspot sparked.::

Ah, that explained it. Ironhide’s friend went back to his job, and Ironhide retreated over to join their group, standing quietly at Optimus’ side.

“Friend, it’s not too late-” Optimus began, but Ironhide motioned for him to shut up.

“Don’t even dare to offer that to me right now, or I’ll put you flat on your back again.”

Optimus, wisely, went silent. However, Jazz kept a close eye on his Prime. Optimus had seemed more distant these last few weeks, constantly distracted, and clearly not resting as well as he needed to. Some of it was certainly the stress of the Decepticons arriving at Iacon’s wall en masse, and this final evacuation, but there seemed to be more to it than that.

And, when the Spacebridge began its activation sequence, Optimus’ hand darted to his chassis. Jazz tensed. There was usually only one reason for that.

“Optimus, is the Matrix saying something?”

Ironhide and Prowl both turned at that, all three of them watching their Prime. 

“I— it’s nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothin’,” Ironhide glaced towards the Xantium. “Do they need to abort the launch?”

Prowl began to move forward to order just that, but Optimus shook his head, the tension easing slightly from his frame. “No. It’s safer if they continue.”

“So the Matrix did say something?”

“I’m not certain, I just—”

The onlining engines of the Xantium cut off the conversation, forcing all of them to turn their optics back towards the ship. The Spacebridge would deposit them as close to Caminus as possible. Once the Archives had been safely evacuated to the colony world, the Wreckers would take the sparklings to join the main fleet. It was there that they would all eventually meet up, as long as Iacon managed to survive the siege long enough for Project Teletran to get off of the ground.

He glanced towards the mech manning the destination coordinates. Jazz was fairly certain that Autobot’s name was Spectro. One of the junior mechs at the Iacon Spacebridge, but only because he’d been manning the Crystal City Spacebridge before its decommissioning.  A fully competent choice.

The Xantium hardly had to move forward before the Spacebridge was enveloping it in a blaze of color and light, and then the ship vanished from sight. With the sparklings gone, some of the tension bled from everyone present as the shutdown sequence began.

“They’re safe.” Jazz said, releasing a shuddering vent as he turned to Optimus. “Now let’s get you back to Command and—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, as the sound of an extremely powerful explosive suddenly echoed through Iacon. The shockwaves arrived moments later, hitting them with a blast of hot air that knocked them all sideways.

Prowl started screaming into his comms as their audials all rang. “Are we breached?! ARE WE BREACHED?!” Jazz yanked himself back to his feet. Optimus and Ironhide were in the same boat, hurriedly standing up.

Prowl suddenly swore, pulling himself back onto his pedes. “Red Alert, you promised me the strategic energon supply could compensate for the drain the Spacebridge would create! No, I want answers! Yes, we’re on the way back to the Command Center. Get down to the Tactical Hub, now!”

Prowl ended his comm, and then turned to Optimus. “The Decepticons have breached the southeastern edge of the outer wall.”

“How?” Optimus growled, as he glanced over his shoulder. They couldn’t see the southeastern outer wall from this point, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

“Uncertain yet on how the shields failed! Apparently Megatron went to the western wall. They were watching him.” Prowl snarled. “Damnit, Soundwave knew we’d be watching him, so they hit the other side of the city!”

“We need to get back to the Command Center, now!” Ironhide barked. Jazz nodded, but turned to Prowl.

“I’ll be your eyes and optics in the outer city! Go, go, go!”

The three other officers of High Command vanished, heading back towards the Basilica and the Command Center as Jazz ran in the opposite direction, sending data back as fast as he could. 

::Mirage, Lockback, I need you both on the ground as soon as possible. We’re breached.::

Affirmative pings told him his two remaining active agents were already on the way. Thank Primus.

Ratchet felt his frame rousing from unconsciousness, laid out on the road within an almost tent-like structure made by a falling building’s partially intact wall.

His first question as he realized he was still alive and relatively unhurt was simple: where was Wheeljack? He reached out with his spark, feeling Wheeljack on the bond. Unconscious, but alive. He glanced around his shelter made of rubble, and realizing he wasn’t pinned down, slowly began to move.

At least, until he heard the voices.

“Commander Deadlock!” The voice was unfamiliar, but the name wasn’t.

“Report,” And that voice was familiar, achingly so.

“Teams five and seven are encountering more rubble than expected in their paths. Teams one and nine have engaged the enemy on the walls, request reinforcements. Team nine took heavy casualties in the initial breach.”

“Divert team seven to team nine’s position, and instruct the second wave to divide themselves between the battle on the walls, and progressing through the city. Lord Megatron knows the likelihood of breaching the second wall today is slim, but he will not tolerate it if we cannot take the outer city.”

“Yes sir, understood!”

The sound of footsteps hurrying off, and then another voice, calm and casual. “Megatron would prefer if we could take the second wall today.”

“You and I both know perfectly well that’s not going to happen, Ravage. Soundwave’s already unhappy that the timeline got moved up this drastically.”

“True,” The Cassetticon hummed. “He had enough issues convincing Megatron that we couldn’t act until the Autobot sparklings were evacuated. Still, glad they got out before we breached. Wouldn’t fancy meeting Meister if they hadn’t.”

So the sparklings were gone? Good.

“Go and find out if team seven’s actually followed orders, I don’t trust that they decided to actually assist team nine.”

“What do you want me to do if they haven’t?”

“Something to make them suitably compliant.”

A chuckle, and then the sound of the cassette heading off. After a few moments, there was the movement of shifting pedes, and then feet suddenly appeared in the gap Ratchet had been crawling towards.

“Well,” Deadlock hummed, before crouching down, meeting the medic’s gaze. “I didn’t know that you were going to be in the area.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “And I didn’t receive the message that you were intending to lead the Decepticon charge. Guess it didn’t get published in the Iacon Daily.”

“Last minute reassignment,” Deadlock’s tone changed from black humor to a hushed and hurried tone. “Listen, Ratchet. I found Wheeljack under the rubble before I found you. He’s hurt bad, I had to sedate him to keep him from screaming. Shot the only mech who spotted him before me and hid the body, but you’ve both got to get moving before Ravage comes back or my reinforcements start arriving, got it?”

Ratchet wanted to scream and argue at this stranger in red optics, but as he’d spoken of Wheeljack, his optics had shifted back to the mech Ratchet had known in the Dead End. A kid that, despite everything, Ratchet trusted.

“Alright, give me a hand.” Ratchet shoved his hand out, and Deadlock quickly helped pull him out of the rubble he’d found himself in.

The street he and Wheeljack had been walking down was now a series of mounded ruins, jagged peaks of debris where warehouses and apartments had once stood. Ratchet glanced around. They were truly alone. This wasn’t a clever attempt to capture him alive.

“This is practically the edge of the blast radius,” Deadlock was pulling him across the street towards a different debris pile. “Probably why that wall broke off and sheltered you, but you’re made of a heavier frame than Wheeljack. My best guess is that the shockwaves threw him against a building already half shattered and collapsing.”

“Why are you helping us?” Ratchet hissed. “I’m sure Megatron would reward you greatly for bringing in the Chief Engineer and Chief Medical Officer of the Autobots.”

Deadlock stopped, looking at Ratchet. They stood there for a few seconds in silence, blue optics meeting red ones.

They’d been yellow once, Ratchet remembered. Yellow optics that had laughed as the attached mech got scolded for getting shot at again.

“Yeah, but they didn’t actually hit me this time, Ratch! They just grazed me.”

The mech turned away. “I owe you,” He muttered, not sounding entirely convinced of his own argument. 

“Well, that sounds promising,” Ratchet stomped forward as Deadlock moved aside a piece of debris. The dust shadow showed this piece had been moved earlier. Hardly noticeable unless you were looking for signs of a hidden mech.

There was a nasty piece of structural steel jutting up through Wheeljack’s lower body. From the position, Ratchet could see it wouldn’t have hit anything vital, but its placement near the spinal struts meant the agony would be excruciating and a potential rust infection life threatening. No wonder Deadlock had to sedate him to keep him from screaming. 

However, the dosage must not have been very much, because Wheeljack was already starting to come around. However, over their sparkbond, Wheeljack’s presence didn’t sharpen with agony as pain receptors registered. He was just very, very fuzzy.

“What did you give him?”

“Whatever was the standard sedative in a medkit. It was all I had.” Deadlock knelt down next to him, observing as Ratchet evaluated the piece of metal running through his conjunx. Absolutely filthy. He’d need to take every precaution to prevent a rust infection

“It’d be chemo-sedative class then, and he reacts badly to those. Gets loopy.” Ratchet hissed. “He’s going to hate you for that if he remembers this.” He pried up an arm panel so he could hardline into his conjunx as Wheeljack groaned.

“Ratch-? What’s- what’s goin’ on-” Wheeljack mumbled. 

“You blew yourself up again,” Ratchet lied as he tugged out the cable and plugged in, forcing Wheeljack’s pain sensors offline.

“Oh. Why am I seeing Drift then?”

Ratchet winced as Wheeljack’s optics tried to cycle into focus, but Deadlock just murmured.

“Part of the illusion, I’m afraid. Glad you’re alright, Jackie.”

“Hmm, you sound like Bulkhead when you call me that. I ever tell you about him?”

“No, but I’ll listen.” Deadlock hummed quietly, before giving his warning. “Not much time, Ratchet.”

“Got it, kid.” Ratchet hissed as Wheeljack babbled about his old friend Bulkhead. He was frantically running through Wheeljack’s mess of software, trying to find the activation codes he needed, because of course Wheeljack had moved them to a different folder after the last time. Wheeljack’s frame, having been rebuilt so often after blowing himself up so frequently, had a lot more failsafes to keep him from bleeding out than most. If you could find the failsafes and trigger them!

Okay, find codes now, yell at conjunx later.

Ratchet finally found the ones he needed today buried deep in an unrelated folder, and managed to limit the energon entering that area of his frame. That done, he pulled out the hardline, and interrupted some rambling story involving drinking down at the Rust Sea docks and daring each other to swim in the water. Wheeljack, incredibly high on chemo-sedatives, paused.

“Ratch, what’s going on?” He tried again.

“Told you earlier, idiot,” Ratchet hummed with affection. “You blew yourself up.”

“Oh.” 

Ratchet grabbed Wheeljack’s shoulders. “He’s safe to lift off of the rod. Grab him.”

Deadlock did as asked, and Wheeljack, out of it, still managed to groan as he was lifted off of the debris.

“That’s— not good,” He managed, as Ratchet checked him over one last time.

“You’ll live,” Ratchet reassured him, and then felt a proximity comm request. He glanced at Deadlock as he supported Wheeljack for the moment.

“It’s the route team seven was supposed to take before I diverted them. Streets should be completely clear within a couple of blocks. If you hurry, none of the others will see you.”

Ratchet knew he shouldn’t trust Deadlock. That this intel could be bugged with half a dozen viruses that would try to shred his firewalls. But he also knew that Deadlock had had plenty of chances to get the drop on him and Wheeljack already, and instead was giving them the opportunity to escape.

He opened it up and found the highlighted route. 

“Thanks,” He murmured, transforming and letting Deadlock pull out his stretcher and strap Wheeljack in.

“Just get home, both of you. Promise me,” Deadlock finished strapping Wheeljack in, and pushed the stretcher back into his alt-mode. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

“And why do I need to promise you that, kid? We’re supposed to be enemies, don’t you know?”

Silence. An familiar, and yet strange field brushing against his, almost as if looking for reassurance that his words were just snark.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Ratchet should lie. And yet-

“No. These factions are all a load of slag when it comes to you.”

“Good.” Deadlock stepped back, field pulling away from him. “Now go. Please.”

“Stay safe yourself, kid,” Ratchet wished he could hug him, but Wheeljack was loaded up and there was no time. So, instead, he just put himself in gear and hurried away.

He did, however, adjust his rearview mirror. Allowing one section of his optical feed to watch the kid he missed so badly until he vanished from sight. Once he couldn’t see Deadlock anymore, and the streets cleared up, he pressed down his accelerator and pushed towards Iacon’s second wall.

By the time he reached one of the gates into the middle city, his sirens were blaring. He’d outrun several groups of advancing ‘Cons, and he pinged his clearance codes to the gates. They opened quickly to let him in.

His comm instantly lit up as Hoist called him directly from the medbay. 

::We’ve designated the Iacon Archives as another triage center. Can you get there?::

::Negative. I’m coming into the Command Center medbay in case any of High Command gets scrapped. Wheeljack’s on my stretcher. He’s critical, but stable.::

::I’ll redeploy to the Archives as soon as you get here then. First Aid’s got his hands full at the Old City Theater. Hurry.::

Ratchet didn’t know how to make his frame go any faster, but Unicron damn him in the Afterspark, he’d do it somehow.

Optimus was about ready to pass out at the table in the war room. Jazz didn’t look much better. Actually, none of them did.

They’d made the taking of the outer city cost the Decepticons a lot of frames, but it’d taken its toll on their forces as well. And in the end, it only delayed the inevitable by a couple of days.

Iacon’s outer city was overrun. The encampments outside the city were gone, replaced with proper structures being converted to their new uses. Jazz had had Special Operations blow the sewer tunnels into the outer city to block any attempts to slip in under the walls. Ironhide was personally handling the security of the second wall, while fending off the probing attacks the Decepticons were throwing at them from the air and ground.

And Prowl— What was he to do with Prowl? The mech had plugged himself into his Tactical Hub computers, commanding troops and producing battle strategies until his knee joints had started leaking oil, and Trailbreaker had expressed concern that his ATS was cannibalizing his frame for fuel. Ratchet had been furious to be dragged out of the medbay to disconnect Prowl from the system, but he was the only mech who could do it without risking Prowl’s processor in the process.

Prowl had promptly crashed after being disconnected and was still unconscious. With Ratchet still elbows deep in mechs trying to save them, High Command’s meeting was fairly sparse tonight. Just himself, Blaster, Jazz, and Red Alert.

“The Decepticons seemed to know we’d be keeping our optics on Megatron, so they sent him to feint at the western walls while Deadlock led the main forces to the southeast and breached the wall. The explosive looks similar to what we saw in Carpessa.” Red Alert sighed. “The energon draw that the Iacon Spacebridge needs to operate causes the shield integrity to dip. We were trying to compensate for that by using some of our strategic energon reserves, but we could only really partially reinforce the outer walls. The shield is simply too large, and never meant to run nonstop for so long.”

“So we prioritized the defense of the western wall, where Megatron was.” Blaster took a deep vent. “Which means they know a lot more than we want them to know.”

Optimus glanced at Jazz, who nodded. “It seems likely we have at least one of Soundwave’s agents with more access than we’d hope for somewhere under our noses.”

Silence at that proclamation. Jazz turned towards Red Alert.

“Can you check our system for any backdoor entrances or signal duplicators, and the like?”

“Will do.”

“Once he’s cleared for duty, Prowl might be able to narrow down what information the Decepticons could have logically deduced, and what would have had to have been fed to them.” Optimus offered, although he looked at Jazz gently. “However, I assume Soundwave was aware of our general intentions to evacuate the sparklings via the Spacebridge?”

“He might have heard something about it, but I didn’t exactly offer the exact dates and times.” Red Alert’s engine rumbled from across the table. “Can it, Red. You can snarl at me about it after I’ve gotten some recharge.”

Red Alert muttered about poor security and that inconsiderate Heads of Special Operations would not like what he could do to them, but Jazz just slumped into the table. There was nothing left in his system at the moment but pure exhaustion. The Matrix informed Optimus that this wasn’t the first time a spymaster had been worn out like that at this table.

“Blaster, any unusual chatter?”

“Megatron’s annoyed they didn’t take the second wall, but Soundwave’s not surprised. Seems the two of them disagreed on the invasion’s timeline. Soundwave expects a long siege, Megatron wants us destroyed quickly. He suspects we have an evacuation plan in place that denies him the chance to capture you, and wants to breach the old city before you have a chance to enact it.”

Optimus tensed. “So they know more about Project Teletran than we believed?”

“No. They only suspect. Speaking of Project Teletran, however, I assume Perceptor should be brought in as Acting Chief of Engineering until Wheeljack is cleared for duty?”

“Yes,” Optimus was about to ask if anything else needed to be urgently reported when Ratchet opened the doors and stormed in. He was still covered in energon as it dried and flaked off of him. He sat down, not even caring that there were only two seats between him and Jazz today.

“Ratchet, I-” Optimus began, surprised by the medic’s appearance.

Ratchet held up his hand. “We’ve saved every mech we can at this point. We’re doing what we can for the dying, and Hoist is processing donor parts from the dead.”

Silence. Sparked medics rarely trembled, their frames built with far more stabilizers than most. Yet there were faint tremors of sheer exhaustion as Ratchet pulled out a small datapad.

It was well known by now that he and Wheeljack had been caught in the outer blast. Ratchet hadn’t yet explained how they’d gotten back without drawing Decepticon attention. He’d been too busy triaging the incoming casualties, and Wheeljack was too unconscious to question.

So, when the faint audio began to play, Optimus tried not to tense. 

“Megatron would prefer if we could take the second wall today.”

“You and I both know perfectly well that’s not going to happen, Ravage. Soundwave’s already unhappy that the timeline got moved up this drastically.”

“True. He had enough issues convincing him that we couldn’t act until the Autobot sparklings were evacuated. Still, glad they got out before we breached. Wouldn’t fancy meeting Meister if they hadn’t.”

Ratchet paused the audio file. “They would have needed a spy to be aware that the sparklings were already out that fast.”

“We already figured out that was likely,” Jazz hissed. “Now, I’ve got a question for you-”

“That spy would have had to have been on the Spacebridge deck or nearby.” Ratchet ignored Jazz. “When I was disconnecting Prowl from the Tactical Hub, he dropped a datafile over the hardline to me. It didn’t contain much, but it had this.”

Ratchet triggered another recording. Prowl sometimes presented his reports this way when they were in active combat situations. If a situation required him to be running the ATS at a high enough percentage, speaking out loud became nearly impossible.

“If the Decepticons knew that the use of the Iacon Spacebridge would cause the shield integrity of the outer wall to drop, even with us attempting to compensate for this by tapping into our strategic energon reserves, they could have easily predicted that we would only be able to partially shield our walls at full strength. They then drew our attention to Megatron at the west wall while the main strike came from the southeast. However, in order to exploit this weakness, they would need to be incredibly precise with their timing, within the exact window between the Spacebridge’s activation and closure sequences.”

A pause as calculations were projected from the datapad. 

“Soundwave and Jazz’s unspoken agreement about the safety of Autobot sparklings in exchange for the safety of Decepticon cassettes off-mission means that Soundwave would not have allowed Megatron to strike until the Autobot sparklings were safely offworld. This means the Decepticons would have a twelve-second strike window as the Iacon Spacebridge closure sequence proceeded. In order to exploit such a short window of weakness, they would need a spy directly in sight of the Iacon Spacebridge. The bomb struck nine seconds into the sequence. Considering ignition, launch, and impact likely took five seconds, with an error range of two additional seconds-”

More calculations.

“The spy was most likely on the Spacebridge platform with Autobot High Command.”

The file clicked off. Ratchet dropped the datapad like it was a loaded weapon, and all optics were on it.

Save Jazz’s, which were on Ratchet. 

“So, who was on that platform?” Ratchet’s tone implied he already felt he had the answer.

“Not you, of course,” Jazz hissed, and the Matrix could feel Jazz’s strut deep exhaustion shift into pure rage. “So if you want to accuse me and Prowl, do it now, to my face.”

Ratchet turned. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, sorry,” Jazz continued. “Must have misheard you every time you talk to me or Prowl like you think we’re going to shove Optimus off that fragging Basilica spire.”

Optimus could see where this was going, and tried to stop it. “You’re both exhausted, and this information is deeply unpleasant. We will discuss this issue in the morning.”

“No, Optimus, let the mechling hiss and spit,” Ratchet crossed his arms. “He’s not wrong that he and his conjunx are my main suspects. They both have Sentinel’s stink on them, after all.”

Jazz’s plating bristled, not even bothering to hide his fury. “How’d you get that recording of Deadlock then? The Decepticon hero who just led the successful breach into our city. Want to share with the class how if Prowl and I are compromised for our pasts, you are too?”

“You little-” Ratchet began, advancing on Jazz, but Jazz flicked a blade out into his hand at the movement. Optimus stood up, slamming his hands into the table.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Everything froze. Optimus realized his engine was roaring, and he barked his next orders far too easily.

“Red Alert, Blaster, you are dismissed. Jazz, sheath your knife, and sit down on the other side of the table. Ratchet, just sit down!”

Blaster and Red Alert all but bolted for the doors. When they slammed shut behind them, Jazz skulked around to the other side of the table, and sat.

Ratchet, however, did not.

“Sit down,” Optimus growled.

“I don’t have to take orders from you, my Prime.”

“I’m not asking you as Optimus Prime, current bearer of the Matrix and leader of the Autobots. I am asking as Optimus Prime, the mech who cannot continue to protect Iacon if his CMO and second and third in commands are waging an invisible war against each other! I cannot believe you would come to command meetings and exhibit such childish behavior!”

“Child?! I’m the child?!” Ratchet growled.

“You both are, but right now I am addressing you. Sit. Down.”

There was a long and tense moment, and then Ratchet growled and did as asked. Slowly, Optimus sat down, took a deep vent, and asked the question of the hour.

“How did you get that recording of Deadlock, Ratchet?”

A pause, shifting from the medic, and then an annoyed sound about how he was being questioned first. “Wheeljack and I were caught at the edge of the bomb blast. Wheeljack got thrown across the street by the shockwaves and run through by a structural support rod. I was heavy enough that it just knocked me over, and a nearby building that collapsed provided me cover. When I woke up, Deadlock was standing on top of that cover, directing the Decepticon units.”

Jazz didn’t hide how his fingers flexed, as if he had seeker talons to scratch the table with.

“After he dismissed the others around him, he came and got me out of the rubble. Apparently he’d hidden Wheeljack’s injured frame, and figured out I had to be nearby. Told me he spared us because he owed us, for all the times I put him back together in the Dead End.”

Optimus felt the truth of the statements in the Matrix, as well as how Ratchet felt conflicted and upset about the entire event. Deadlock had always been a difficult subject for his old friend since Megatron had left them at the Senate. 

“And no favors or information were traded?” Optimus pried.

“He sedated Wheeljack to keep him from screaming in pain. Gave me a map of a route to take towards the middle city that wouldn’t have any ‘Cons on it yet. And he asked us to promise to stay safe. But beyond that, nothing happened.”

“Now, why’d he do that?” Jazz spat, but Optimus quieted him with a gesture.

“I see,” Optimus hummed. “I do not mind that Deadlock still cares for the mech who kept him alive so many nights in the Dead End, nor that you still care about him. Jazz, Ratchet is uncompromised in this regard and I will not have you question him over it again. Ratchet, Jazz and Prowl are also uncompromised. Therefore, unless credible evidence should ever emerge that my spymaster or chief tactical officer are planning treason, I will no longer entertain your thoughts on believing them capable of doing so.”

Ratchet was biting the inside of his cheek, before he finally growled. “Alright, fine. I’ll stop bringing it up.”

“To anyone.”

Ratchet glared. “To anyone.”

Good. This was progress.

Now came the tricky part.

“Jazz,” Optimus turned his gaze towards his spymaster. “I asked you once if I could trust you. The Matrix found no lie in you when you answered. And in time, when I asked Prowl the same question, it found no lie in him. I ask it again. Can I trust you?”

“Yeah, mech, you can.” There was no hesitation in Jazz’s voice, no deception or lie. Loyalty was earned, and Optimus had given his spymaster no reason to regret that choice. Yet now he had to ask the question he knew would put that trust to the test.

“Jazz, I need you to tell Ratchet how Sentinel Prime died.”

Jazz froze, turning to Optimus. “Mech, please-”

“I know. He does not.”

Jazz’s visor flickered. He didn’t want to share, and Optimus couldn’t blame him. The Matrix, however, remembered this moment well. It did not cry for vengeance, but it observed his spymaster carefully.

It knew how dangerous he could be.

Jazz finally took a long, slow vent, and looked down into his lap. Optimus let him have that dignity at least.

“Sentinel had realized someone was covering up the fact that the Decepticons had a mole in the Iacon Archives. Someone with a lot of skill and access. He told Prowl he had twelve hours to produce the mole, and the mech hiding his electronic signature. Except it wasn’t Prowl he was going to kill if Prowl failed.”

Ratchet paused, glancing at Optimus as if to confirm what he feared.

“Prowl didn’t want Sentinel dead yet, or at all. We wanted both Megatron and Orion Pax at the helm of the future of Cybertron, and maybe even for the whole damn idea of the Primes to disappear. To do that, we had to eliminate Sentinel at the right time and in the right way. Ideally, we’d have just been able to have his allies turn against him and strip him of the Primacy. But there was no time, and if the choice was the wrong time and Smokie still breathing, or the right time and losing our bitty… there was no choice. We had twelve hours to figure out how to kill him and cover our involvement up.”

Jazz went quiet for a while, and then glanced at Optimus. 

“Don’t make me say more.”

“Sorry, my friend. You must.”

Jazz groaned. Ratchet glanced between the two of them, and then sighed. Something like understanding passed over his face.

“If you were both backed into a corner like that in regards to Smokescreen’s wellbeing— I understand why.”

“No, mech,” Jazz muttered. “You really don’t.”

Jazz took a few more moments to collect himself.

“After we’d snuck Smokescreen out of Iacon with someone we trusted, Prowl told Sentinel to arrive at the Archives at dawn. Prowl would have a Spec Ops agent greet him at the door, and lead him inside to see the two traitors. We knew Pax was in Kaon, so he was safe from accidentally taking the fall. The Archives was just the dancehall, my job was to find a dancer. So I found a mech I could trust to keep quiet. One who wouldn’t care about all the superstitions around harming the Matrix-bearer. Told them my intel was that Sentinel was coming to the Archives with minimal security, and we’d have a chance to strike. We set up some dummy frames to be the arrested mechs, and I played guard while the other mech played agent. And then, Sentinel shows up without any of the Primesguard at all, or even Airachnid. He didn’t realize Prowl could or would betray him. We kept the lights low, and when Sentinel got close enough to realize something was wrong with our arrested mechs…”

Optimus felt a faint memory of a mech scrambling up a back that was not his. Of trying to react, but being too bulky, too slow to counteract a small and nibble fly.

“My recruited mech killed him with a blade under the back of the helm. Cut his spinal struts and destroyed his processor in one swift movement. Sentinel barely had time to know what hit him. And I just watched it happen. Didn’t help, just stood there. I should’ve done something, wrenched his helm from his fragging frame for threatin’ my bit, but I just- I froze.”

Silence. A pin could have dropped on the other side of the room and sounded like another bomb.

“Once he was down, we ran. Went back to a safehouse and laid low for the next few weeks, until Megatron arrived in Iacon and said we should march to the Senate. You know the rest from there.”

And Ratchet did. But Optimus could see the question on the tip of his tongue. One that Ratchet finally let slip.

“Who was the mech you recruited?”

Jazz didn’t even look at Optimus. Knew what his answer would be when he asked not to have to say it. It was time for what had been done in darkness to step into the light.

“Ricochet.” Jazz’s voice was faint. “I asked my brother to help me kill the Prime.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that registered as Prowl came online was the crash report. The second thing was the incredibly bright lights overhead, making his helm felt like an ax was embedded in it. The third thing was the harsh smell of a medbay, unexpected considering his last waking memories of being plugged into the Tactical Hub, leaking oil as he collapsed—

The ATS immediately kicked on, completing a threat assessment he hadn’t given it permission to run, and began automatic defense procedures. His frame locked up without his input as he heard alarms going off. He tried to stop the ATS, but it was operating with data previously gathered. Medbays were not safe. Medbays meant danger. 

When Prowl was prepared, he could override such fears every time he stepped inside Ratchet’s domain, the ATS remaining completely inactive. But the ATS was designed to protect itself, and it would operate beyond the limits of his frame if pushed to the brink to do so. It was mere fluke that he could use it and come out the other side alive.

“Hoist, what the hell is this?!” The voice was distant, but recognizable as a threat. The ATS demanded more power from his CPU as it started another threat assessment thread. He couldn’t crash when the ATS was online, but the ATS could and would burn an irreparable hole in his processor if left running without restriction. He tried to cap the power it could use, but it ignored that order, believing it was about to be destroyed.

“Slag, he’s going to code! Hardline into him now, shut down his battle protocols and tactical systems! First Aid, comm Jazz, highest priority!”

Prowl felt a presence of another mech in his systems, an unwanted and untrusted presence. His battle protocols tried to fire, his frame twisting beyond his control, but they were shut down in milliseconds, and then his Advanced Tactical System was knocked offline moments later.

The crash came next, plunging him into blissful blackness.

His second crash report was, to put it plainly, a disaster. Prowl didn’t even know how to begin to parse it as he onlined, every inch of his frame aching as his spark burned painfully. It felt like a welding torch was burning a hole through his chassis.

He went to online his optics, but a familiar voice spoke softly.

“Don’t do that yet, Prowler. You might crash again.”

The ATS tried to boot up, but a familiar presence in his mind shut it down. Static crackled in his vocalizer, and then it was shut off too. His frame frantically tried to expel excess heat but couldn’t seem to manage.

“I can see your audials are working. Don’t panic, listen to me. Vent as slowly and deeply as you can. Stay here with me.”

Two hands taking one of his, cradling them, and bringing it close to a faceplate. A familiar sensation of comfort, even in his panic.

“You’re wondering how you got here. You’re scared. But it’s alright. Yes, it's a medbay, but no one’s going to hurt you here. Sentinel’s dead, the senator is dead, Jhiaxus is gone, and I’m here. Your conjunx is here.”

Prowl registered air rushing out of his vents that he hadn’t realized he was holding in. Jazz.

“Yeah, that’s right. No one’s gonna hurt my hot cop when I’m around. Yes, I know you still hate that nickname, but you nearly deactivated, so I get to use it.”

His spark still burned, but Prowl opened the bond. Jazz’s presence flooded in around him, doubly so considering the hardline. Slowly, his vents evened out and his temperature stabilized. Even the pain lessened as the sparkbond awoke and Jazz took some of the burden from him.

“Alright. I’m going to online your vocalizer, and then you should cycle your optics on when you’re ready. If you don’t crash after a few minutes, I can take out the medical hardline.”

Prowl felt his vocalizer come on. “Where?” He couldn’t smell the harsh cleaning chemicals of the general ward, but it didn’t smell like their habsuite either.

“Optimus loaned us the Primal Suite in the medbay for the time being. Just you and me in here right now, lights are real low. Hoist said it was as low as he could get them.”

Prowl onlined his optics. Indeed, the ceiling above him was the ornate decorations of the Command Center medbay’s Primal Suite, illuminated in low light. His helm ached something fierce, but he wasn’t in agony at the moment.

“How long?” It came out like a croak.

“Since your second crash? Four days. You nearly burned out your processor, Prowl. You were so damn close to—” Jazz cut himself off, and Prowl felt a sharp pulse around his spark, love and fear so intense it made him dizzy. “You’re not supposed to scare me like that.”

Prowl tried to push back his own feelings, but everything was so muddled that he couldn’t manage. Jazz, however, sent reassurance to him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It wasn’t exactly your choice. It’s okay.”

“Smokescreen? Blue?”

“On the Xantium. Hound’s watching over ‘em. Last report in said it was all clear, no sign of trouble.”

After a long moment, Prowl began to review his two crash reports. He could feel Jazz looking at them alongside him over the hardline, and didn’t try to hide his conclusions on why he hadn’t been able to shut the ATS down. His ATS had registered his leaking frame, his pain, the medbay, and feared the past was repeating. It had believed it was defending itself and him.

“Scrap. You’re not wrong that it's similar to that,” Jazz muttered. “Should smelt those bastards again for what they did.”

Prowl just hummed agreement, and finally turned his head towards Jazz.

The recharge deprivation was obvious, as was the grime and dents. He must have been out in the field when the second crash had happened, and hadn’t had a chance to wash up. His visor was dim as he held Prowl’s cradled hand against his faceplate. Prowl twitched his fingertips and managed to brush Jazz’s cheek.

“You,” He proclaimed tiredly. “Look like something I dragged out of a gutter scrapheap.”

Jazz snorted. “You know how to charm ‘em, huh? Trust me, you look worse.”

Prowl shrugged as he accepted that was a near certainty, and Jazz reached up and disconnected the medical hardline. As Jazz’s presence slipped from his mind, Prowl laid back down fully.

“Ratchet took over your case personally.” Jazz mumbled, tired.

“I’m not surprised.” It was only logical the CMO would need to evaluate him personally after such a disaster.

“Neither am I. You’re going to have to answer to him after you’ve had a proper defrag. Is that going to be alright?”

Prowl sighed. “I will contain my enthusiasm somehow.”

They fell into silence, and Jazz started tracing patterns on Prowl’s arm for a while, absentmindedly. There was no rhyme or reason to it, and Prowl refused to let the ATS try to find any.

“I can’t stay here much longer,” Jazz murmured. “Mirage and Lockback can’t manage everything on their own. Will you be okay if I’m not here when Ratchet comes in?”

Prowl answered through their sparkbond, the certainty that he would manage without a crash this time reassuring them both. “Stay until I’m in recharge?”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” Jazz pressed a kiss to his hand, and then leaned over to press one to his helm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Prowl nodded, and it didn’t take long for sleep to sweep over him like a wave.

The third time he woke up in the medbay, the lights were still dim, but it was clearly morning. He was alone and able to keep his ATS offline as he sat up and observed the situation around him.

Still in the Primal Suite. 

It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Ratchet to come in, bringing him a cube of med-grade, followed by coolant. Prowl downed it all without complaint as Ratchet went over and picked up his patient records.

“Hoist says he’s never seen you do that before, but there were notes indicating it was a potential risk.” Ratchet finally offered. “I can’t believe they let you keep that monstrosity in your head.”

“Removal of the ATS—” He instantly argued, afraid of where this line of thinking might lead.

“Yes, yes, would require the complete rewiring of your processor, which would act as the functional equivalent of a complete processor wipe. We can’t remove it. Doesn’t mean I can’t wish that we could.” Ratchet growled. “The mechs who made your unit should have been shot.”

He was familiar with those feelings too, triggering distant memories of his own anger in regards to his creation by living mechs. “There is a reason we were cold-constructs. There is a reason we were experimental, and that I was the only survivor. No mech should have the power of an entire Tactical Hub within their processor.”

“Speaking of which, you’re lucky you’re good at file organization. Detaching you from the actual Hub was a nightmare, but none of you ended up getting stranded in the Command Center computers.” A worst case scenario, and exactly why Prowl kept his firewalls so strong and his processor well organized.

“I am aware of the risks of connecting to the system for long periods of time, but sometimes I must outsource my assessments to outside computing power.” Prowl adjusted himself as he recalled the feeling of the medic untangling him from the Tactical Hub when he was unable to do so himself. “The datafile. Did you receive it?”

“I did. Spec Ops has been trying to figure out who our traitor on the Spacebridge is. However, your conjunx has been a bit preoccupied with you.” Ratchet was still thumbing through his patient record. “By the way, remind me to have Jhiaxus shot on sight if he ever pops his head out of his hiding hole. Chief medical officer? More like Sentinel’s chief butcher.”

Prowl shunted aside the ATS’ attempts to reboot at the mention of that name, remembering the multitude of augmentations he’d suffered at the mech’s hands. Let alone the way he’d had to hand Smokescreen over to Jhiaxus so often, forced to frequently leave him alone with the mech. Always terrified his mechling would come back afterwards different. Wrong. 

“The bounty for him is not particular on the condition of his frame when it arrives,” Prowl looked at the ceiling for a few moments, trying to forget what he could never erase. “I am safe to put in the general ward now, if you wish to do so.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything for a while, still engrossed in Prowl’s medical record. Until he spoke.

“Jazz informed me of the true nature of Sentinel’s death.”

Prowl couldn’t help it, the ATS flickered on. He immediately set a hard limit on the CPU percentage it was allowed to use. Better for the analysis to take a while than to waltz right over lines he shouldn’t be treading anywhere near at the moment.

“Turn that nightmare in your head off,” Ratchet ordered, but Prowl didn’t. If the knowledge that was being implied was correct—

“Jazz would not just tell you that information.” He felt his battle protocols itching to online, but kept them under control. 

“Let’s say Optimus had a heavy hand in forcing the information out.” Ratchet turned, approaching Prowl. “We might have accused each other of being traitors in the middle of a command meeting. Optimus didn’t take it well.”

Ah. The ATS considered that, and the threat level began to decline. He rubbed at his helm.

“I see,” He offered.

“You didn’t have a choice. I understand that now. Doesn’t mean I fully trust you, but I see why it happened the way it did. As for Jazz and Ricochet...” Ratchet’s voice faded out, leaving plenty of interpretation open for how he felt on that subject.

Ricochet. The weight and shackle Jazz carried with him wherever he went. Prowl regretted his role in everything that had passed between the two brothers, and yet he would not be free if he had not acted as he had. Sometimes he wished his emotional subprocesses were not so easily sidelined, altered by the ATS and hundreds of augmentations over the years, because guilt was hard to find. But he also knew he would crack under the weight of his own sins if he fully felt them.

It was a miracle, he thought, that Jazz could even stand upright.

“I do not fully trust you either,” Prowl managed as the ATS finally powered off. “But now that I am more aware of the situation and surroundings I am in, I will say that I trust you enough to know you will not engage in Jhiaxus’ acts of butchery. I should not crash again for the duration of this stay.”

Ratchet didn’t respond. Prowl knew he needed more recharge and rest, even if it was beginning to feel excessive. The more successful defrag cycles he put between him and his successive crashes, the less risk he had of triggering another. 

The CMO finally spoke. “Your notes explain that the ATS can potentially recall previous threat assessments almost like memory flashbacks without your input, and will then immediately route power to protect itself. Was that the process that triggered your second crash?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, do you know what incident it was recalling?”

Prowl nodded. “I do.”

“May I ask what it was?”

Prowl took a deep vent as he held the ATS at bay, the blurry memories coming back to the front of his mind. A forceful disconnection from the Tactical Hub, bringing him to awareness of fluids leaking from his frame as it seemed to be contorting in on itself. Jhiaxus standing over him like an angel of doom as he rifled through Prowl’s systems without a care, and Sentinel’s eyes nearby, bright with annoyance and ambition for the product he was about to take command of. Even all these years later, he could still feel their eyes burning into him.

“Smokescreen’s emergence.”

Wheeljack was bored.

Actually, boredom was at a lower level of whatever emotion he was currently experiencing. Boredom was the ground, and he was about to enter the stratosphere. One could only reread A Beginner’s Guide to Advanced Structural Engineering so many times before their processor rusted out of their optics.

Ratchet was busy enough the last few days that, even unable to currently actually work on Project Teletran, Wheeljack had managed to make his way through the secret passageway to the work site. He could supervise, he’d thought. Maybe even make notes and suggest design improvements.

He didn’t know who had ratted him out to Perceptor, but Perceptor had definitely been the one to rat him out to Ratchet. The medic had come and collected him, before threatening to lock him into his medbay office if he didn’t stay put in their habsuite and rest.

So, the next cycle, he’d tried to go find Seaspray so they could talk about weapons systems. Different trip, same result. Collected by one very annoyed conjunx.

Now he was stuck in Ratchet’s office, and every datapad except his ancient tome that might as well be titled “Sparklings Discover How Buildings and Other Superstructures Work” was off limits to him.

This was the Afterspark, actually, he decided, and Unicron had sent him here instead of Primus.

The door opened and he looked up hopefully. Maybe it was First Aid, who he might potentially convince to distract Ratchet long enough that he could escape. Or Hoist, because at least Hoist would chat with him for a bit. Even his beautiful conjunx who’d locked him in here would argue with him about something if he came in, which would give Wheeljack something to do.

Instead he found himself facing the Head of Special Operations. Jazz still looked like slag, but with Prowl now on the general ward, he seemed to be approaching something resembling a normal mech again. He’d washed.

Not that Wheeljack could exactly spout high praise about his own hygiene currently. He wasn’t allowed into a proper washrack until the metal patches on his back and front integrated enough that a rust infection was no longer a risk.

“What do you want?” He was about three seconds away from quietly alerting Ratchet to the intruder’s presence, but Jazz offered out a datapad.

“I need you to go over this. For Project Teletran.”

At the mention of the project he was supposed to be overseeing, Wheeljack took the datapad. It didn’t blow up in his hands and unlocked with his security clearance passcode.

It was a blended style of Prowl and Jazz’s reports, but was clearly an analysis of a proposed project change. It didn’t take long for Wheeljack to realize what this was.

Prowl and Jazz were planning the decommissioning of the Iacon Spacebridge. 

He looked up. “Why are you giving me this?”

“You wanted spacebridge components for Teletran. I’m giving you advanced notice so you can prepare your arguments against Red Alert’s for using them as additional shield fortifications.”

“Why?”

Jazz didn’t answer right away, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. “Look, mech. Iacon’s going to fall. We’ve known it for a long while. All we can do is buy you time to finish this project so that the Autobots don’t fall with it. If Megatron gets ahold of Optimus—” He didn’t need to finish that sentence. “Crystal City’s Spacebridge, now that we’re powering the second wall’s smaller shield, has more than fortified us. The Decepticons won’t get that lucky about blowing up our walls again. But the strategic energon reserves aren’t going to last forever either.”

Silence, and then Wheeljack leaned back in Ratchet’s chair, reviewing the file further. “You and Prowl must have just written this up, considering the details in here about the outer wall breach. He’s still on medical leave.”

“Technically, you are too.” Jazz shrugged. “Don’t worry. Ratchet didn’t catch us, and he won’t catch you.”

Wheeljack raised an optical ridge at that proclamation. “You’re counting on an awful lot for someone who isn’t conjunxed to him.”

“I trust you’ll manage to disguise the fact I brought you work somehow. So I’d best be off before I’m caught.” Jazz started for the door, but then stopped, glancing back at Wheeljack. “Hey, do you remember much of what happened when the blast hit?”

Wheeljack didn’t answer right away, thinking back. Ratchet said he’d been dosed with chemo-sedatives, which meant he wasn’t always aware of what had been real and what hadn’t in the aftermath.

And yet—

“Scrap, Wheeljack, shut up before they hear you,” A familiar face was begging him, as the mech frantically dug through a medkit. “If you’re here, Ratchet must be nearby, and they can’t capture either of you.”

He tried to stay silent, but his whole frame was in agony, and he couldn’t help the noises escaping him. He was looking at a familiar face, but those optics— those optics were wrong, red where they should be yellow. Did he know this mech? He must, but those optics—

A sudden startled voice, and the mech above him moved like he was made of solvent rather than metal, firing a blaster at a lone intruder before returning to the medkit, finding what he was looking for.

“Gonna sedate you, find Ratchet, and get you both out of here as soon as I can. Stay hidden until I come back, alright?”

The feeling of a sedative beginning to hit his system, the vague awareness of something being laid over him to hide his prone frame, and then blackness.

“No,” Wheeljack looked Jazz in the optics, completely calm and collected as he answered. “I don’t remember anything.”

With the initial shock of the outer city’s loss fading somewhat, and the second wall now firmly secured, Ironhide had returned to her Primesguard duties. And one of those duties that had fallen to her for all these years was considering public morale in regards to the Prime, and now the war. After such a brutal loss, the soldiers needed to see their Prime, to have reassurance that there was something still worth fighting for.

It couldn’t be a broadcast, Primus knew the Decepticons would have a field day with that. Or a speech. Too public of a spectacle and hardly addressing the real concerns of most mechs. However, a frontlines tour would be just the right thing. It hadn’t been hard to convince Optimus it needed to be done.

No, the hard thing had been convincing him not to stroll out of his Command Center office and do it right then and there. Ironhide hadn’t spent this long in the Primesguard without learning a thing or two about the image the Prime needed to uphold, and Optimus?

Optimus looked like slag.

It wasn’t like he should look pristine for this. One, that had never been the image Optimus had cultivated, nor was it the one the Autobots wanted to see right now. They didn’t want a mech acting like Nominus or Sentinel, who never addressed the Senate or the public as anything other than perfectly primped and polished, with their Primesguard just the same. But the dull shine and numerous scratches, alongside the exhausted look in Optimus’ optics? That was not a look that inspired confidence.

Thankfully, Ironhide had someone to help her wrangle the Prime’s appearance as she dealt with her own. 

Sweeps had tried to argue he was hardly qualified for the job when she’d gone to bother him in the early hours of the morning, but a little bit of flattery about how he’d always helped make the Basilica shine, combined with pointing out the fact that there was no other staff left to ask, had him trudging along behind her. Pivot-Point had waved them off with a smile.

And both Ironhide and Sweeps had pretended not to notice just how awful Optimus appeared when they reached his rooms. How was it that Prowl’s ATS had tried to melt his brain, and Wheeljack hadn’t seen a proper washrack in ages while he waited for his patches to integrate, but Optimus was the one who looked the worst?

His unusual fatigue had Ironhide worried. She’d seen this kid at some pretty low points over the years she’d stood by his side, but this was truly one of the worst.

Still, they had a job to do, and after fueling, Optimus had submitted to the “pomp and circumstance” with little more than a few quiet grumbles, all aimed at her rather than Sweeps. In fact, after a few minutes, Optimus had seemed to come a bit back to himself, and had begun trying to engage Sweeps in conversation. At first, it hadn’t gone anywhere, until, well—

“My favorites were always anything involving Micronus Prime being underestimated due to his size,” Sweeps hummed. “He was so much more powerful than the other Primes give him credit for!”

“Might comes in many forms,” Optimus agreed. “There’s a record in the Archives that says The Fallen pursued Solus Prime as his conjunx because she proved herself stronger than him, even though he is always presented as the strongest of the Thirteen.”

“Really?”

Ironhide looked up from where she was buffing out her own scratches. “If the Camian interpretation of that story has any merit, The Fallen was apparently at Solus’ forge, and told her she couldn’t do much with that little hammer of hers. So she hit him square in the chest with it and sent him flyin’. He decided they were already conjunxed after that.”

Sweeps’ optics were wide, and Optimus grinned. “Oh, the Archive versions does one better. The Fallen couldn’t transform for a week afterwards. And that was why he decided he had to conjunx her.”

With her Prime looking a bit more like himself now with the conversation focused on the contents of the Iacon Archives, Ironhide took in how Sweeps had made him presentable. He hadn’t buffed out the minor scratches, nor had he used a high-gloss polish, but Optimus no longer looked dented and tired. He looked strong, and like he’d be perfectly happy to assist with the labor of the everyday soldier.

Which he would be if asked, so Ironhide was going to have to be careful to not let him get roped into too much fortification building. He was still a very tired mech under all that primping, and she didn’t want him sagging from exhaustion before he got back here to his own private rooms.

She was nearly done with her own detailing as well, as she tried to buff out a nasty weld as best as she could. The color nanites wouldn’t come back for a while yet, so the injury would still be evident, but it looked more healed than it actually was. Still, the act of buffing it out stung, and she scooped her tin of Chromia’s numbing salve out of her subspace.

It was nearly empty.

She didn’t realize she must have been staring at the tin for a while, because Sweeps’ voice suddenly was at her side.

“Here! Chromia gave this to me before she left. She said you’d go through it way too fast.” Sweeps held out a tin with a smile. “Says to remind you that you always apply it too thick and that’s why you run out so fast.”

Ironhide felt her spark nearly make her choke with the longing those words managed to give her, as she heard her conjunx’s voice berating her for exactly that. She took the tin from Sweeps with the utmost delicacy she could muster, before forcing the emotions down.

“Thank you, Sweeps.”

“Don’t worry.” The little mech gave his friendly smile, before glancing back at Optimus. “Did I do a good job, making him look how he needs to?”

“You’ve gone above and beyond, Sweeps.” Optimus hummed. “I may have to ask for your assistance again at a later date.”

Sweeps’ field filled with embarrassment and excitement, and Ironhide managed a smile. From terror to giddiness. If the kid wasn’t careful, he really was going to end up getting a big promotion. 

“Thank you, my Prime!” Sweeps smiled, and it was harder to call him out on the old formalities when he looked so damn happy. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nah, he’s good. Head on out, kid.” 

Sweeps nodded before leaving. Ironhide watched him go, before looking down at the tin in her hand, and opening it.

The scent of medical grade grease mixed with crushed crystals and fragrant oils reminded her of the first time Chromia had tried to help her. She’d been too proud to take the help without an argument, but too injured to actually stop the Camian. The smell of this particular blend always brought back those early memories, and left her wishing her conjunx was at her side. 

She rubbed some of the salve over the scratch, and missed the way it would have felt if it was Chromia’s hands applying it instead of her own. The way the tingling sensation numbed her pain receptors, bringing welcome relief, even as her spark ached.

“There’s no shame in admitting you miss Chromia,” Optimus murmured, his voice somber again. “This is the longest you’ve been apart since she returned from exile.”

Ironhide capped the salve and stowed it in her subspace. “Yes it is. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.”

Optimus’ frown didn’t need to be seen for Ironhide to know it was there. “Why not?”

Ironhide rolled her shoulders. “She’s safe, and so are the twins. They’re with family. Kup, Springer, Arcee, and if they’re still on Caminus, Windblade’s there too. Most of our lives, we ain’t known where the other is, and if they’re going to come out on the other side alright. But I know she and the bits are as safe as they can be. I’m the only one riskin’ my skin on a daily basis for the moment, and I prefer it that way.”

The Prime’s fixing her with that look again. The one that suggests the kid thinks he knows her better than she knows herself. And normally, she hates it, but today?

Today, she gets the feeling that he just might be right.

“Ironhide, you have a greater purpose than the Primesguard. Your family is more important than a title.”

“For a long time, my family was that title.” Ironhide thinks back to her batchmates, Nominus’ original Primesguard. Thirteen of them, in order to honor the Thirteen Primes. A mockery, considering cold-constructs’ place in the new order the Functionist Council brought about with Nominus’ rise. But Ironhide hadn’t known that at the time.

She’d been the only one to live long enough to see Nominus fall and Sentinel rise. The only one to endure everything that had come after. There was a legacy she carried there, for her brothers and all those who had come before and after them. There were others from Sentinel’s reign who lived on, but they had joined other units. She was the last Captain and member of the Primesguard that would ever be.

If she’d left the side of the Prime during this siege, that would mean walking away from everything that had made her who she was at this point. It would mean choosing to abandon the title rather than being forced from it. It would mean that the oldest legion on Cybertron was no more, and she had allowed it to happen.

And how would that honor her first family? It wasn’t loyalty coding to the Prime keeping her in place this time. It was loyalty to those mechs she had lived, breathed, and nearly died with more times than she could ever count. It hurt, to be apart from her living family, but she needed to honor the dead. And she could do that by protecting the only mech she’d served who was worthy of calling himself a Prime.

“Wouldn’t they want you to be happy?” Optimus tried, but she gave him a look.

“They’d want me to do my job.” She looked away. “And today, that involves making sure you and I help convince those mechs on the walls that we’ve still got things worth fighting for.”

They lapse into silence, and then Optimus’ tone changes. Gentler, no longer trying to change her mind.

“How did you stand being apart from her for so long during Sentinel’s reign?”

This time, Ironhide knows the reason Optimus is asking this question better than he does. She’s seen flashes of this through the whole war. Moments where Optimus Prime is once again Orion Pax, the archivist who wants to help Megatron make Cybertron a better place for everyone. Perhaps even the mech Megatron confides in and trusts the most.

It’d been no secret in the Pits of Kaon that while Megatron had had dozens of lovers, the sort of thing a champion with his reputation and charisma could easily obtain, very few had been more than quick flings of passion. In fact, Orion Pax might have been the only mech who wasn’t just a fling. No one was ever fully certain what was going on between Soundwave and Megatron, and they were all fairly certain Megatron wasn’t fragging Deadlock. Deadlock had always been rather clear in a rather deadly way that he didn’t want that sort of attention from anyone. 

But something about Pax had just kept Megatron coming back for more, and Orion Pax had been just as entranced by Megatron. His ascendancy had not changed those feelings on his part, but for Megatron? 

“I don’t think my advice will have much use for ya. But, for what it’s worth, I think he really did love you.”

“He loved many.”

“Not in the way he loved you,” Ironhide hums, her tone soft. She knows what it feels like, to be abandoned, although Chromia hadn’t had a choice back then. “And I’m sorry that this war happened because he couldn’t see that you were the same mech still underneath it all.”

“No, my friend,” Optimus shakes his head. “Orion Pax is dead. Only Optimus Prime remains.”  

With that, Optimus stood. “We shouldn’t keep the troops waiting much longer.”

It was a diversion, but also one Ironhide couldn’t argue with even as her Prime’s words troubled her. She followed him out, and they walked together through Autobot-held Iacon, greeting the mechs and encouraging them to keep up the good fight. Optimus was projecting confidence and certainty to the troops, the Matrix’s hum gentle and easy instead of the overwhelming force Sentinel had always preferred wielding. But when they returned to the Command Center, it was easy to see him beginning to flag under the strain. It felt like she was watching him sink into the Rust Sea, the waters rushing into his vents, and the strain slowly choking out his spark.

He was all but running on empty. She remembered what happened when one of her Primesguard brothers got that look. Some final intolerable event would have the last bit of life draining from their optics as they became nothing more than husks following orders and waiting to deactivate. At one point, she’d been on the verge of that herself, before Chromia had given her a reason to truly live again.

If Optimus reached that final point, he’d be a dead mech walking. Would he even reach the stars as they escaped? Or would he surrender the Matrix, and kneel down at Megatron’s feet hoping for death? 

The noose was tightening, and Ironhide realized there was nothing she could do to protect her Prime from this. She could only hope the rope was cut before he swung.

Chapter Text

Pivot-Point still found himself in disbelief about the orders from High Command. Sure, with a little more distance between himself and the initial announcement now, it didn’t nearly surprise him as much as it had. And yet—

Yet, the date had been set and the Iacon Spacebridge, the last functioning Spacebridge on Cybertron, was to be decommissioned. The planet’s network had been an early target for Autobot Special Operations, preventing functioning bridges from falling into Decepticon hands through sabotage or decommissioning. It still felt like scrap, however, realizing the implications.

High Command no longer believed any part of Iacon could survive this siege. They were simply buying time. For what, Pivot-Point wasn’t sure, but he’d heard most mechs with construction experience had been taken off the front lines and quietly disappeared into some secret project. They were alive, everyone knew, but few of them were being allowed out after joining that mission. Security clearance issues apparently.

Still, until the Spacebridge was actually decommissioned, Pivot-Point was one of the only Spacebridge operators left in Iacon, and he would stay here manning his post alongside the others.

Spectro stepped up alongside him as he was running diagnostic tests. “Hey, isn’t your conjunx going to be coming along soon?”

Pivot-Point snorted. “Hoping Sweeps brings you snacks again?”

“What can I say?” Spectro hummed. “They’re good.”

Pivot-Point hadn’t known Spectro long, he’d come into Iacon during the Crystal City evacuations, having long worked at their spacebridge. After installing the decommissioned parts into Iacon’s shields, he’d been reassigned here. He was a chatty mech, but Pivot-Point didn’t mind. Sweeps was too.

Sweeps. Oh Primus help him, that mech was far too good for him but loved him anyways. Before the war, Sweeps had occasionally been sent down to inventory shipments arriving for the Primal Basilica, and to arrange the transportation there. They’d become close friends, wishing to be more as they flirted, but they all knew the laws. Sweeps with property of the Primal Basilica and the Prime, as well as a disposable class mech. And everyone knew what had happened to Ironhide.

Then, within days of ascending to the Primacy and the Functionist Council’s disappearance, Optimus Prime had changed all that with a few strokes of his pen. He overturned millions of years of standing policy, freed Ironhide, and reinstated her as Captain of the Primesguard. At first, no one had believed it.

Until Chromia had returned from exile with her and Ironhide’s sparklings, and the Prime had invited the family to join him on a public tour of Iacon. Pivot-Point still remembered being part of the crowd staring in shock and awe as the couple had walked hand in hand, a sparkling in each arm, the Prime guarded only by a small unit Ultra Magnus had assembled to escort them.

Sweeps had had to fight to convince his superiors at the palace staff to allow them to conjunx after that, and one letter later, begging the Primesguard captain for help, all the issues had been dealt with. If Pivot-Point hadn’t already been an Autobot by that point, he would have enlisted right there and then. Ironhide had routinely checked in on them afterwards, and Sweeps quickly became her friend.

As the diagnostics kept running, he felt his conjunx tugging on their sparkbond.

::Tell Spectro I brought extra snacks.::

Pivot-Point snorted, and then turned to Spectro. “You’re in luck. Sweeps still likes you.”

“Yes!” Spectro grinned as he pumped his fist in the air. “Free food is always the best.”

A roll of the optics, and Pivot-Point waited for his conjunx to appear. The smaller mech eventually scrambled onto the edge of the platform, waving aloft a small container that smelled divine.

“I found more ingredients to play with in the kitchens. And no one stops me ‘cause no one’s there to stop me.” Sweeps hurried over to both mechs, popping open the lid.

It was roasted gears, perfect little bite sized ones, all bubbly and savory. They were still warm as all three mechs sat down on the platform to enjoy the short break and conversation.

“So they’re not even securing the kitchens in the Basilica?” Spectro blinked as he took a gear. “That’s weird.”

“Optimus sent pretty much all the staff out over the last couple of evacuations. Said he didn’t need someone fixing him meals when he just needed his soldiers to have energon, but Ironhide let me stick around. Prowl had most of the food redistributed after the staff was gone, but I know where the chefs hid stuff they were saving for special occasions. I always hated cleaning those little nooks, but it meant no one found everything. I asked Ironhide at one point, and she said as long as I saved any good new recipes I invented for her and Chromia in the future, she wouldn’t tell.”

Pivot-Point laughed. “You won’t believe how many recipes are ending up on Sweeps’ datapad, Spectro. I swear, if this war ever ends, he’s going to have to go to a cooking school.”

“Maybe! I don’t know, I like working for Optimus. He’s nice.” Sweeps shrugged. “But it would be fun to cook more, I’ll admit.”

“Maybe you could cook for the Prime.” Spectro offered. Sweeps considered that, and then shook his head.

“No, too much pressure!”

Pivot-Point smiled and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of his conjunx’s helm. “Alright, whatever you want, sweetspark.”

Sweeps was so distracted by the kiss he didn’t notice Pivot-Point had stolen the last gear from the container until he reached for it.

“Pivot-Point!”

Spectro burst out into laughter as Pivot-Point hurriedly shoved the gear into his mouth, and Sweeps groaned.

“At least tell me you liked them.”

“Yeah, I always do.” Sweeps was content with that answer, and then Pivot-Point’s datapad dinged, dragging his attention back to the Spacebridge. “Oh well, duty calls.”

Spectro shrugged. “I’ll get it. You spend the rest of Sweeps’ break before he has to leave being disgustingly cute.”

“Yes, sir!” Pivot-Point grinned, mock-saluting Spectro as he wandered off. He intended to do just that.

The building the Decepticons had converted to their current Command Center was far enough back from Iacon’s second wall to be out of reach of almost every weapon mounted there, but that hardly mattered. The Autobots were only firing outwards if the Decepticons provoked them. It seemed the official orders were to use defensive measures only, leaving offense to their dwindling team of Spec Ops saboteurs.

On one hand, Megatron was pleased by that. It meant the general mood of the Autobots had soured. They knew they could not outlast him forever, and so they refused to waste resources on anything that wasn’t a direct attack against them. On the other hand, that meant their considerable resources they still possessed must be being redeployed elsewhere.

Soundwave’s agents still could not fully conclude what that relocation was going towards. There were whispers of mechs with construction experience being pulled off the frontlines, and a project code-named Teletran, but that was a nonsense phrase. Certainly, it must be the Autobot’s last hope, but what was it? A fortress? A weapons system? A ship? They hadn't yet been able to ascertain more than the mere existence of the word.

And that, above all else, left a bad taste on his glossa. What was Pax— no, Prime— planning?

He paced as Soundwave read the reports to him. Although they were locked in stalemate here, the war continued elsewhere. Strika and Slipstream reported further losses to Ultra Magnus’ fleet. They were on the backfoot in space, but Megatron could not leave that fight behind yet. The attacks on the evacuating ships had allowed them to divide the Autobot forces. How many cities never would have fallen without so much more loss if Ultra Magnus had remained on Cybertron? Still, he would need the fleet home soon to protect their prize. Cybertron would be theirs when Iacon fell.

And Pax— PRIME— would be at his mercy. He still hadn’t decided what to do with him once he’d defeated him. It was far from his fault alone that their Cause had been divided, lead astray by the ones he’d trusted. Jazz and Prowl, of course, would be dealt with permanently once captured. Ironhide would need her loyalty coding purged, but he would allow her to live, respecting her fierceness in the Pits and the grey area she’d carefully navigated there so she would never have to report him for his treason. Ratchet and Wheeljack already had protections placed on them, hardly even by his own hands. Too many leading mechs of his Cause had been fed and saved by their long and quiet resistance against the system. However, he would need to keep a careful optic on them both.

Deadlock’s optics would do, considering his vested interest in the pair. 

Speaking of his friend, where was he?

As Soundwave finished another report, Megatron turned. “Deadlock is late.”

“Deadlock: Was waylaid by the Decepticon Justice Division. Arriving momentarily.”

Megatron raised an optical ridge. “In what manner was he waylaid?”

“Deadlock: Continues to object to the unit's existence. Tarn: Took objection to his existence in turn.” Soundwave made the same noise he did when Rumble and Frenzy fought. “Deadlock: Not incorrect in his feelings. Many Decepticons: Deeply uneasy about the DJD’s presence in our Cause.”

“I understand the concerns of our soldiers, but the DJD is a necessary tool. I will remind Deadlock of that fact. As for the Justice Division, find a suitable reprimand for Tarn.” Megatron sighed.

The pressure was growing for him to find a suitable second in command. While no one would blame him for selecting Strika, she was also the only mech he could truly place his faith in when it came to him needing to divide his forces. If he fell, the mech who took command would need Soundwave to help them maintain control in the immediate aftermath. If his forces were divided, Strika would be too far away, and the entire Cause would shatter before her hand could guide it.

Deadlock was arguably his next best choice. And yet, he hesitated. Deadlock was loyal, competent, and admired. He needed more mechs like him to win the war. However, Deadlock was also deeply compromised by his own morals and positions. Not that Soundwave couldn’t be as well, considering the very narrow strike window they’d had to breach Iacon’s outer wall, but it came down to one simple question. Could Deadlock make a call that would end the war, even if Ratchet and Wheeljack were collateral damage?

As much as he wanted to pry the Matrix from that Prime’s chest and bring Orion Pax back, he knew that if the choice was the chance to potentially save Orion or finish the lineage of Primes forever, he must end the Primes. Their rot had been the cause of Cybertron’s pain. Never again on his watch. As much as it would grieve him, it would save so many others.

The sound of a door opening revealed Deadlock. Megatron turned towards Soundwave.

“Soundwave, you are dismissed. Deadlock, a word.”

Soundwave vanished quickly, and Deadlock came up to Megatron’s side as he approached a window, gazing out at Iacon.

“Soundwave informed me you were late because you antagonized the Justice Division.”

“Damus is a self-aggrandizing piece of scrap—” A movement of a hand silenced his friend.

“I remind you, you had the option to create the team and select the mechs yourself. You rejected that assignment. And I have been wondering why.”

“I don’t think you want the answer to that.” Deadlock hissed.

Megatron would have liked to have disagreed. He’d seen Deadlock do incredible work before. He trusted the mech to do what needed to be done, even without supervision.

After all, the day he’d lead a group, including the then Orion Pax, to the Senate, Deadlock had been elsewhere completing the most essential task of all in their liberation. Allowing him to lead the charge into Iacon had been easy. A way to give him the recognition he deserved.

And yet, Deadlock still often resisted any attempts to properly raise him higher in the Cause beyond the ranks he’d held at the beginning of the war. He was a commander, an assassin, and an assistant speech writer, but he refused much else that smacked of higher responsibility.

Deadlock’s voice roused him from his thoughts.

“I had a chance to capture Ratchet and Wheeljack. I couldn’t do it.”

Megatron paused, and then glanced at Deadlock. “An interesting time to confess such an act.”

“I hear the rumors too, you know. About this whole needing to appoint a second-in-command business. Not interested.” Deadlock met his optics this time with a determined look. “Those two made me what I am. I can’t be the one who knowingly gives the order that shoots them down. I think you know that.”

“I do.”

“Good.” Deadlock looked back out the window.

Megatron considered asking questions. This was a confession of treason, after all. But it was Deadlock, and it was about Ratchet and Wheeljack. Of all the mechs that would hesitate to pull the trigger on those two, Deadlock had the most reason of all to refuse.

“I will pretend we never discussed this. In exchange, I expect you to be ready for a new mission at dawn. Dismissed.”

Deadlock nodded, leaving Megatron alone with his thoughts. Under the golden glow of Iacon’s remaining shields, the Primal Basilica stood, its gleaming spires the most defining feature of the city skyline. 

He wondered if Orion— Optimus— was there. He missed— hated— him.

The sooner Iacon was under his heel, the better. Otherwise, there was too much of a chance of something going horribly awry, and forcing him to give the order he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

Jazz felt pulled in too many directions at once. The certainty of a double agent had him going in circles. They hadn’t been able to narrow down what method the spy was using to communicate with the Decepticons, or who among the mechs on the platform might be compromised or using a false backstory. Prowl wanted to help, but when their limited information had reached the end of his ATS’ capabilities and he had requested permission to plug himself into the Tactical Hub, Ratchet had politely threatened to weld him to the medbay floor effective immediately.

At least the politeness of the threat was a new novelty.

Red Alert suspected all of the mechs present that day. Which was at least less insulting than being accused of treason by Ratchet, because even Optimus was not free of Red Alert’s suspicion. However, Jazz wasn’t seriously considering those possibilities. He was focused on the Spacebridge technicians, and other nearby mechs. And more than a few of them had connections that would have been very advantageous for Soundwave.

But other matters needed his attention too. There were the personal ones, of course. Prowl was still on partial medical leave, which meant Jazz was taking on some of his tasks. Not from Tactics, but things Prowl had been doing since his time under Sentinel. Duty rosters and logistics for feeding and supplying an army were one of those essential tasks that seldom received sung praises. No one had ever seen fit to outsource the job elsewhere when Prowl had continued to remain in Optimus’ High Command. Which meant whenever he was on leave, it usually fell to Jazz to pick up the slack.

Back when Praxus had fallen, Jazz had mostly snuck the datapads back to their habsuite and let Prowl do everything save the actual authorizations simply so that he and Smokescreen could have an hour without Prowl obsessively hovering over them because there was simply nothing else for him to do. That’d worked until they’d finally adopted Blue. Still, it’d only been a few weeks during an arguable lull in the war, back when Spec Ops was fully staffed.

That wasn’t the case now. Prowl was already doing more than Ratchet had authorized him to do, and he was exhausted from it. Most nights Jazz had to prod him into staying awake long enough to fuel. They’d stopped cooking and started living on rations because they were quick and required no thought.

There were also the other Special Operations jobs that had to be done. He, Mirage, and Lockback were all deploying into the field, frantically trying to lay traps in Decepticon paths, sabotage their supply lines, and leave undiscovered bugs in their new command center. Soundwave’s cassettes, however, were becoming incredibly adept at sniffing them out before any useful intel was relayed. If he had the resources, Jazz would have commissioned new devices, but they just didn’t have that option at the moment.

And then the spy! It all looped back to that spy. With the decommissioning date of the Iacon Spacebridge looming closer, it would make sense to transfer the operators, mechs who would understand its components, to Project Teletran. Current intel suggested the Decepticons only had the barest hints of the scope of Project Teletran, but that would hardly remain the case if they slid the spy into the construction site and let them have a peak at Wheeljack’s ultimate triumph.

Or what would be his ultimate triumph once it was finished. The last time Jazz had checked, the ship’s engines compartments had been ripped asunder, prepared for the incoming components from the Spacebridge. It was hardly flightworthy at the moment, even as crew cabins were finished and data copied over from Spec Ops and Tactical Hub hard drives to their new homes.

Jazz chugged down a ration as he tried to handle the duty roster, and finally gave up, asking Ironhide for help. She arrived, snorted that he’d gotten spoiled by Prowl, and then took all the busywork and vanished. He supposed she was used to picking up Prowl’s tasks in an emergency for longer than he’d been doing it. 

With that task off his plate, and even knowing Mirage would chew him out for it later, he set a timer for a short recharge cycle. The cot in his office and he were old, old friends. However, it wasn’t his lucky day, because Mirage sent an angry ping directly into his comm.

He woke up to a grim and pissy looking Towers mech directly over him. “You can defrag when you’re dead,” Mirage hissed. “Get up, Lockback and I have a plan to out the spy. We think you’ll like it.”

Optimus was exhausted as the Cybertronian night settled in around them. It was beyond strut-deep, and sheer stubbornness was honestly about the only thing holding him upright. It had been getting worse over this entire siege, let alone when he’d started feeling the on and off searing pain in his spark at the Spacebridge, right before the outer wall had breached. A pain that had become more and more consistent ever since, robbing him of what little recharge he had been managing most nights.

Jazz had noticed that something was wrong then, despite his best efforts to hide it. The same way Ratchet had noticed at that command meeting how his frame seemed to be shifting out of alignment. Even Ironhide had started to give him fearfully concerned looks, as if terrified he might drop dead.

In truth, he should go to Ratchet and be given a complete once over, but he suspected that the Matrix of Leadership was the cause of his agony. That burning sensation starting at the Spacebridge had been so similar to its initial bonding with his frame. He’d read in the Archives about how, in times when the Matrix would not choose a new leader, previous Primes had been created by force. Frame reformats, welding the ancient artifact into the mech’s chest, and waiting to see if they survived.

It was noted that the process killed. Whether fast or slowly, it killed. Nominus and Sentinel had been ticking bombs their entire lives after their ascendancy. If the Matrix did not willingly choose you, it would be your end. The process could take millions of years, but it would wick you away bit by bit.

It seemed his time would be shorter than theirs despite its freedom to choose him or not. He didn’t understand why it was now rejecting him. He’d tried to let the Matrix guide him, to make it sing to him as it did when truly content with a decision he’d made. Yet, as the conflict had progressed, its song had faded before finally all but ending. Perhaps it found him responsible for the war raging across Cybertron. Perhaps it was angered by his love for Megatron that he was unable to leave behind. Or maybe the final straw was the destruction of Cybertron’s oldest city, its homeland and his.

He felt his lower body spasm, and tried not to groan through the pain as it all but radiated up into his spark chamber.

Those twinging pains had also been increasingly worse over the length of the entire siege. Angry sensations that were brief, sharp, and agonizing. Generally a few sips of energon banished them, or walking around. But not today. They were coming more frequently, and refused to disappear. He’d isolated himself in his office in the Command Center, simply trying to do as much as he could. 

If today was his last day on this planet, he prayed that Primus would not deny him peace in the Afterspark, and that Megatron would not be able to harm those he had come to rely on. Even as they argued and threw false accusations against each other, every single one of them wanted to and had helped make Cybertron a better place. 

He took another sip of energon as his tanks roiled. He knew he should summon Ratchet and submit himself to the medic’s care for pain management, if nothing else could be done. Yet he didn’t. How many gladiators and cold-constructed slaves had died far worse deaths than him? How many of his soldiers had bled out in agony begging for loved ones and friends, or for their creators? How many mechs had died undergoing shadowplay and empurata at the orders of his predecessors? Or as the bombs had fallen on Carpessa, Vos, Praxus, and Nyon?

He would bear this pain for them. He deserved nothing else.

::Op, you busy?:: Jazz’s comm distracted him from his miserable self reflection. ::Mirage has a plan to get our spy out of the shadows, but Prowl says it's pretty risky. I want your approval.::

He pushed down another groan as something else spasmed, and sat down, forcing himself into a slightly uncomfortable posture that pinched something in his spinal struts fiercely, and made the horrible sensations in his chassis less irritating. ::I’m in my Command Center office.::

An affirmative ping, and Optimus felt the Matrix reaching out to him, like it was trying to warn him of approaching danger. Another painful tremor through his frame, but he ignored it. What good would a warning of his impending demise be? He reigned in his EM field and tried to put on his most neutral of expressions.

Jazz knocked before opening the door, and quickly came over to the desk, but paused. Obviously his most neutral expression he could manage wasn’t working.

“Mech, should I call Ratchet? You don’t look good,” Jazz’s concern was genuine, and Optimus forced that pinch in his spinal struts a little tighter.

“I’m fine. Please, walk me through your plan.”

Jazz didn’t answer right away, the spymaster clearly not buying his words. Optimus summoned up whatever bits of strength he had left and tried to adjust himself so he seemed more confident. Whatever he did hadn’t fully erased Jazz’s doubt, but the CMO was not being instantly summoned. Good.

“Alright, here’s Mirage’s angle. I’m not saying it’s not risky, we can rely on Prowl’s numbers alone to tell us it might be suicide. But if we can’t out the spy, we’ll have bigger problems.”

And then Jazz began to launch into Mirage’s plan. All of Iacon’s Spacebridge operators would be pulled off of the Spacebridge just before the decommissioning while Perceptor made a show of inspecting the inactive bridge. Wheeljack would then speak to each operator individually, informing them of his proposed plans for the Spacebridge components, and assigning each of them to Project Teletran. They’d then be kept separate from each other and the actual project until one of them made contact with Soundwave. 

None of them would be given the real plan or project, of course, but a dummy plan unique to each operator. While all this happened, either Mirage or Jazz would be infiltrating themselves into the Decepticon command center, for as long as it took to catch the data being relayed to Soundwave. Whichever false plan for Teletran was relayed, that was their mech, or potentially mechs.

It was a desperate plan, but they were getting desperate. On Iacon’s end, it didn’t seem too dangerous. Wheeljack could easily make false plans. They’d let those sorts of things leak dozens of times before to snag ‘Con agents in the Scientific Corps. But it was Jazz or Mirage’s long term deployment behind enemy lines, into a base that Soundwave and his cassettes were learning every nook and cranny of, that had Prowl visibly concerned.

“Who would go?” Optimus managed, biting back any pain trying to escape through his vocalizer.

“Me. Mirage’s sigma is useful, but he’s not gonna be as good in a scrap against the cassettes as I will. Once this is all over, he’s in for a rough reminder about hand-to-hand combat, but I can’t risk him landing in the medbay for non-mission injuries right now.” Jazz was certain he could manage this, but he worried.

If he fell, Jazz and Prowl were necessary to get the Autobots off of Cybertron alive. They’d also be at the top of Megatron’s list to kill on sight. They’d already nearly lost Prowl during this siege. This was too much of a risk, as the pain in his spark heightened and reminded him of how little time he had.

“I can’t give my approval to this plan, Jazz. We have to find another way. If you or Prowl deactivate, we will not escape Cybertron.”

Jazz seemed confused by that response. “I get that reasoning if I was asking you to send Prowler out into the field, mech, but I’m not. I don’t intend to deactivate out there, but I’m not nearly as vital as he is.”

Optimus stood up, needing to make his point more clearly to his spymaster and leaning into the Matrix’s power to do so. “No, Jazz. This decision is final. Find another way, one that won’t risk getting you—”

One second, he was upright with the Matrix’s power behind his words, and the next, it felt like his spark literally was wrenched in half as he toppled to the floor. A shout, and then Jazz appearing at his side.

“Scrap!” Jazz snarled as the Matrix all but screamed out into the room, its presence demanding acknowledgment as Optimus felt his entire frame tremble. Jazz didn’t even try to use his internal comm, going straight for the external one. “Ratchet, I’m in Prime’s office. He just collapsed, and the Matrix is going nuts and bolts!”

Optimus tried to vent, but the Matrix demanded his attention above all else, demanding he listen to it now. Unable to refuse, he did. As an ancient artifact of the Thirteen, with a strange sentience of its own, the Matrix was not exactly the best communicator most of the time. He could only muddle out one phrase from the noise.

Something is coming, you are not prepared. Something is coming, you are not prepared.

He felt Jazz elevating him, dragging him over to the wall, and leaning him up against it.

“Optimus? Ratchet’s on his way, stay with us mech, alright?”

Optimus felt that spasming sensation again, and snarled in pain. Jazz’s spark almost cheered. 

“Yeah, yeah, pain means you’re alive, don’t forget it!”

There was the sound of sirens as Ratchet rushed through the base in his alt-mode, and Jazz opened the door as Ratchet transformed, rushing in to evaluate the situation as Jazz sealed the doors behind him.

“What happened?!” Ratchet’s rumble almost sounded like he was about to accuse Jazz of trying to kill Optimus again. Which, considering their barely extant and incredibly uneasy truce, he might be.

“He was in pain when I got here, but it didn’t seem that bad. Figured I’d sic you on him after I left, but then he just collapsed, and the Matrix—”

Something is coming, you are not prepared.

“Shut up then!” Ratchet was tearing open his arm access panel. “Medical hardline, Optimus. Don’t even think about resisting.”

Optimus was pretty sure he couldn’t resist anything at all, with the way his spark was burning and the Matrix was howling. Ratchet plugged in and began to quickly assess what could be the source of his distress.

And then, he felt the medic all but recoil from him over the line. The hardline stayed in, but Ratchet seemed almost frightened. Caught completely off guard by whatever he’d found.

“Jazz. Comm Hoist, tell him to clear the medbay. We have a suspected need for quarantine procedures for a member of High Command.”

“Quarantine? Holy Primus, that’s a virus?!”

Optimus felt Ratchet wish that that was the case. “Jazz, just go and—”

Optimus’ whole frame suddenly bore down without his permission, and his vocalizer spat static. He arched upwards, something like instinct forcing him to do so as he pushed. At what, he didn’t know, but he had to push.

His reward for the agony was a rush of fluids from his still-covered valve, puddling out from behind his panel.

Everything suddenly went silent. The Matrix, Ratchet, and Jazz. The only noise Optimus could hear was his own vents, ragged as he tried to process the sensation and understand what that was.

“That—” Jazz suddenly spoke with frightening certainty. “—is not a virus.”

“No slag!” Ratchet snarled. “Have Hoist clear the damn medbay. And since you didn’t scram, you’re joining us in lockdown. That’s not a debate!”

Jazz quickly stepped over to a corner and used his internal comms to send Ratchet’s orders to his junior medic. Optimus felt Ratchet disconnect from his medical hardline, and he grabbed the medic’s arm in desperation.

“Old friend, what—”

Ratchet’s field suddenly trembled with rage, only barely being overridden by professional medical coding. “How long have you known?”

“Known what? I—” Optimus felt another building pain, and the desire to push. “That the Matrix is—?”

“Oh, this isn’t the fragging Matrix, Optimus! Who? Who was it?!”

“I don’t understand!” Optimus tried to defend himself, but it was hard when his frame felt like it was smelting itself. “What’s happening?!”

Ratchet’s temper faded slightly. “You don’t know?”

“NO!” Optimus managed an engine growl with that as he felt himself bear down again, the painful sound involuntary.

Jazz was returning to observe the situation. “Hoist says they’ll have the medbay cleared in a couple of minutes. I know a few back passages we can take, should cut down the trip time and keep anyone else from seeing this.”

“Seeing what?!” Optimus felt like shaking both the mechs in front of him, but Ratchet forced his frame and field fully into professional medic mode.

“Optimus,” He said it as gently as he could while also clearly wanting to bash his head in with a wrench. “You’re going into emergence.”

The Matrix’s warning suddenly made him hyper aware as he processed those words.

Something is coming, you are not prepared.

“Now,” Ratchet demanded. “Who’s the sire?”

Something is coming, you are not prepared.

“Mech?” Jazz was begging for an answer.

Something is coming, you are not prepared.

Optimus wanted to curled in on himself. He didn’t want to answer, but he had to. He absolutely had to.

Something is coming, you are not prepared.

“Megatron. The sire is Megatron.”

Something is coming.

You are not prepared.

Chapter Text

It’d been hard to get any recharge after Ratchet had requisitioned the main medbay for a quarantine lockdown. No one knew for certain what had happened, but the names of the mechs in quarantine weren’t reassuring. 

Optimus. Jazz. Ratchet himself, of course, as Chief Medical Officer.

Wheeljack was handling it with grace. After all, he’d been on this side of barricaded quarantine doors before, and reassured everyone it was probably just a precaution. Ironhide was glad Wheeljack had dragged himself away from Project Teletran to do it, because Prowl was not currently capable to do such a thing himself. He’d gotten more expressive under Optimus, and his doorwings were flickering slightly. If that motion was coming from Smokescreen, Ironhide would say the mechling was slightly agitated. However, from Prowl, it was a sign of barely contained panic. 

He was still struggling after the breach of the outer wall. She didn’t want to see this push him over the edge.

As for herself, she felt somewhere in the middle of the mess. She wasn’t as agitated as Prowl. Medics did sometimes quarantine Primes unexpectedly out of an abundance of caution, and she’d spent a few nights on both sides of those quarantine barriers herself with them. But she also wasn’t handling it as well as Wheeljack. Optimus had been so tired of late, obviously flagging under the strain. He looked a bit more like an untended scrapheap every cycle if you knew how to see it underneath the effects of the Matrix and Sweeps’ polish.

If he had an infection or virus that had been raging for a while, it could lose her the only Prime she’d ever willingly follow after everything she’d gone through. Without him, Ironhide wasn’t even sure what she would do, let alone what might happen to the entire war.

She worked on the schedules and logistics busywork that Jazz had begged for relief from in her habsuite. A familiar task, but also not her usual day to day purview, made it a perfect distraction. She wasn’t adding on stress by trying to figure out something new, or was it so easy to do that it let her processor run wild. She kept reminding herself that even if something happened, someone needed to make sure the army was fed and buy Wheeljack more time for Project Teletran.

Eventually, she must have dozed off on the sofa in the living room, because when she felt herself coming back online, something was wrong.

Her frame quickly began its silent reboot protocols, a method of waking up that had saved her and her cold-constructed batchmates dozens of times. Her optics didn’t online, the venting of her frame didn’t change or hitch. She’d seem still asleep to anyone watching as she evaluated the situation. 

Narrowing her focus, she listened. The once always-present rumble of Iacon’s nightlife had been replaced these days by the sounds of explosions or the chatter of repeated blaster fire. The faint hum of the defensive shields, the sound of mechs moving through the halls of the Primal Basilica and the Autobot Command Center. And yet, eliminating all of those distractions, she heard nothing in her room. 

Which meant whatever had woken her was completely silent. She could have imagined something, she supposed. However, one didn’t survive in the Primesguard through the reigns of three separate Primes (even with a brief stopover in the Pits of Kaon), without trusting their instincts about danger.

A subtle shift in the air had her optics online and blaster drawn as she bolted upright, the full action completed in milliseconds as the datapads dropped off her frame and onto the floor. Jazz stood there, holding his hands up in surprise as he barely avoided getting shot. A disturbed ceiling vent revealed how he’d gotten in here in the first place.

If he was Jazz.

“You have five seconds to start talking, or I shoot.” She growled, low and angry.

“Sorry, Ironhide, this wakeup call wasn’t my idea—”

“Explain yourself! And prove that you aren’t Makeshift!” Ironhide hated the idea that an old ally turned enemy might try this, but Makeshift’s sigma gifts always had her nervous when she wondered if she could trust what was in front of her.

Jazz paused, and then adjusted his stance, lowering his hands slightly. “I remember smuggling Chromia out of Iacon before Sentinel got told about your sparkbond, through the back passage in Prowl’s office. The one you didn’t know about until I walked through it with the maroon paint I favored for my Tone disguise, with the little silver accents and the gold visor cover. She was begging you to come with her. Your loyalty coding wouldn’t let you.”

Okay, yeah, this was Jazz. Ironhide still didn’t like it, but she lowered the blaster.

“Why are you here then? And what on Cybertron possessed you to crawl in through my fragging ceiling vents?!”

Jazz heaved a sigh. “Well, I can’t exactly walk in the front door when I’m supposed to be in quarantine still, can I?”

Still? So his presence didn’t mean the quarantine had been lifted. Ironhide stowed her blaster. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s going on, if you’re here when you’re still supposed to be in the medbay?”

“Ratchet sent me. Listen, we’ve a- well, not a situation, but it’s a situation. Optimus wants you brought in, says you’re the only other mech he trusts to get read in at the present moment. We couldn’t comm you because of the comms block that goes into effect during a quarantine lockdown, and if I tried once I was past the perimeter, Blaster would know.”

“Then just tell Blaster the quarantine is Spec Ops slag. He’ll know to keep his nose out of it.”

Jazz’s field never betrayed much when he was in Spec Ops mode, but Ironhide got the feeling he felt like she was being rather obtuse in catching what he was putting down. “Too risky. Op says he only wants the four of us to know this. So I’m going to have to sneak you into the medbay the back way.”

If he meant any other back way than the one she knew of, she was going to kill him. “I can make my way there through the Prime’s escape passages on my own.”

“No, too open.” Jazz hissed. “There’s— a route—”

“Jazz, if Spec Ops has been tunneling through the damn Basilica walls again, I am going to end you.”

“You and Red Alert both. Don’t worry, I’ve only made new passages in the Command Center. Been relying on the old forgotten ones in the Basilica that Red Alert doesn’t know about—” Jazz wisely leapt out of reach before she could snag one of his shoulders. “Hey!”

“If you weren’t so damn quick—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d tear me limb from limb. Trust me, I’ve heard it.” Jazz wisely stayed out of reach, even though Ironhide was aware the assassin could probably have thrown her to the floor eight ways to Primesday if she made him genuinely feel threatened. “You still got those datapads with the duty rosters on them?”

Ironhide narrowed her optics. As if Jazz hadn’t seen them fall to the floor when she whirled on him.

“Okay, fine, stop looking at me like that. Just take them to my office, I’ll meet you there. The access code at the door is 766-258. I’ll have to reset it later, but we’ve got bigger problems.”

“Going to give me any idea of what I’m walking into?”

“Nope, tell you when we get there.”

And before Ironhide could threaten him into answering a damn question, Jazz had run over underneath the ceiling vent, jumped, and pulled himself up and in. He secured the vent cover and vanished, as if he’d never been there at all.

Primus-damned Special Operations…

She rolled her shoulders, groaned, and then collected the datapads from where they’d fallen. As she did, she looked around her habsuite here in the Command Center.

She’d never had a place that’d truly felt like a home before this hab. In Nominus’ day, there’d been the old Primesguard barracks. Even as the captain, she hadn’t had her own room. Under Sentinel, she’d been given a small apartment in the Basilica, but it’d been cold and almost sterile when Chromia wasn’t around. And the Pits, well, best not to even mention them.

But this suite was where she’d gotten to know her bitties in more than just spark, to watch them grow. To return here most dark cycles and kiss her beautiful conjunx, spending time with her family. Even now in their absence, a part of her expected to find Chromia pacing around as she tried to work something out, and for the twins to come demand cuddles or to be used as weight lifts. The warmth of their home hadn’t faded in their absence.

By Solus’ forge, she missed them.

She went over to the paint Sunstreaker had vandalized the place with, brushing her fingertips against his depiction of himself and Sideswipe, and pressing her helm to the wall. Taking a deep vent, and drawing strength from it.

Something told her this was the last time she’d be standing here, and she tried to savor the emotions, as painful and bittersweet as they were. Home was wherever they were, and she’d have it again. This was not her last hurrah.

With that thought in her helm, she turned and headed out of her hab.

At this time of night, with no active combat other than the defense of the second wall, things were fairly quiet. Maybe a little more agitated than usual due to the quarantine, but Wheeljack had managed to quell significant unease with his little morale boosting peptalks. Most mechs seemed to be of the opinion that everything would be fine. Ironhide heard a few questions tossed her way about the entire situation, and answered them with all the reassurance that she could.

At least until she saw Trailbreaker trying to flag her down.

“Prowl’s in his office in Tactics. I don’t think he’s planning on leaving unless you or Hoist personally shove him out of it.”

Fraggit. Ironhide took a deep vent, and nodded. Not on her to-do plan tonight, but Hoist was handling enough at the moment without directly dropping this on his plate too.

“Alright. Thank you, Trailbreaker. Go get some recharge.”

He nodded as Ironhide turned away from the Spec Ops wing to head towards the Tactical Hub. When she entered, Countdown just looked up from his terminal, gestured with his helm towards Prowl’s personal, and then turned back to his work.

The door opened easily, and Prowl barely even twitched. “Ironhide.”

“Prowl.” She leaned into the side of the door frame. “You think I won’t rat you out to Hoist for disobeying Ratchet’s orders about the hours you can work?”

“I—” Prowl sighed, looking towards the far wall. “I will not go back to that habsuite and allow the ATS to start creating disaster scenarios that will result in another crash.”

“You heard what Wheeljack said. This is probably all just precautionary. Jazz’ll be fine.”

Prowl didn’t need to say what he was thinking for Ironhide to see it on his faceplate. Hell, he hardly even had to show her anything for her to know. He wanted to believe, but he was terrified what damage that belief could do. She didn’t know what hell those two had been through in the decline of Sentinel’s reign, but it’d forged them together like iron. Before her fall from grace, she’d have thought Prowl didn’t need or want any mech in his life besides himself. Now, she knew if something happened to Jazz, there was a decent chance they’d lose Prowl too.

He couldn’t go back to that habsuite alone. Not when all the life had been drained from it. Ironhide still felt the echoes of her family’s warmth, but she had no doubt Prowl only foresaw cold terror awaiting him back in his empty hab.

“Is he blockin’ you on the sparkbond?”

“Not particularly. I cannot feel his emotions sharply, but I am more aware of him than I would be if he was on a mission.”

“Pulse your worry at him, let him reassure ya. Then you and I will walk over to the secondary medbay to see if Hoist has a cot he can loan you, so you don’t have to sleep in your own hab.”

Prowl considered it, and then closed his optics, clearly focusing on his sparkbond with Jazz. Ironhide commed Hoist while he did.

::Got a cot for a certain SIC who’s fussing over his conjunx being in quarantine?::

::I’ll find something here if it makes him recharge.:: Hoist’s reply came quickly.

By the time Prowl onlined his optics and stood, Ironhide could feel the exhaustion dripping off of his frame like leaking oil.

“He let you know he’s okay?”

“He seems somewhat uneasy, but not terribly stressed. It is as good as I will receive with the comms block in effect.” Prowl rolled his doorwings a couple times, and then glanced at the datapads. “Is that my usual work?”

“Don’t even think I’m letting you touch ‘em.” Ironhide began to escort the SIC out of the Tactical Hub. “We’re heading to Hoist, and then I’ve got to put these into the system.”

The walk was slow, but few bothered them. Ages ago, they’d often walked these halls together late at night, Sentinel’s right hand and most loyal guard. Brought together by circumstances neither would ever wish to repeat. 

“Ironhide,” Prowl suddenly began as they were alone in an otherwise empty hallway. “I know you have— suspicions— about the end of Sentinel’s reign. I do not wish to address them tonight, but we should speak of them soon.”

Ironhide paused, and then turned towards Prowl skeptically. “You sure this isn’t the recharge deprivation talking?”

“It is not. If we wish to have any hope of moving forward into the future with this Cause, certain things must be admitted, at least to those who can be trusted to have no interest in its failure. Optimus has already requested that the information be divulged to Ratchet. I would prefer for the circumstances of our discussion with you to be planned, rather than arrive unexpectedly.”

Ironhide paused, parsing what that sentence meant, but then another mech entered the hall, and they were silent all the way to the secondary medbay. However, Prowl did seem slightly more calm by the time they arrived and Hoist took over supervision of their second in command.

Which meant that by the time Ironhide got back on track heading down to Spec Ops, she could all but sense Jazz coming unglued through the wall as she plugged in the access code. He didn’t make himself visible until the door shut behind her, but it wasn’t hard to guess he was there waiting for her before he appeared.

“What took you so long?”

“Sparkling-sittin’ your conjunx, what else?”

“Alright, I’ll let you feed that line to Ratchet when we get there.” Jazz snatched the datapads, quickly editing them. “I just took you off-duty for the next two cycles, flagged it as Spec Ops if anyone goes looking. We’ll see what happens from there.”

“Grand, look forward to hearing whatever quick on his pedes lie Mirage has to feed Prowl when he sees that tomorrow morning and asks.” Ironhide glanced around. “So, how are we getting to the medbay?”

Jazz reached over towards his file cabinet, and Ironhide wasn’t sure what mechanism he pulled, but the entire back wall opened up. Beyond it, Ironhide could see a whole network of catwalks between various locations, all sturdy enough to hold the Prime himself if necessary.

Oh, Red Alert was going to kill Jazz if he ever found out. Hopefully they wouldn’t be in Iacon long enough for that to happen at this point.

She followed Jazz into the hidden travel system of Spec Ops as Jazz quickly led her across a path that was clearly older than this war was, and yet he never hesitated for a moment about which turns he took. She wondered how long it’d taken him to memorize this labyrinth.

“Can I ask what’s going on yet?” She said when Jazz nearly went out of her sight, which absolutely would have just caused her to be instantly lost. 

“Not until we get to the medbay. Then Ratchet can explain—”

“Ratchet’s going to debrief me on this situation?” Never a good sign when the explanation was being left up to the medic.

Jazz just suddenly stopped along a random spot of wall that the catwalk was running against, turning and reaching up to snag a random wire. No different than the hundreds of other wires running through the area, and yet this one had an entire wall panel sliding away without any effort. As they stepped into the new area, Ironhide recognized it. The escape passageway from the Command Center medbay’s Primal Suite.

She resisted the urge to throttle Jazz as he sealed the passageway behind him. She would not channel her inner Red Alert at this moment, as tempting as it was. Jazz then went over to the back door into the Primal Suite and quietly knocked a particular pattern into the wall. 

After a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a rather frustrated looking Ratchet. “About damn time. Get in, both of you. Now.”

As they stepped into the brightly lit medbay, Ironhide let her optics adjust as quickly as possible, before looking around to find her Prime.

Her first impression of Optimus Prime in this moment was that the mech looked like he’d gone three rounds nonstop in the Pits. A medical hardline was plugged into him as he lay prone on the medberth, covered in insulation sheets and utterly exhausted. She could smell the scent of energon permeating the room, and not the kind you ate, no. The kind you bled.

They weren’t here because it was the most secure location in the base. They were here because Optimus was injured. 

She instantly turned on Ratchet and Jazz. 

“If he’s been injured, I am to be instantly notified, no matter the circumstances! What in Unicron’s name is all this cloak and dagger business for?!”

“My friend, it’s not an injury—” Optimus began, only for Ratchet to loudly whack his wrench into the Prime’s arm, cutting him off.

“I wish it was! That’d be easier!” Ratchet growled.

“Well, it’s kinda an injury—” Jazz began, only for the same wrench to fly concerningly close to his helm before slamming into the medbay wall.

“Another word out of either of you, and I’m welding you places you don’t even want to know!” Ratchet turned towards Ironhide. “Easier to show you than tell.” The medic motioned for her to follow him to the other side of the Prime’s medberth.

Ironhide glanced towards Optimus who seemed absolutely terrified, and then Jazz who was clearly biting his glossa, before doing as asked. Not a good idea to defy the medic when he was in this sort of mood. Ratchet had a wheeled cart with a small tub on it, where an insulation sheet had been draped over the top as a cover. When Ironhide finally reached it, the medic motioned for her to remove the sheet. She did so, only to immediately have to bite back profanities.

“Primus!” Still escaped her though.

Looking up at her with half-dimmed optics, swaddled in insulation sheets, lay something Ironhide hadn’t expected to see again for years. A newspark. One so new that they were more protoform than plating still, as blue optics stared up at her. It brightened its optics at the arrival of a new face above it as it stretched a delicate arm, somehow even smaller than Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s had been upon their emergence, up towards her.

Silver protoform, and those strange proportions? There was no doubt this was a newly emerged sparkling, hardly more than a few hours old.

“I didn’t know I was carrying, I swear—” Optimus began, only for Ratchet to apparently find another wrench to clang against the counter, startling them all. Even the newspark chirped in distress as it tugged its arm back towards the safety of its own frame. Ironhide whirled on her Prime. 

“How could you not know?!” All the secrecy was suddenly making sense, and she felt herself grow as angry as Ratchet. It was amazing the medic wasn’t literally spitting acid, because she was about to.

“He claims he believed the side effects were from the Matrix slowly eating away his spark.” Ratchet’s optics were fury incarnate. “The damn martyr figured he’d just quietly deactivate somewhere and spare us the trouble, apparently.”

Optimus tried not to shrink under the combined glares of her and Ratchet, but even Primus’ chosen mech apparently couldn’t resist ducking his head as his medic and Primesguard captain stared him down.

“I—” He tried to start a defense of his actions, but Jazz spoke from the back of the room.

“Unbelievably, it gets worse.”

Ironhide raised an optical ridge. “Worse? How can the situation get worse?!”

Jazz and Ratchet both turned towards Optimus. He looked terrified, like he didn’t want to admit something, but knew he had to. He folded his hands up in his lap and looked down at them as if they might have the answers he didn’t.

“He would have been sparked while I was still Orion Pax.”

Oh.

Oh frag.

“Ratchet, tell me he’s wrong.” Ironhide understood what Optimus was implying, but she’d do anything in order to not have to believe it. “The math’s got to be wrong.”

“It’s not,” Ratchet ground his teeth together. “The window in which that newspark would have ignited is right before the storming of the Senate. Which means the sire—”

Ironhide snarled, turning around and beginning to pace in the confined space. “Scrap— how was this not caught when he ascended?!”

Ratchet flinched. After all, he was the medic that conducted the first exam on the newly ascendant Optimus Prime. “The division of the newspark wouldn’t have fully occurred by that point, as far as I can tell. And the Matrix, it does strange things to medical scans. It may have masked, or even temporarily absorbed the newspark.”

Ratchet fell silent, looking at the floor himself now, as if furious that he hadn’t seen this. Meanwhile, Ironhide felt her fuel tank drop at the potential implication in his voice.

“You’re saying that newspark laying right there might have been fragging bonded to the Matrix?!”

“Potentially. Its spark would have had to have been Matrix-compatible for the newspark not to have extinguished. No Prime since the Thirteen has ever carried, and most of them were never bonded with the Matrix of Leadership. I have no data to tell me what that means, so I can only guess.”

A fussy whine from the newspark had all of them turning. Optimus started to reach a hand out, and then stopped. Jazz set a hand on Optimus’ other arm, distracting the Prime by speaking in Kaonite, as Ratchet went to check on the newspark. Ironhide followed the medic to the crib, as he scooped up the newspark and let it grasp at his fingers. 

Ironhide remembered the twins doing the same thing to her hands as she’d held them once, begging them to quietly hush themselves as she was hidden in a backroom so Sentinel’s agents wouldn’t realize the mech fighting out in the Pits wasn’t her. How the only thing that had silenced their upset was her spark pushing the necessity of silence onto them.

“Did they sparkbond?” She whispered.

Ratchet shook his helm. “No. The second I got him to the medbay, I put a patch on Optimus’ code to prevent that until we decide what to do. The same one I’d use if I had a carrier planning to surrender their bitlet for adoption. Similar patch on the newspark once he’d emerged. Leaves them both medically stable, and neither is searching for the bond.”

The newspark, still grasping at Ratchet’s fingers, crooned happily as he received attention. But Ratchet had other tasks he had to attend to, so he set the newspark back down to turn his attention elsewhere. As the newspark made a staticy sound of upset, Ironhide quickly placed her hand within reach. Curious teeking against her field from a tiny one, and then he was grasping her fingers with delight to explore his surroundings and process every new scrap of information he could receive. Optimus’ optics had found the newspark again, eyes full of deep longing.

What could they do in a situation like this?

No one seemed to know.

There was an old manual communicator installed into the main medbay. A machine with a counterpart in the outside hallway, meant to be a method of communication when a quarantine comms block went into effect to prevent viral spread. However, no one seemed to have bothered to do maintenance on the damn thing during the entire length of this war.

The reason Jazz could say that was that he was pretty sure that Hoist, because it had to have been Hoist who’d tried to use it, wouldn’t ask Ratchet “Hpw’s th e siptuabion-4^9$%^&?!”. And also that those buttons weren’t supposed to freeze with a horrible sound of grating gears before obviously refusing to budge.

Note for future Jazz: get that thing fixed. Meanwhile, he just continued on with his current mission, retrieving several cubes of medgrade and one cube of ultra refined energon for the newspark.

The newspark was currently resting in Optimus’ arms as no one had been able to stand keeping them apart for any longer. Jazz hadn’t ever gotten more than the occasional glance at Smokescreen when he’d been that young, and Blue already had proper coloring and plating by the time he’d landed in his and Prowl’s custody. This bitlet, however, was just thin little half formed silver plates over grey-black protoform. If he remembered right, the coloring started coming in after a few days. Or was it a few weeks?

Of course, that was if any coloring came in at all. The mechling’s sire had been mostly gunmetal grey. Even Optimus himself, even as Orion Pax, had had a fair number of silver accents.

When Jazz opened the door back into the Primal Suite, Optimus was speaking.

“—but he’s so small, are you certain he’s not underdeveloped or that I did something that might have hurt him?”

“I already told you, he’s just small. Can’t be sure why, but he’s not suffering from any deficiencies, nor was he born underdeveloped,” Ratchet sighed. “From his size, my guess is he’ll simply have a smaller alt-mode than either of his creators. Potentially a racing frame, or something of a similar weight class.”

“Could the Matrix be the reason why—” Ironhide began, only for Ratchet to snarl.

“The Matrix could have done plenty of things, Ironhide. I can’t be sure, and I'm not testing any theories on the bitlet or the carrier, so stop asking!”

Ironhide held up her hands, and Jazz spoke before the situation deteriorated further. “Hey, before we all kill each other, we need to eat.” He distributed the cubes, and poured the ultra-refined energon into a bottle for the newspark.

Optimus fed the newspark first, careful and gentle with him. At least they were all assuming it was a him. Most Cybertronians were. The bitlet was content once he’d been fed and the bubbles eased out of his fuel tank. He slowly drifted off to recharge in his carrier’s arms as Optimus drank his own meal. He needed more than a single cube after the night he’d had.

Even with tempers fraying from recharge deprivation and stress, the mid-morning lighting of the base was a reminder that time would keep passing and they wouldn’t be able to stay in hiding forever. They were all needed for the war effort, and the longer they were here, the worse the rumors and troop morale would get. This quarantine couldn’t last forever. It could barely last another day.

So, hoping that finally broaching the conversation they were all avoiding would at least get it over faster, Jazz took a deep vent.

“He can’t stay here.”

Everything seemed to freeze, and then Optimus’ arm curled a little tighter around the newspark. “Jazz, please—”

“We told Soundwave we’d evacuate every newspark and sparkling. He did us the damn courtesy of even using a spy to make sure we had before Megatron struck. When word gets out about him, they’re going to come looking for information. If the cassettes find out that that bitlet came out of your frame, how long before word gets to Megatron?”

Ratchet crossed his arms, but instead of disagreeing, he nodded. “Jazz is right, Optimus. If the Decepticons find out you have a newspark, they’ll do anything in their power to obtain him and use him to sway the war in their favor. And that’s before they figure out he’s Megatron’s. He can’t stay.”

Optimus looked sparkbroken as he gazed down at his newling.

Ironhide glanced up from her empty cube. “We could say he was mine. Pass him off as coming out a bit early, and the timing would line up with Chromie coming back from exile.”

“You?” Ratchet almost laughed. “Ironhide, Megatron knows exactly how you move and fight when you’re carrying. You could hardly feign ignorance about the symptoms of a carriage considering previous experience, and Optimus and I never would have let you stay in Iacon if you had been.”

“We can’t just separate him from his carrier! He needs him!” Ironhide tried again, only to be cut off.

“Needs? Needs?! Ironhide, we all need to consider what’s going to happen if the ‘Cons find out about him!” Ratchet threw his hands into the air. “No unofficial kids and cassettes policy is going to stop Megatron from bringing the full weight of the Decepticons down on those shields if he finds out that he sparked Orion Pax!”

“Calm down, both of you!” Jazz snapped. “Ironhide, Ratchet’s right. We can’t pass that bit off as yours. If we’d known in advance, maybe, but we haven’t had the time to prepare. Ratchet, we need to figure out what to do, not talk in circles. Please mechs, I don’t have Prowl to spit plans out of his ATS for us, so help me think!”

“You dare—”

“ENOUGH!” Optimus’ engine roared, and the newspark startled awake with a squeak. “I am exhausted by this nonstop arguing! I need the three of you to work together, and all you can do is try to tear each other apart? I picked all of you to help me make Cybertron better. If Megatron had not chosen to believe that I had become what we fought against, he would be here too. So stop this fighting, this mistrust and divisions, and help me make Cybertron a better world! Even if for the moment, all we can do is ensure the safety of one single newspark!”

Silence fell. Slowly, Optimus’ engine coaxed down, and the tired look he’d been carrying for so long returned to his optics. The newspark chirped louder and louder, distress becoming obvious in its tiny EM field.

And then, suddenly and without explanation, the presence of the Matrix of Leadership seemed to grow stronger in the room. The newspark paused, and then pressed tighter to Optimus’ chassis, his ventilations slowing as he eased back into recharge. Even Optimus looked shocked, glancing at all of them to ascertain that they had felt it too.

Well. Ratchet had been right about one thing. That bitlet was definitely Matrix-compatiable.

Optimus suddenly got a far away look in his optics, the Matrix-hum increasing slightly, although not nearly as much as it had in response to the newspark, as their Prime lost himself in communicating with the ancient artifact. After a few moments, the intensity faded from the room, and Optimus sighed.

“What are our options for a discreet evacuation?”

“To the fleet?” Ironhide asked.

“No. To a colony of refugees. It can’t ever be known he’s from my coding or Megatron’s.” Optimus was quiet as he looked down at his newspark. “Perhaps, in time, I might— I could go to his location and take him in as my ward.”

Optimus didn’t sound terribly confident in his proposal. They all seemed to understand the truth he was trying to avoid saying aloud. We must spare him the truth of his heritage for his own safety. If this was the sort of call Jazz had to make every day in Spec Ops, it wouldn’t be that bad of a plan.

But that sounded just a little too much like how Ratchet had initially dismissed his and Prowl’s intentions to take in Blue for him to be fully comfortable saying it.

“Mech, you sure about that?” Jazz glanced over the pair. “It’d be easy to engineer a story about finding him shortly after we joined the fleet to hide the truth about everything, but if you send him to a colony or something, we— we might not ever find him again.”

Silence. Even Ratchet had to pause at that. The newspark was curled up so softly in Optimus’ arm, a tiny hand pressed and splayed against his chassis like it belonged there and nowhere else.

“The Matrix believes this to be the best course of action. It had been quiet to my questions for a long while now, but with his arrival, it speaks to me again.” Optimus rests a finger gently over his sparkling’s tiny hand. “It desires his safety as much as I do.”

After a few seconds, Ironhide stood up. “Then we should let you get some sleep. The rest of us can figure out the details while you do.”

Jazz quickly caught onto the actual reason Ironhide was trying to clear the room, and nodded. “C’mon, Ratchet. Let’s give ‘em some space.”

They left the Primal Suite, dimming the lights behind them as they did. While they remained within earshot, the Prime’s venting was even and smooth, but after the door closed, none of theirs was. Ironhide finally sat down on an empty medberth, looking as exhausted as their Prime.

“He’s just made the hardest decision of his life, and I just—” She covered her face with her hands as she leaned back. “I knew my bittes would be safe with Chromie when I let go of ‘em. But he— Primus, he’s never going to know.”

Ratchet and Jazz glanced at each other, and then Jazz sighed. 

“I think we all need a short recharge cycle. Ratchet, mind if I snag another berth?”

“As long as you don’t mind me doing the same,” Ratchet mumbled. “Two hours. Then we need to wake up and figure out our plan.”

No one disagreed.

By the time the Cybertronian evening had settled in around them, the plan had been decided. Ironhide would commandeer a shuttle and take it to the Spacebridge, using a direct order from Optimus to have it activated. With a Spec Ops grade disguise, she would escort the newspark out to a neutral colony Jazz knew had received a large influx of young refugees during the war. This newspark would simply be one of many, never alone or lacking for friends.

And among so many young mechanisms, who would ever look at a small framed mechling and see a Prime or the Champion of Tarn?

From there, Ironhide would have to join the fleet. There was nothing to be done about that. The Iacon Spacebridge would be decommisioned before she could return. Meanwhile, Ratchet would keep the others in quarantine for as little extra time as possible. The Prime would spend the next few weeks operating with enough pain blockers in his system to kill a smaller mech until his frame healed, in order to pretend that it hadn’t just been brutalized by an unexpected emergence. 

Ironhide remembered those horrible sensations. She hadn’t had access to pain blockers in the Pits, and the cramped conditions of the hiding location the other gladiators had made for her while Makeshift had pretended to be her hadn’t improved the situation. At the same time, she remembered the care the other gladiators, even Megatron, had shown her in the aftermath. Sentinel had thought she would die easily after the emergence and spare him more public humiliation. He hadn’t accounted for how slaves in the Pits had looked out for each other, and Makeshift’s sigma that allowed him to imitate her perfectly.

If her loyalty coding had been purged before Optimus’ ascendancy, Ironhide had no doubt she would have likely ended up standing at Megatron’s side rather than another Prime’s. Yet, during the chaotic aftermath of Sentinel’s death and the disappearance of the Functionist Council, it hadn’t been Megatron who’d remembered the mech who could be nothing but undyingly loyal even after being thrown aside. No. Megatron had forgotten her.

But Orion Pax, even after ascending to become Optimus Prime, had not. The mech she should have hated the most had been the one to offer out a hand, restore her to honor, and bring what was left of her family back to her.

It still stung sometimes, but she’d chosen her side in this war after that. This time, the loyalty she served with was her own, not something enforced through her coding.

She watched as Ratchet packed up everything she would need, in his opinion, for proper newspark care. Jazz held onto the bitlet as Optimus finalized the orders, giving Ironhide the impunity to move through the base, requisition a shuttle, and online the Iacon Spacebridge. The official story they’d feed the others in High Command was that Ironhide was carrying critical orders to Ultra Magnus, so important that to relay them over the regular communication channels would be too risky.

Unofficially, of course, the only reason she would leave her Prime behind was because he had given her the only mission he could give her that they both agreed was more critical than his own safety. This newspark had committed no wrongdoing, simply having the misfortune to be born when he was to parents such as his. If so much had gone differently, this could have been a truly unifying moment for a changing and healing Cybertron. They would have been standing in this medbay with celebration in their voices, Soundwave planning for the official announcement of the newspark, while Megatron was sitting with Optimus and their newling. 

But there would be no celebration here. No beautiful rousing speeches, no adoring public or cheering gladiators eager to catch a glimpse of the newspark. Everything, absolutely everything, must be a secret.

For the moment, the newspark was awake, looking around as best as he could. Already his little processor was making connections that, even without a sparkbond, he was being cared for. He was perfectly content, wriggling softly when he felt uncomfortable, but no more than any newspark would. 

Soon enough, however, his little processor had drained him, and he was fussing for fuel. Optimus quietly fed him as Jazz went to scout out their route and find Ironhide the best shuttle for the mission. Which left her and Ratchet watching from a distance as Optimus began to murmur to his bitlet.

“I’m so sorry, little one. The Matrix was trying to tell me about you all this time, and I ignored it. Perhaps if I had listened, we would not need to part so soon.”

The newspark finished his meal and slowly drifted off into recharge as Optimus hummed and rocked him. 

“Optimus,” Ironhide spoke quietly, afraid to disturb the moment. “You got a newspark name for him?”

Optimus considered her words, and then shook his head.

“I don’t. It doesn’t feel right to give him a name when he cannot stay with me.”

Ironhide wanted to protest, remembering how carefully she had considered newspark names for the twins in the Pits, before letting go of them and sending them to safety in Caminus. At the same time, she understood. She also didn’t want to rush him if he decided on one later, to be used in private recollections of this moment. Blue was an alright newspark name, but only because of the circumstances that had given him the name. However, she still pitied Smokescreen for all the years he’d been simply dubbed Yellow by Prowl.

Never let a tactician name a bitlet, she’d concluded back then. They’d treat it like a problem that needed to be quickly solved, and the poor bitty got stuck with the results.

Jazz returned. “Things are quieting down for the night out there at the moment. Found a good shuttle for you, ‘Hide.”

Ironhide looked over the log and schematics she’d been handed. The shuttle Jazz had picked was small, fast, and just big enough she’d have room to store a bitty and their things. Ratchet had already covered her earlier with a high quality coat of modded on-off paint, mostly black but leaving a few red accents. Jazz had made her fake documents for this new identity as well.

She’d take the newspark to the selected colony, spin a sob story about her friend who’d died in emergence without a proper medic’s help, and how she just couldn’t care for such a young newspark on her own. After staying around long enough to make sure he’d be alright, she’d be off.

But what still felt wrong was the knowledge that she wouldn’t be coming back to Iacon afterwards. She was a member of the Primesguard, and it wasn’t unheard of for Primesguards of the past to have members sent out on missions such as these. But there was always someone left behind at the side of the Prime. Someone carrying the banner of their legion. 

This newspark, she knew, was more important than that idea, and yet? If she left Iacon and her Prime in their darkest hours for this mission, and the rejoined her family instead of returning to help? What kind of Primesguard did that make her? Was she even worthy of carrying that name?

She was drawn out of her musings by examining the path Jazz had highlighted for her to take through the Spec Ops passage network, what bay the shuttle she was going to commandeer was in, and anything else he thought might be relevant. She reviewed it all a few more times, before looking towards the CMO and Spec Ops Head.

“You make sure nothing else happens to him while I’m gone?”

Ratchet made an exasperated sound, but nodded. Jazz just shrugged, giving her a ribbing sort of smile

“We’ll do our best, but he is an idiot.”

Ironhide just gave a soft rumble, a chuckle of sorts, as Jazz’s face turned more serious.

“Tell Smokey and Blue that Prowl and I love ‘em when you see ‘em, will you?”

Ironhide nodded, and then turned. Here came the hardest part. She approached Optimus slowly, finally stopping just short of his elbow. “It’s time, mech.”

He didn’t respond at first, but then he nodded, lifting the swaddled bitlet up and pressing a kiss to the tiny helm. 

“Stay safe, my little one. In time I will come for you. I promise, I’ll come for you.”

Ironhide felt her own spark break at those words, remembering how she’d promised the twins that she would keep surviving, that she’d live for them and through them. She remembered how hard it had been to watch them leave as Optimus placed his little one into her arms. He kept looking at the tiny life he’d helped create, clearly wishing he didn’t have to let go.

Unfortunately, the mech who’d contributed the other half of this newspark’s CNA made that letting go a necessity.

“I’ll keep him safe, Prime. I swear on my life. He’ll be safe.”

Then, before anything else could be done, she left the Primal Suite through the back passage, and triggered the Spec Ops door.

She was glad that the sobs didn’t happen while she was in earshot, or else she might not have held it together herself.

There weren’t supposed to be any more departures or arrivals through the Iacon Spacebridge, and yet here Pivot-Point was standing, having been roused from the barracks by a strange order he’d received from his commander.

::Be on standby for Spacebridge activation, Prime’s orders.::

Apparently Spectro had gotten the order too, since they were both rubbing the recharge out of their optics on the platform, Spectro keeping himself out of the way since Pivot-Point was the senior member of the two of them. There was a soft hum in his spark as Sweeps woke up, but he pushed reassurance down the bond. No reason for his conjunx to be awake because he got called up for an emergency night shift.

Still, a part of him wondered if this was some sort of drill, up and until the shuttle landed. A single mech came out, looking exhausted.

Ironhide wasn’t hard to recognize as she came forward, handing him his official orders. As he reviewed them, Ironhide hummed.

“I trust you, Pivot-Point. So I need to ask ya to watch out for your conjunx, ‘cause I’m gonna be gone for a while.”

He cycled his optics. Trust? What was Ironhide going on about? And where could she be going? She had a strange carrying case under one arm, something she clearly didn’t want to let out of her sight. “Gone? Gone where?”

“I’m deliverin’ something important that the Prime doesn’t would make it there intact unless it was someone like me taking it. I don’t know all the contents, couldn’t tell you even if I did. I’m just the messenger.”

That sort of made sense, but barely. It did very little to clear up his confusion as he looked at the coordinates he’d been asked to send Ironhide to. “Of course I’ll look after Sweeps. I’ll let him know you’ll be gone when he wakes up in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Ironhide adjusted the case. “And thanks for operating the ‘bridge all on your own. I know it can’t be easy.”

On my own? Before Pivot-Point could ask, Ironhide had headed back onto the shuttle. The ramp sealed, and the engines cycled, ready for takeoff.

He went over to the operations platform to plug in the coordinates, and discovered Spectro had disappeared. Where had he gone? He looked around, but couldn’t see the mech. He didn’t particularly like that, but there were sometimes things in the Spacebridge that required immediate attention. Nothing that would prevent the bridge’s safe use, but were still cause for concern. Perhaps he was attending to one of those tasks?

He watched the Iacon Spacebridge begin to tick through its activation sequence for what was likely the final time as the shuttle rose, and then moved forward.

He spotted Ironhide giving him a little wave from the cockpit before the Spacebridge wrapped around the shuttle and pulled it through the structure, disappearing it into the ether. The deactivation sequence proceeded as normal. There were no bombs breaching Iacon’s walls, or sounds of gunfire. Just a suddenly quiet Iacon night.

But where, where was Spectro?

He checked all the maintenance panels on the superstructure that might have required sudden emergency attention, and then all the common areas right around the Spacebridge. His search turned up nothing. And yet he knew he hadn’t just imagined Spectro following him out of the barracks to join him. So where was he?

“—yeah, it was Ironhide. She had some sort of case with her. Viewfinder said he didn’t get a good shot at it, but you’ll have a better chance of discerning what it might be than we will. Some sort of package from the Prime, apparently, had to be delivered directly.”

Pivot-Point froze as he stopped, listening around a corner. That was Spectro’s voice, but those weren’t the words a friend would say. 

“Yes, I’ll transmit the images once we get back to our base. Spyglass will try to clear them up on our end, but we’ll send the originals too.”

Slowly, he leaned around the corner as carefully as he could. He could see Spectro using a completely external two-way comm. There was a faint voice crackling from it.

“Prime’s in quarantine with Jazz and Ratchet still. No one knows why, but the word’s getting around. Spec Ops is already pretty weak, might be time to push ‘em hard. Mirage and Lockback can’t keep everything running on their own for much longer.” As Spectro spoke, Pivot-Point turned up his audials as high as he could, finally catching the faint crackle on the other end.

“Autobots: Managing a far more impressive defense than you think with only three operational saboteurs. Advice: Proceed with caution. Special Operations: Already suspects our agent was on the Spacebridge when the outer walls were breached. Reflector: Do not draw attention to yourselves.”

He’d heard enough. He turned his audials back down and moved to hurry away. He needed to raise the alarm.

Which was when a bright flash had his optics whiting out, allowing a mech to grapple him to the ground.

“Viewfinder, what the frag?!” Spectro snarled.

“You had company.” An unfamiliar voice, coming from the mech currently pinning Pivot-Point as his optics cycled and the world started to come back into focus around him. “Followed you from the platform.”

“Then we need to deal with it! Who is it—”

Pivot-Point didn’t have any way to comm High Command directly, with Ironhide gone. But he still had a chance to raise the alarm, He tugged hard on his sparkbond with his conjunx, startling Sweeps awake, before immediately sending off a comm message.

::Sweeps, contact High Command, there’s a spy and it’s—::

The message was never completed, as Pivot-Point suddenly felt something squeezing in around his spark, causing his entire frame to thrash in pure agony. 

“Wait, Viewfinder, stop! That’s Pivot-Point! He’s got a conjunx, which means—”

By the time Spectro had completed his sentence, warning Viewfinder that Pivot-Point’s conjunx would instantly sense his death, the mech was already at Viewfinder’s pedes going grey.

Soundwave got the report piecemeal after that. Spectro said they were likely compromised, Viewfinder disagreed, and Spyglass was wondering what the hell had gone so wrong with a simple spur of the moment observation mission. So was Soundwave himself, to be honest, as his agents finally got back to their current base of operations. Spyglass immediately started transmitting Viewfinder’s photos, not taking any time to try to clarify them himself. He understood the rush considering the potential that his agents were compromised.

Especially when he started to intercept Autobot chatter. Mirage, as acting Head of Spec Ops while Jazz was in quarantine, was coordinating an investigative team including Prowl to head to the Spacebridge immediately due to a potential murder having been reported at that location. One reported by a conjunx who had felt the sparkbond snap after receiving a half completed message about a spy. The barracks had been locked down, so there was no chance to slip Spectro back in unnoticed.

One sloppy moment gathering intelligence that might not even be worth anything, and Soundwave had lost his only chance to uncover the realities of Project Teletran. He tried not to snarl as he issued the recall orders after Spyglass transmitted every last scrap of information they had gathered. They’d take what equipment with them that they could, destroy everything else, and then go underground until Soundwave was able to have them retrieved. 

With his orders given, Soundwave retreated to his quarters. Most of the cassettes were asleep, but Ravage rose as he entered, stretching. Their exchange was quiet to avoid waking the others.

“Bad night?”

“Affirmative. Reflector: Compromised.”

“Scrap. There goes our chance at uncovering whatever Project Teletran is.” Ravage jumped up onto a shelf over one of Soundwave’s favorite spots to sit and work. “Any idea what intel was worth losing that chance?”

“Reflector: Reported Ironhide departing Iacon via Spacebridge with cargo. Cargo: Unknown, but apparently of extreme importance. Visuals: Unclear.”

“Ah, so we’ll be trying to determine what it is then. Fun,” Ravage yawned as he looked down from his shelf. “Wake me up if you find anything exciting.”

Soundwave nodded, and Ravage was soon back in recharge. This would become a painstakingly slow project, considering the quality of the pictures. And yet, something in Ironhide’s stance, the way she was moving, told him it would be worth his time.

So, he got to work.

Chapter Text

Prowl wished he could have called the rest he was getting in Hoist’s office the last two nights good, but it wasn’t. The secondary medbay’s hum was unfamiliar. The light settings couldn’t be changed, so they came on at full brightness every time Hoist had to come in and check something, or if Prowl rolled over on the cot the wrong way. And yet, it was still better sleep than he’d be getting in his empty habsuite.

He’d spent nearly all his life alone, in pain, in fear, or some combination of all three. Although he was not considered a social mech, he’d come to rely on the company of others to keep himself sane. He kept listening, despite knowing that there was no point in doing so, for Blue’s tiny sounds that were the prelude to midnight bawling fits. Or for Smokescreen’s door to push open, and Jazz to get up and grumble that if he caught him in the mica cookies again, there’d be problems, words always followed by the door quickly shutting again and Jazz flopping right back down into the bed. He kept waiting for the click of the energon press, the sizzling of oil, the whispers of ‘Don’t wake up your ori, he had a long night.’

But none of them came. Alone, and yet not. Smokescreen and Blue safely in the stars, but not with him. Jazz locked in the primary medbay, his condition unknown, and only able to offer the vaguest of reassurances as Prowl dealt with the sudden absence of four different members of High Command. 

He was not supposed to even be fully doing his own job again, let alone the work of the others. He could feel the eyes on him as he tried to keep them all afloat. The mechs who saw Sentinel’s shadow still standing among them. The ones who made him, as loathe as he was to admit it, afraid.

Sleep should have been an escape. Recharging, secure in the knowledge that he trusted Hoist and no harm would come to him here while the medic lived. And yet, his mind would not leave him alone. The ATS was inactive while he recharged, but his damaged and glitched processor?

Oh, it loved the hours it had to dredge up the worst of his past. And without the presence of any familiar field to muffle the nightmares, they ran wild.

He found himself standing on a balcony. Not a proper one looking outside, but a theater box, perhaps? He was being beckoned forward by a mech he couldn’t see beyond a single arm, a chair back obscuring the rest of him. He wanted to run, but his dream self moved forward easily.

“So, you’re the Praxian enforcer that Senator Sentinel is using to play politics, hmm?”

That hadn’t been said in a theater, but where dreams and memories met, inaccuracy abounded. Prowl’s dream self sat in an empty seat, and he found his head unable to turn to look at the speaker.

“I am.”

“Hmm, honest. I like that. Did you serve our fair city well? And at what precinct did you hail from?”

“I was built and worked at Petrex.”

“Oh, Enforcer Headquarters. That would explain the rumors I’ve heard about you.”

The scene suddenly shifted around them, and Prowl was sitting on a bench, the mech at his side.

“He sits in the Primacy firmly now,” Prowl heard himself say. “He cannot have much more use for me.”

“Your brilliant mind is not one he deserves any longer.” There’s a hand on his back, pulling him closer. Prowl lets himself be pulled along, his dream self knowing that this is the best chance for freedom he’ll ever receive. “I will convince him of our desires, dearest one. Even if it takes every scrap of influence I have, you will be free.”

 Prowl looked down at water that had suddenly appeared below his feet, and then he was falling through it face first. Pain and humiliation filling his very core. The pity in Ironhide’s eyes as she’d left him to the fate Sentinel had arranged.

That hand, that voice. Things once enjoyed now making his entire spark curdle in hate.

“You promised me-”

“He will never let you go. I would love to have you as my own, Prowl. But you are less important than what you can give me. I do not wish to be cruel. Please do not make me hurt you.”

Hurt? What did this figure know of hurt, as he dashed Prowl’s hopes and betrayed his trust? As he spent his days acting like nothing had changed, and his nights lying beside him as if Prowl was a mere buymech? What did he know of Prowl’s mind, the same mind he’d once sang the praises of, and now only sought to reproduce in order to control?

What did he know about the lengths a trapped mechanimal would go to, in order to survive?

It was night now, and the acid rain was pouring all around him. He walked in a cloak, towards a small oil house. In truth, he’d only been there twice, and neither time had been on a night quite like this. And yet, he knew what was coming.

The black Polyhexian melted out of the alley’s shadows, and Prowl passed the credit chit and name to the mech, alongside a data stick of information on the target’s home, habits, and preferences. This association he had nurtured since shortly after his betrayal was about to give him his first true taste of justice.

If he could not have freedom, he would settle for this instead. And maybe one day, the actions of the one who’d betrayed him would give him a second chance at a life beyond Sentinel.

If the affection of a lover could not rescue him from slavery, perhaps the devotion of a child would. For it was already known that this mechling, unlike its originator, would be free.

After all, the traitor had only really needed an heir. But if the traitor was dead? Then the heir would receive everything. And through the heir? 

Perhaps, Prowl could make miracles happen.

::Prowl. Wake up.::

Prowl snapped awake from the dream at the voice of Mirage in his audial. Mirage sounded tense.

::Report.::

::Blaster just woke up me and Lockback, said there’s been a panicked call for help from a mech who just felt their sparkbond with their conjunx snap. The conjunx was talking to him over comms when he died. He claimed to know something about a spy.::

::Coordinates?::

::Iacon Spacebridge. Get there ASAP.::

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Prowl rose. He snagged a mild stimulant gel off of Hoist’s desk and quickly chewed it as he stepped out into the medbay.

“Where are you going?”

He turned, finding that Hoist had been dozing on a chair in front of his office door. Prowl wondered if that had been to reassure him, or to avoid waking him up.

“Mirage needs my assistance.”

“Mirage knows you’re on restricted hours,” Hoist’s tone is polite, but firm. “So you should go back to sleep.”

“Hoist—”

“I’m your medic, Prowl. I get to make the decisions here.” The green mech was frowning. “You are not fully cleared for duty.”

“You can’t control what time of day I work my limited hours,” Prowl looked the medic firmly in the eyes. “And need I remind you that until Optimus returns from quarantine, and unless Ultra Magnus arrives unexpectedly, I am the provisional leader of the Autobots?”

Hoist’s glare is dangerous. Prowl knows why. It’s stupid of him to throw that fact around, but right now he has no choice.

“If we weren’t already short so much of High Command, I would be telling you that a medic’s opinion always outranks your own. But tonight, and tonight only, I’ll let you go, but only on the condition that you come right back here after your hours are over and get some sleep.”

Prowl could keep pushing. But he didn’t need the ATS to confirm what he already knew. This was the best Hoist was going to offer him.

“Agreed.”

Hoist stepped back and let him pass.

And that was how, as the Cybertronian dawn rose over Iacon, Prowl found himself at the scene of a murder. Once, well before his contract had ever been sold to the then-Senator, Sentinel, he had imagined a lifetime of dawns like this ahead of him. After all, Praxus had had plans for their prototype of a new breed of enforcer. Ones that would have brought them success and riches, had the costs not been so high.

If those mechs could see him now, they’d curse themselves. Not because they hadn’t kept him, but because they had sold him so cheaply. As if any mech living reasonably would ever suddenly fall into possession of six million shanix. Cybertron’s wealth had once run as deep as its corruption. Now there were simply the factions’ pools of resources, and the few mechs who’d taken themselves and their funds elsewhere before the war had truly started. 

Still, the scene in front of him made it easier to set aside the nonstop worries he felt for Jazz being in quarantine as he focused on the greyed frame of the mech in front of him.

He’d become very familiar with every bit of information in Pivot-Point’s file over the course of his investigation into the potential spy in their midsts, and even every bit of information in his conjunx’s file too. He’d been concerned the couple’s friendship with Ironhide might be the source of their leak. Yet, at this moment, he felt he must rescind that judgment, as he surveyed the scene.

It seemed Pivot-Point had been caught off guard, unable to resist much before he’d been killed, but there was evidence of a scuffle. Three mechs had been here. But if the spy had encountered two mechs, then there should be a second greyed frame somewhere nearby. Unless there’d been two spies, and one intruder.

Prowl hated that option, even as the ATS found the scenario far more likely than the idea of finding another deactivated mech in the area around the superstructure. The teams Mirage had arranged had been carefully combing for evidence for hours. If another dead mech was here, they would have found some trace of it by this point.

He wished he could run his findings past Jazz, but with his conjunx still in the medbay under a quarantine comms block, that wouldn’t happen any time soon. Having taken in all the useful data he could from the scene, he motioned for the frame to be removed from the scene. An autopsy would have to see if any other useful information might be found from the damage done to the mech’s frame.

Now, Prowl had to deal with the damage done to those left behind. As he returned to the platform in front of the Spacebridge, he found Lockback sitting with Sweeps, clearly having been deemed a less frightening interrogator than either him or Mirage. The little mech was wrapped in an insulation sheet, shivering despite the reasonably comfortable temperature. Shock was a strange thing, as Prowl stopped next to Mirage. Not so close as to obviously be listening in, but close enough to overhear everything.

“I don’t know why anyone would want him dead. And a spy? I didn’t— I—”

Sweeps fell into sobs, and Lockback spoke in soothing tones. “We’re still trying to piece everything together ourselves, but for the moment, I think you just need to rest, and take down some fuel if you can manage it. We’ll have more questions later, so I can’t let you leave yet, but you won’t be alone, okay?”

“Y- Yeah,” Sweeps managed, as Lockback motioned for someone to sit with the minibot before joining them.

“Mech doesn’t know much. His conjunx was on call at the barracks last night for any emergencies, so they weren’t together. But why the mech would’ve left the barracks is beyond me. The bridge shouldn’t have been online at all.”

Even Mirage seemed unsettled as they all mulled over that. Several testimonies from mechs on patrol on Iacon’s remaining walls had verified that the Iacon Spacebridge had come online last night, but no one knew why or how. If Pivot-Point had had orders, they’d been taken by his killer. Prowl might have assumed that the spies had escaped through the bridge as well, if not for the fact that the timestamp of Pivot-Point’s final communication came after the Spacebridge had concluded its closure sequence and gone inactive.

“The barracks commander should be here soon, perhaps she might have more details.”

With little else to do, the three mechs swapped all the information they’d gleaned, and just went back to the scene of the crime, taking in every last detail. Until the commander arrived, and Prowl and Mirage quickly set to questioning the mech.

She seemed as bewildered as them in some ways, when they asked why the Spacebridge had been activated.

“I received a copy of orders from the Prime himself, through Commander Ironhide. All the clearance codes checked out. Was High Command unaware of this?”

Prowl felt an unpleasant tingling sensation across the protoform at the back of his neck. “Did you save a copy of these orders?”

The commander nodded that she had, and hardly had to be prompted to copy them onto a blank datapad when provided with one.

“Ironhide requested a single Spacebridge operator be deployed, asking for Pivot-Point by name. Said she trusted him, and needed to ask him something anyways. With all of the orders passing the clearance codes required for such a thing, I had no issue sending him out alone. He’s one of our most experienced operators.” The commander handed the orders over to Prowl, and he began to review them.

Ironhide’s absence yesterday had been noted throughout the Command Center. When the roster had shown that she had been temporarily assigned to Spec Ops, Prowl had made sure to question Mirage in person about it. Although Mirage was damn good at making up lies on the spot, Prowl realized quickly that Mirage had no clue where or what Ironhide was doing from how his optics had flickered at the question. If he’d had time to prepare a lie, he wouldn’t have been caught making those errors, but Prowl knew his tells when he was startled.

This was more evidence of the lie. And while Ironhide could have easily put herself under Spec Ops command for a day or two, Prowl wasn’t certain she would. So who had? And had Ironhide been under duress, or actually following orders?

But all the codes did, in fact, check out. No encoded distress phrase from either the Prime or Ironhide. This all read as official business of the Prime. Optimus didn’t often use his powers to go above High Command as he hated the mere fact that he could even do that in the first place, but this seemed to be a rare exception.

“Did Commander Ironhide elaborate on why she needed the Spacebridge activated?” Lockback questioned.

“No. She said it was a mission from the Prime, and she couldn’t elaborate further. She might have shared additional details with Pivot-Point, I know she was close to the mech’s conjunx. But if she did, I have no way of knowing what they were. However, after the lockdown order came from Commander Prowl, I did discover I had four other mechanisms missing from my barracks. All of them are additional Spacebridge operators.”

Instantly, all three mechs were on high alert, and the commander produced a datapad of her own, handing it to Prowl.

“Two of the mechs were apparently out drinking from a personal supply of high-grade engex, and got into a brawl. Landed themselves in the Old City Theater triage center. First Aid vouched they were already there at the time of the murder. Another was two barracks over, interfacing with a partner during the time frame. Once again, a solid alibi.”

“Which leaves your fourth,” Mirage crossed his arms. “Designation?”

“Spectro. He and Pivot-Point were close, so I can’t be sure if his absence means anything nefarious, or if you’re going to find a second greyed frame somewhere closeby.”

Spectro. Prowl quickly began to review the mech’s files as Mirage and Lockback asked a few more questions, letting the ATS cook away at the results.

Spectro had been an engineer and operator on the Crystal City Spacebridge, one who had helped install its remaining components into Iacon’s shield systems. He therefore would have had an intimate knowledge of the city’s shields, the sort of intelligence Soundwave would have needed in order to breach the outer walls.

Prowl spun on his pedes as he headed back towards Sweeps. Mirage and Lockback both startled, but followed him. As he approached, the minibot saw him and froze. Old instinct kicking in, Prowl was sure. Sweeps had been there under Sentinel, after all, when Prowl had often been in charge of dispensing the Prime’s punishments that didn’t fall under Ironhide’s jurisdiction. Still, he couldn’t care how he was frightening the minibot when he needed urgent answers.

“Sweeps, what do you know of Spectro?”

“Spectro? He— he’s my and Pivot-Point’s friend. I bring— I would bring snacks down on my breaks for both of them, and we’d all sit and chat. He was always curious about what it was like to work in the Basilica, but he— he couldn’t be the spy, could he?”

The ATS spat out new percentages that, at last, they had correctly identified their spy. Befriending a mech who was bonded to a mech who worked in the Primal Basilica? One who had close access to the Prime and Ironhide?

Too advantageous to be a coincidence.

“Sweeps, have you ever mentioned anything about the inside of the Primal Basilica to Spectro? Such as areas no longer in use, or currently inoperable?”

Sweeps considered the question. “After the kitchens were closed, and you had the food redistributed, I went down there to clean up. But I knew where the chefs hid all their special ingredients, things no one else found. I told Ironhide, but she said it wasn’t a big deal, and that I could keep going down there. Spectro asked where I got some of the ingredients that I cooked with, and I—”

Prowl reached out, startling the smaller mech when he touched his shoulder. “Show me. Every bolt hole and hidden place you know in the kitchens. Now.”

Mirage had to admit, the setup was good. The ‘Cons had trashed it before they got there, but they’d converted a hidden empty pantry into quite a little base of operations.

There’d definitely been multiple agents here, all pulled or relocated after Spectro had been compromised. Some sort of team unit, then. Lockback had bundled Sweeps off to go sit with Rung, but the poor ‘bot was a wreck. Mirage could hardly blame him. He’d lost his conjunx, found out a so-called friend was the murderer and a spy, and now he was all alone, without even a friend to comfort him.

Mirage couldn’t imagine the anger and grief he’d feel if he lost Hound or Lockback, let alone if it turned out that one of them had been a traitor who’d killed the other. Prowl had begun to pick apart every bit of the mess in front of them, while Red Alert arranged and deployed teams to look into any other spaces Sweeps had been able to provide locations of. He guessed it was a good thing Optimus was currently in quarantine, considering how thoroughly they were searching through the Basilica at the moment. Mirage had even clued Red Alert into the existence of a few lesser used Spec Ops tunnels. Jazz owed him for letting Red chew him out instead of the actual Head of Spec Ops.

Prowl was collecting delicate pieces of shattered equipment from the wreckage as Mirage waved off a mech checking in on the two of them. Which left them alone.

“So, would you like to tell me either the truth of what Ironhide’s up to, or are you going to admit you have no clue?”

Mirage sighed. “No clue. Is there a dead drop location from the medbay that Optimus could have sent his orders from despite the quarantine?”

Prowl hummed, considering Mirage’s words. “I suppose that potential exists. I am not aware of any, but considering the fuss Red Alert just had over your tunnels, I don’t suppose that means there might not be one anyways.” He fixed Mirage with a look that he could only shrug at.

“Guess we’ll get to ask Jazz when he gets let out.”

After a few seconds (and likely dozens of near-instantaneous calculations by the ATS), Prowl sighed, accepting he’d gotten as much information or confirmation as he’d get on the topic. Mirage knelt down and helped him sift through the debris. 

“We might be able to glean more information from these with Blaster’s help,” Prowl lifted up a shattered hard drive piece that might be big enough to still contain useful information. “We should also check for any other mechanisms who’ve gone AWOL. Spectro could have been the lone agent enlisted in the Autobots, with the others hiding in the Basilica, or there could have been an entire squad of enlisted mechs running out of this room, and the others may still be in the Autobot-held portions of the city.”

“We should to move up the decommissioning date of the Iacon Spacebridge. If Soundwave’s completely lost his access to intelligence, he’s going to be more inclined to follow Megatron’s timeline of the siege, before whatever information he’s gleaned gets too old to be useful.”

Prowl nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. At the same time, it would be best if Optimus was present at the event, if the quarantine ends soon. Ironhide’s absence, this murder, and the Spacebridge’s activation have not gone unnoticed. Morale is of the utmost importance, and we are sorely lacking in it at the moment.” 

“Any clue when that end of quarantine might be?”

Prowl could only shrug. “Jazz’s presence in our sparkbond remains somewhat agitated, but not actively distressed. I can only hope that means this will be over soon, and—” Prowl paused, clearly receiving a comms message, and his doorwings made an irritated flicker. “I have just been ordered by Hoist to report to the secondary medbay.”

Ah. Acting CMO summons for a mech who wasn’t supposed to be overworking. 

“We’re all running on empty. I’ll have Red Alert send a team down here to clean the place up and take anything that might be useful up to Blaster. The rest of us need some recharge.”

Prowl grumbled something that suspiciously sounded like he was used to far less recharge than he was receiving, but disappeared anyways. Mirage waited until a cleanup team had been assembled, leaving them to be supervised by one of Blaster’s cassettes, before heading to his own habsuite.

Lockback met him on the way there, both of them feeling their feet dragging as they stumbled over the threshold and took down their rations before their frames could remind them how exhausted they were. Lockback hit the berth first, and Mirage landed right next to him. 

“Frag, I hate this,” Mirage groaned. “Jazz had better not deactivate in that quarantine, I won’t stand becoming the actual Head of Spec Ops.”

“Agreed. None of us want that job.” Lockback stretched out an arm, letting Mirage shuffle closer. “It’d be easier if Hound was still here.”

Mirage went silent. Hound and Lockback had known each other longer than he’d known either of them, and this was a reminder of that. He seldom felt excluded from what the two of them had, considering how often they spent time with him without the other. But sometimes, however irrational it was, the jealousy flared. 

“Hey,” Lockback hummed, hand settling on Mirage’s back. “I’d be missing you too if you were gone and it was just him and me running this place.”

Jealousy mollified, Mirage huffed. “I miss him too.”

They lay there in the quiet, until Mirage sensed Lockback’s vents evening out. He joined him in recharge not that long after.

If anything important happened, they’d get the message.

Ironhide had forgotten just how loud newsparks could be. She hadn’t exactly been able to spend much time around her own when they’d been this age, and so many of her early memories around the twins were embedded in the chaos of the Pits, just trying to keep all three of them alive. She’d also had a sparkbond with her twins which had allowed her to intuit some of their needs.

Optimus’ sparkling had no sparkbond, so his only method of communication was his field and vocalizations. The longer it took her to get it right, the louder he got. Chirping and beeping, buzzing and crackling, and even squealing his vocalizer in increasing levels of volume and distress as she frantically tried to figure out what he needed. Was he too hot? Too cold? Too hungry, or too full? Did he want to be awake and held, or did he really need a nap?

She certainly needed a nap, as she pressed him directly to her chassis and he finally settled down. Ah, he’d wanted direct contact with plating and fields. She could manage that, as she cradled him there and leaned back in the pilot’s chair.

She was still a ways out from the destination, and she needed to maintain radio silence until her job was done and she’d put enough distance between Nixaya and herself that the ‘Cons wouldn’t know she’d been there. As she thought about this newspark, and her own family waiting for her with the fleet, she was forced to think of her first family.

Her brothers, the twelve other mechs she’d onlined with in those early days of Nominus’ reign. All of them were programmed with intimate knowledge of the Primes and the laws that they used, as well as their duties and code as Primesguard mechs. Then they’d had datapackets with combat training and anything else they might need directly installed in their head, alongside coding that made their loyalty to the Prime unbreakable, all but enslaved them to their roles in society.

Razorpoint and Alldown had been the brothers she’d been closest to. Razorpoint had been a dark blue, and Alldown was white, if she still remembered correctly. Their different colors had once been the only thing idividualizing the Primesguard when they’d been a full cohort of thirteen.

Early on, however, during their actual hands-on combat training, Ironhide had started to learn faster, grow more confident, and become the natural leader of the squad. It’d made it harder and harder to stay close to her brothers, and when she’d first learned that a mech could be so different in their spark that they could want and need a different term for themselves, that had made it even harder. The lone sister, the leader, the commander.

The sole survivor.

Alldown had been the first of her brothers to die. Despite his talent for bodying just about any and all threats that came his way, he’d been one of the sweetest mechs she’d ever known. He’d tended to everyone’s injuries, softened their edges during arguments, and been a companion and confidant to her when she needed them. A sniper had gotten him during a riot Nominus had stumbled into the middle of, protesting the rise of the Functionist Council. Ironhide still remembered sitting there in shock as the Functionist Council had rushed in an outside surgeon to operate on the still fairly new Prime. All the rest of her brothers, living and breathing. But not Alldown.

Her first loss, but not her last.

No, that had been Razorpoint. Killed by the suicide bomb blast that had eventually taken Nominus’ spark too. With his death, she’d been left alone. Razorpoint had never been a particularly friendly mech, preferring silence and helping her clean her blasters rather than speaking. But his field had always been warm and steady when she needed to talk about the hardships of leadership. She got the sense he never envied her duties, and was glad she was there to take the helm instead of someone else.

With Nominus’ death, and Sentinel’s ascendancy to the Primacy, she’d been ready to die. Probably should have too, given her failure to prevent Nominus’ death. Yet Prowl had insisted she was too valuable a resource to Sentinel, and that they would need her knowledge of the Primacy to assist them in their own goals. To this day, she wondered how much of that was the truth, and how much had been a bluff in order to save her life. She didn’t care anymore, but she still wondered. 

Prowl had then filled her Primesguard with young free mechs who needed training, and although some had stayed, many had filtered out into other legions and branches of the military. Students who admired her despite her flaws, who looked up to her and made her feel like she was watching after her brothers still. Yet despite Prowl’s clear intentions to give her a purpose again, it hadn’t taken.

She’d needed the strangest slap to her metaphorical face for that.

Delta Magnus had bragged that the Primal Vanguard was the superior unit to the Primesguard during a rare visit. Ironhide hadn’t cared about the challenge. Primesguard mechs didn’t need to concern themselves with the claims of other units working in the Prime’s name. They guarded his person, and that was the highest honor of them all. But Sentinel had been amused by the challenge, and told Delta Magnus to prove it, especially considering his recent recruiting drive.

“Colonial troops? Sounds like you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, Delta…”

Chromia had been the mech Delta Magnus had put her up against, each of them using the electric lance as the ceremonial weapon of the Primes that it was. It’d been one of the hardest fights of Ironhide’s life, and she’d lost.

She remembered Prowl’s small frown at her injuries as she’d stumbled back to Sentinel’s side, and he’d praised Delta’s work. Sentinel’s field, however, had radiated displeasure, and Ironhide hadn’t needed Airachnid’s warnings to know that Jhiaxus wasn’t going to do slag for her.

So, when the colonial Vanguarder had shown up at her room later, wanting to treat her wounds with a numbing salve? Ironhide hadn’t believed her. But Chromia had forced her way in and, with gentle hands, treated the wounds. They hadn’t said much that night. The guilty look in Chromia’s eyes had said enough.

“Don’t need yer pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s— it’s knowing how it feels to be the one standing apart from everyone else.”

Bit by bit, rare Vanguard visit by rare Vanguard visit, they’d sought each other out again and again. And, at some point, Chromia had made it into her spark permanently. Ironhide had found something that made her get up in the morning and do everything she could to make it to the next. 

It’d been easy, despite them both knowing the dangers, to say yes when Chromia had suggested they conjunx. To test the boundaries of that loyalty coding, and find that love didn’t break it.

Nor did cruelty break love when her illegal actions had been discovered.

She still wondered if the other Primesguard had felt betrayed when it was revealed she’d taken a conjunx, or if they’d watched her fall from grace with pity, or even fear. She’d never asked Elita One, who’d become the Primesguard Captain for the rest of Sentinel’s reign after her. Elita’s kindness towards Chromia and Ironhide after Optimus’ rise had said enough about her thoughts on the matter. 

And yet, despite the love she had for her current family, she still loved the people she’d lost. She’d honored them by keeping the Primesguard alive, even when Optimus had made it clear that he wanted the unit to fade away into history. She couldn’t imagine leaving Alldown and Razorpoint and all the others to mere history. Datapoints to be ignored and forgotten, just like all the other cold-constructs who’d served the Primes since the deaths of the Thirteen.

But now she had left that post behind, with no one carrying on the legacy. True, it was for an innocent newspark, one her Prime had carried. And it was an honor and privilege to be so trusted as to be given this task. But what did it mean for the Primesguard when the last member abandoned the Prime? When she had surrendered the sacred duty she’d been made for to instead care for a newspark and see them into safety?

And why did she feel crushing guilt that this newspark was worth that potential loss, but her own sparklings weren’t?

The soft feeling of tiny vents against her plating pulled her from her introspection to glance at the newspark. A silver hand splayed on her chest as blue optics half cycled watched her. For a moment, she felt a soft echo of sensation, like the Matrix was looking at her through this little mechling.

And then his optics powered off, and he fell asleep. 

That seemed like a good plan for both of them. She stood carefully, setting all the proximity alarms on, and then heading for her berth. She kept the newspark within reach, in case he needed her. 

She hoped the journey to his new life would be uneventful. This newspark deserved the peace she would never be able to give her own sparklings or herself.

In its own way, coming out of quarantine was more nightmarish than entering in had been. Before, Jazz had been so locked into panic mode at helping Optimus stumble through hidden passages as the Matrix all but announced to all of them the distress of the mech carrying it while Ratchet berated him for trying to get them all lost. Jazz had had a mission in that moment, to get his Prime to the medbay as discreetly as possible, until very important questions could be asked and answered. There was an objective, and he’d obtained it.

Now, however, he was floating on a sea of uncertainty. How could he hide this intel from the rest of the Autobots, especially his own conjunx? Sure, he’d kept secrets from Prowl before, but despite the extreme secrecy of some information he handled, somehow it all paled in comparison to this.

Why, Jazz? Ricochet’s voice was almost a taunt as he tried to figure out what to do. Why is this the thing that bothers you? Not that you betrayed me time and time again, until you forced me to the state that led me to my death? No, that doesn’t bother you nearly as much as this.

Jazz growled at the invisible shadow, but Ricochet only laughed. The sort of laugh that wasn’t genuine, but pained. It faded into a death rattling sound that Jazz had heard from so many mechs before, a sound in his nightmares when attached to this face.

Try to run all you want, brother. If I was so disposable to you, what makes you any less disposable to him? You already know what happened to the first mech who said they loved him.

“Frag off,” Jazz hissed.

No. Answer me, Jazz. What happened to Smokescreen’s progenitor? I’m dying to know.

Jazz was about to snap back a retort when the door opened into his office. He’d just gone there first thing after being released from the medbay, all but running on autopilot as he did so. And now he looked up and found himself unprepared as Prowl shut the door behind him, before rounding the desk and kneeling down next to Jazz.

They sat there in silence for a few seconds, before Prowl used his slight height advantage to pull Jazz’s helm down to his, chevron meeting his helm right above his visor.

::I was worried I was losing you and I’d never know.::

Jazz took a few deep vents, and then opened the sparkbond fully. ::Serves you right, Mr. Routinely Tries To Melt My Processor Much To My Conjunx’s Horror.:: The joke fell flat, his own fears subsumed as Prowl’s relief flooded through him. He slipped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his conjunx, leaning in as close as he could.

It was a silent dance of fields before Jazz made sure the door was locked, and they merged. Jazz couldn’t share the information about the past few days when Prowl went looking, but Prowl—

Prowl reached out with understanding, and drew him in. Lost in the abyss, but lost together. Alone, and yet always connected. 

When they came out of their merge, they were lying on the floor of his office in an awkward pile of limbs, but could hardly care. They were trembling under each other’s touch, venting like they’d raced up and down the Manganese mountains thrice over. Holding each other like the entire war depended on it.

“I know I can’t ask,” Prowl began. “So for now, I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Sorry,” Jazz leaned in closer. “It’s all need to know by Op’s orders. I just— Primus, Prowler, I’m sorry. We’ve both given each other too much grief since the bitties left. And unless this war ends a lot sooner than I think it will, it’s not like it’s gonna stop.”

Prowl nodded, and they lay there, until their venting eased and the floor became a little too hard to be laying on for this long. Sitting up and cleaning each other up, the tension easing out of their frames, Prowl finally offered news.

“We had a break about the identity of our spy. Lockback and Mirage agreed to wait until you and I had spoken for them to share the reports.”

“I guess we could call what we just did talking,” Jazz teased, and Prowl gave him a halfhearted flick of a doorwing in irritation.

“We have never been good at discussing things like normal mechanisms.”

“You’ve never been good at it. Don’t include me in this.” Jazz leaned closer, letting Prowl feel his field and the humor in it. Prowl, in a rare moment, chuckled.

“I supposed you’re correct.”

They took a few more moments to enjoy this moment of alone-togetherness. Somewhere, distantly, Blue’s bond reached out to them, and they pushed love down it. A few seconds later, Jazz felt Smokescreen through Prowl’s spark, and it was easy to do the same.

And then it was time to get back to the war. They moved a little slower than they maybe should have, but Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way. If these final days of Iacon risked being their final days alive, he’d soak up every second of time he got.

Soundwave was reviewing the footage they’d gleaned from Iacon’s middle and inner city since the recall of his agents. Reflector’s failure had led to Megatron demanding they move up the schedule once more, and Soundwave needed every scrap of intelligence he could get. Although the Autobots tried to keep their broadcasts contained, he had no doubt that Jazz and Blaster knew he was seeing this too.

The decommissioning of the Iacon Spacebridge had been broadcast live, considering it was Optimus’ first public appearance since his time in quarantine. And, although it was not known to the broader Autobot forces, it was also a way of disappearing any evidence of Reflector’s activities so as not to expose the fact there’d been a spy in the ranks with close secondhand access to the Prime. The remaining Spacebridge engineers would be reassigned, likely to this illusive Project Teletran. 

Soundwave let the cassettes handle other footage gathered from seeker flyovers. There seemed to be movement towards the inner city even before the Spacebridge’s decommissioning. It looked like the Autobots might be beginning to prepare for the inevitable failing of the second shield, when their strategic energon supplies began to run too low. Maybe if they pressed them harder, they could force it into happening faster. Soundwave couldn’t be sure yet, just continuing to analyze the Prime and other members of High Command onstage.

Ironhide was absent, of course, replaced by Lockback at the Prime’s side. The largest and most imposing of the three Spec Ops mechs left, he made sense as a temporary Primesguard replacement. With one look, he could force most mechs to back off. Jazz and Prowl were present as well, as were Wheeljack, Ratchet, and Red Alert. Blaster, who would have been operating the broadcast, would never have been expected to put in an appearance anyways. 

Optimus moved confidently, and yet Soundwave could detect something off about his movements nonetheless. He’d spent years analyzing gladiators for Ratbat, and then Megatron. He could pick fighters out of a crowd, deduce when a mech was hiding an injury, or feigning one. There was a way every mech moved unique to them, and even after becoming Prime, Optimus still moved much the same way he had as Orion Pax, with a few minor adjustments for the changes his frame had undergone.

But this movement was off in a way Soundwave had never seen before. Only a mech like himself would recognize it, or perhaps the Prime’s own medic. It seemed that quarantine had not been entirely precautionary. And yet, what was the cause of the Prime’s slightly awkward movements? Ratchet certainly had none when Wheeljack officially took off the first panel of the Spacebridge, joining his conjunx in disconnecting the Spacebridge from its power source. And once that was done, and the engineers and construction mechs left within Autobot ranks began to dissemble the rest of the Spacebridge, Jazz moved forward to speak to Optimus. He also had no change in his movements.

Soundwave still struggled to identify what could have affected the Prime’s gait and gestures in such a way. Unable to scrape much more data out of the footage, he compiled what he had into a report, and while he waited for his cassettes to do the same with their assignments, he turned back to his secondary project.

The photos Viewfinder had managed to collect of Ironhide departing Iacon were becoming clearer after every session he spent improving the image quality. The most crucial ones, he’d determined, were of her exiting the ship to speak to Pivot-Point, and returning to the ship afterwards. They offered a chance to perceive what cargo the ship might be carrying, some of it clearly important enough that Ironhide would not allow it out of her sight or hands. Soundwave was thankful there was video footage of her returning to the ship. Although he had to enhance the image quality of each individual frame, it would tell him far more than quick snapshots would.

At least Spectro had snagged the datapad with the Prime’s orders on it, but they read like an excuse. Optimus needing Ironhide to hand-deliver items to Ultra Magnus? He’d already told Megatron that Ironhide would have never left the Prime’s side for that sort of task alone. Whether or not any loyalty coding remained in her processor or not, the Primesguard Captain would not abandon her post lightly. And with no knowledge of the Xantium’s whereabouts since its departure from Caminus, he doubted that Ironhide was deserting her Prime to track down her conjunx and sparklings. What reason would she have to do such a thing? Strika was too busy dealing with Ultra Magnus to go hunt the Wreckers, so it was likely that the Xantium was simply returning to the security of the Autobot fleet without access to any additional Spacebridges beyond the one on Caminus. A process which took time.

And besides, the coordinates in the orders that Ironhide had been set to seemed to go nowhere. They weren’t between Caminus and the last known positions of Ultra Magnus’ fleet. Nor were they near any Autobot-held or Autobot-sympathetic colonies. It seemed to simply be depositing Ironhide into neutral space. 

Where was she going? What was she doing? And why did she have the Prime’s blessings to do it?

He was brought out of his thoughts by the cassettes finishing their assignments, and he began to review and compile their data alongside his into one single report. It would be a long night for him and Megatron yet again, it seemed. He would simply have to solve this Ironhide mystery later.

Soon, he hoped. Soon.

It was warm-cozy to be held by this red mech, the little newspark knew. She seemed worried-frustrated-scared, but that was in the background compared to the fond-affection-care with which she freely gave him every time she fed him or he drifted off into recharge.

“You’re an easy bit to get along with now that I’m figuring out yer tells.” She hummed. “I’m sorry, though, that I can’t help you out more. Your carrier ‘n you don’t deserve this.”

The newspark just curled tighter. He was still looking for that warm presence he thought he’d always known. It seemed absent, yet not. Sometimes he trilled and called for it, but it never came. Not like it had when the red-silver-blue mech had made the big noise and scared him!

He felt the echoes of that warmth wrapping around him. A soft voice, maybe lots of voices, whispering on top of each other.

“Hush, little one. I am so sorry that I must send you away like this. Perhaps I will return to you someday, but you stand no chance if you remain here with us now.”

Sometimes, the sparkling could swear he heard that same voice speaking to him again. That he saw another mech here with him besides the red mech. A tall one, with a dark purple frame, yellow optics, and a soft smile as she brushed her fingers over his cheek. Long things dangled from her head, a strange movement that resulted in soft rustling sounds every time she moved.

“You will grow strong with the power you were blessed with, little one. As with every gift, there will be trade offs, but you will need that power to protect yourself from what is coming.”

His questioning buzz had the figure fading away as the red mech tried to ascertain his needs. He just settled back into her arms in the absence of the stranger, quietly dozing. 

Like all newlings, he would never truly remember these occurrences, and yet there was a familiarity to them, as if he’d never known a world without that layered voice whispering strangely cryptic things to him.

Ratchet waited until he knew Wheeljack was busy with Teletran to go see the Prime. He knocked at the door and tried to comm the mech, but when no response came, he just overrode the lock on the door and entered the rooms.

The Basilica’s suites for the Prime were spacious and ostentatious, but much had been stripped from it compared to their first few days here. On the couch, Optimus lay, optics dim. His field projected nothing but misery and agony, and Ratchet hated how much responsibility for that pain he bore.

He slowly sat down next to the Prime, gently reaching out and setting a hand on his arm. Optimus only reacted with a soft shuddering vent.

Ratchet might have asked if the mech wanted more painkillers, but he knew the answer. What Optimus wanted was what he could not have. What was already out of reach, headed towards safety.

So, instead, he asked another question.

“Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Optimus said nothing for a while, and then sighed.

“He hates me. If I died— if the Matrix killed me— maybe he would have remembered what we had fought for. Maybe I could have been the final death in this war, and saved the rest of you.”

“So instead of asking for help, you went through a carriage alone, without proper medical aid.” Ratchet sighed. “If you think I’m ever going to let you live this down, you’re wrong.”

Optimus was quiet, and Ratchet glanced at him. He didn’t need his optics to see the exhaustion and grief written all across the young Prime’s frame.

“We’ll go get him at some point. Pick him up as a foundling or something.”

“He may be adopted and bonded to creators who chose him by then.”

“Maybe,” Ratchet sighed. “But if he isn’t, he’ll need a creator. Even if we never told him the truth, that could still be you.”

This pause was even longer, and Optimus’ optics dimmed further. “It may be best for him if I never see him again.”

By the time Ratchet had figured out something to say in response to that, exhaustion had dragged the Prime to sleep. There would need to be discussions and meetings in the morning about the status and timeline of Project Teletran, as well as the levels of the strategic energon reserves, and preparation for the Decepticons’ further advances. But for now, all that could wait.

He plugged a pain chit into Optimus’ system to allow him to fall into a deeper recharge, and tugged an insulation sheet over the mech. He headed back to his own rooms after he’d done everything he could for the Prime, but stopped outside of the Spec Ops wing on the way. A part of him pretended that he had no good reason to do so, but right now?

Right now, he needed to speak to someone else carrying this Primus damned secret.

Jazz was alone in his office, and glanced up at Ratchet when he entered.

“Op okay?”

“He’s doing as well as we can expect.”

A nod, as Jazz looked down at his desk, and then back up to Ratchet.

“I wish I could say secrets like this get easier to carry, but…” Jazz’s voice trailed off. “That’d just be wishful thinking. And I doubt that’s really new information to you.”

It certainly wasn’t. But, unwilling to explore his own secrets with Jazz tonight, Ratchet simply nodded.

“No. We’ve all got our secrets to carry. Some of us more than others.”

Jazz didn’t ask what he meant. It wasn’t peace they had reached yet, but it might one day be something adjacent to it. For now, Ratchet left the spy’s domain. Wheeljack wouldn’t be back tonight, and the privacy of their quarters seemed the best place to toss back a glass of aged engex and wonder what Cybertron had come to once more.

The cassettes were asleep as Soundwave returned to his project yet again. He felt so close to something, but as for what that something was, he needed this final piece of information. What was Ironhide doing, and what was her mission truly about?

As the images processed through yet another of his attempts to clarify them into proper visibility, Soundwave reflected on Ironhide’s arrival in the Pits so long ago. Although he’d still been working for Senator Ratbat at the time, he’d already begun aligning himself with Megatron. A disgraced member of the Primesguard joining the gladiators in the Pits, their captain no less, had caused quite the stir.

He’d remembered hanging towards the back of the room as the medics who had examined Ironhide upon her arrival released her out into the crowd of gladiators. How she’d taken one look around at their glaring optics, and tiredly raised up her fists, reluctantly ready to protect herself.

In that moment, Soundwave had seen the exhaustion, the fear, and the resignation. Ironhide knew she was a symbol of what they hated, and had accepted it was her burden to bear their anger, even though she was as much a victim as they were. Soundwave had signaled Megatron, who’d stopped the fights before they could begin.

Ironhide’s coding had prevented her from ever truly joining them, but the fact she never turned them in for their activities showed how much she actually respected Sentinel Prime. She’d even walked out of rooms when she thought there might be a discussion the coding would compel her to share. After the twins’ birth and escape off world, she’d never asked them to stop using her story as a recruitment tool, demonstrating how even loyal service could be thrown aside for one small sin. For daring to love someone, you too could be thrown to the wolves. Functionism, and the caste system it had created, must be destroyed.

Soundwave even helped arrange her hiding places while they’d waited for a trusted person to come for the twins. As Makeshift played Ironhide for the crowd and Sentinel’s agents, defeating mech after mech while feigning emergence injuries, the real Ironhide was being shuffled around from room to room to avoid being discovered as she healed. Many times, that room had been Megatron’s own quarters, simply due to their size. Soundwave had stood guard as the carrier kept the twins quiet, always on watch for the roaming agents of the Prime who suspected their deception, but would have to find the real Ironhide to confirm it.

And then there’d been the day when that mech had arrived, and Ironhide had been shocked to find out the old Wrecker who’d trained her was her conjunx’s sire. The way she’d shook in relief when she knew Chromia was safe on Caminus, and that the Forgefire Parliament refused to honor extradition orders from a false Prime. That, if the twins made it to Caminus, they’d be safe there the rest of their lives. Soundwave had watched her hand the sparklings over to their grandsire, and seen the silent tears as she’d accepted the fact she’d likely never see them again.

Soundwave could only imagine that pain himself, having never yet lost a cassette, but fearing every day that he would. The anxiety had gone down somewhat when he and Jazz had reached their agreement to never purposefully target sparklings or cassettes off the battlefield, but accidents happened and intelligence operatives were often vulnerable and out on their own. What grief must it have been for Ironhide to hand over the twins? And why had she inflicted the pain on herself again during this final siege?

Soundwave, should this war truly end with Iacon’s fall, would argue for Ironhide to be spared. Even if her loyalty coding had been purged before they reached her, allowing her to live in exile with her family on Caminus would not be a hard thing to convince Megatron of. Or at least, so he hoped. 

He looked over his cassettes once more. Devoted to the Cause. At the same time, how he wished he could spare them the fight. But they would never let him. 

A beep from the console alerted him that his latest attempt to gain useful information from the mission that had compromised his best agent in Iacon was complete. Soundwave began to analyze the footage, frame by frame, as Ironhide made her way into the shuttle.

She carried the case securely, but right before she would have vanished into the shuttle, beyond the sight of Viewfinder’s abilities, she’d stopped. Only for a brief moment, glancing towards the bag, and then adjusting how she was holding it. Just a minute adjustment, shifting the balance of the weight.

But it was strangely familiar, as if Ironhide were trying to perch something on the edge of her hip, even with little hip to balance it on.

Soundwave paused.

He remembered Optimus’ own early efforts at propaganda to stop the coming war, before the Senate had been eliminated. Much fanfare had been made of Ironhide’s reinstatement and Chromia’s return from Caminus. Optimus had spoken of new days ahead, an end to Functionism in sight, and smiled as he said that all sparks, whether from Cybertron’s hotspots, internally forged, or even cold constructed, deserved the same rights. A radical statement stolen straight from the Decepticon movement.

As he had said it, Ironhide had stood next to him, Chromia tucked under one of her arms, and each had carried a twin. Chromia’s tilt of the hip to support the sparkling perched on it had been easy, clearly practiced. Ironhide’s had been much more awkward, perhaps even a little perilous, but she’d held on. Over time, she’d learned her own way to do it.

Soundwave had never seen her do that little tilt to carry anything that hadn’t been the twins. But the twins, and all of Iacon’s remaining sparklings, had evacuated on the Xantium. And only Blue, Jazz and Prowl’s adopted mechling, would be small enough to have fit in a case like that.

Unless—

Soundwave froze for only a moment, before pulling up file after file of recorded information he had on Autobot High Command over this siege. He followed every ounce of footage Ironhide had been in, but she hardly moved like she was carrying or recovering from emergence, both before and during her exodus from Cybertron. No, she moved as she had in the Pits after she’d healed from emergence. Like a mech who’d been born to fight.

So, if there was a newspark, one that had likely emerged very recently, it clearly wasn’t hers. Narrowing down whose it might be would be a much harder task. However, he could start by figuring out when it would have been sparked. The hotspots had gone dry during the war, and cold-constructs would have been placed in adult frames. So it must be an internally forged mech.

Allowing himself a margin of error of roughly a week on either side of Ironhide’s departure, Soundwave calculated back the date a newspark would have been sparked.

The date would have been roughly three weeks before they had gone to the Senate to demand their growing movement be listened to. It would have been around the time Sentinel Prime died. When Orion Pax had been in Kaon, helping them organize a march on Iacon. When word had reached them of Sentinel’s demise…

Soundwave felt his energon go cold. 

He pulled up footage of Optimus from the Spacebridge decommissioning. That strange hitch in his movement. The quarantine resulting in the main medbay’s lockdown. The time and dates. Ironhide having left her post with little to no warning, blindsiding most of her own faction, all for nonsensical orders that had originated from the Prime himself.

Maybe he was making this up. Maybe it was his processor making connections where none should be found. And yet—

He opened the coordinates Ironhide had gone to in that shuttle, and started looking for anything of note nearby.

And there, clear as day, marked among several various neutral colonies in the general area of Ironhide’s shuttle, was one named Nixaya. A colony founded by a mixture of neutral medics and religious evacuees, who proclaimed themselves a safe home for all young sparks, under Primus’ name.

Soundwave’s optics narrowed. It would take a while for Ironhide to reach the colony, even from the coordinates she’d gone to, but it felt far too much of a coincidence.

He could have waited until morning, he supposed. Perhaps he should have confided in Ravage or Laserbeak about his suspicions before he raised any alarms. Yet, he did none of that, glancing around at the sleeping cassettes, and then opening his direct comm channel with Megatron.

::Megatron.::

A pause, before a weary voice answered him. ::Is it urgent, Soundwave?::

::Urgency: Could be set aside until morning.:: Soundwave acknowledged that easily. This was, after all, just a theory.

::But you didn’t. So you find it important.::

::Importance: Cannot be understated. Regarding: Potential new intelligence explaining Ironhide’s departure from Iacon. Message: Would be best if privately delivered to Megatron, and Megatron alone.::

Silence for a while, and then a sigh. ::If you find the matter this pressing, then I would be a fool not to heed your concerns. Will my quarters suffice for a meeting location?::

Soundwave pinged an affirmative note, and Megatron hummed, clearly rubbing recharge from his optics.

::Then join me here, and I will consider whatever you need to say.::

The message ended, and Soundwave collected all his evidence together, looking over his sleeping cassettes, and then down at where the image of Ironhide attempting to perch this case on her hip remained.

If his suspicions were correct, something would have to be done. Once before, he had given a mech a mission relating to acquiring Autobot sparklings to gain an advantage in this war. It had ended poorly. And yet, if correct, this was a line he would have to cross yet again.

But for Megatron?

He gave his cassettes another look, and then turned and exited their quarters. Time to present his theory.

Chapter Text

By the time the first light of Cybertron’s dawn crept over the horizon, Megatron had to stand up and start pacing back and forth across his room. Soundwave, meanwhile, sat in the chair Megatron had previously occupied, clearly exhausted by the long nights he’d been pulling in an attempt to glean useful intelligence from this footage.

“Are you certain that your current conclusion is the most reasonable option?” Never before had Megatron found himself wishing that Soundwave was the sort of mech who liked playing cruel and unusual tricks. If even a single cable of his frame could have believed that this was genuine deception, he’d simply set this theory to the side and ignore it, preferably forever.

But this was Soundwave, the most loyal of his mechs. Which meant he believed that the conclusion he’d presented had a decent chance of being the truth.

“Ironhide: Would need a strong motivation to abandon the Prime’s side. Newspark: Seems the most likely explanation at present moment.”

Megatron tried to offer a different option. “Prime could have forcibly ordered her to leave. Her loyalty coding would demand obedience to his word above all else.”

Soundwave fixed him with a look. Megatron hated it, because it said Soundwave felt he was being purposefully obstinate so he could live in denial of some clear fact. While they both preferred to believe Ironhide might still be under the influence of loyalty coding, there was little evidence for its presence anymore. 

“Prime: Would have ordered Ironhide to depart with her family on the Xantium rather than wait this far into the siege. Iacon Spacebridge: A large drain on Autobot resources even before Iacon’s outer walls were breached.”

Megatron returned to pacing a hole into the floor of his room.

“Even if this theory about a sparkling existing is true, we have no evidence it belongs to Pax— Prime. It could have easily belonged to another member of High Command, or some young stupid Autobot that stayed hidden aboard Ironhide’s shuttle.”

“Soundwave: Has presented evidence on why, if it is a newspark, Optimus Prime is the most likely option for a creator. Evidence: Not limited to just the time frame of the hypothetical sparking of the newspark, or the fact that Megatron and Orion Pax—”

Megatron cut Soundwave off before he could conclude the following sentence. “I am aware of my own history of interfacing, thank you.”

Soundwave didn’t often raise an optical ridge, but apparently this time, Megatron’s denials were too much even for him. Megatron groaned. 

“I just would prefer you to be wrong about this, Soundwave.”

“Query: Why?”

Megatron didn’t answer at first. His emotions overwhelmed him, the only outlet he had for the moment his continued pacing across the floor.

If Soundwave was right, and he had sparked Orion Pax, then why would the Prime have kept the spark? Or had Pax been interfacing with someone other than him? He’d never expected complete loyalty from his berthpartners, he hardly had any himself, but somehow it stung to imagine Pax would have been so quick to take another lover.

Soundwave tilted his head, clearly having picked up through his body language something about his thoughts.

“Megatron: You should not be afraid of this hypothesis being correct.”

“Why not, Soundwave? If that newspark is mine and Pax’s, what is to stop Prime from using it to his advantage? We have allowed ourselves to be held hostage by Autobot demands in regards to other newlings before, so what is to stop them from doing even worse now?”

“The Autobots: Do not seem to want this newspark’s true identity to be known.”

Megatron turned towards Soundwave, and his friend projected calm certainty at him. 

“Theoretical newspark: The potential creation of Optimus Prime. Prime: If desirous of keeping newspark, would still need to evacuate them from Iacon. Most logical destination: The Autobot Fleet. Ironhide: Not on course to rendezvous with the fleet. Ironhide: Headed to Nixaya. Autobots: Most likely intending to abandon the newspark in order to conceal its identity.”

Silence fell, Soundwave allowing that information to settle into Megatron’s system before continuing.

“Nixaya: Founded as a colony by medics and religious mechs. Ironhide: Likely asked to surrender newspark to an orphanage. Megatron: Aware of the environment that care homes for hotspot sparked and internally forged mechs are from Deadlock and others.”

Deadlock had often hissed and spat about the home he’d been raised in until his final upgrades. One that had tried to all but burn Functionist idealogy into his processor, and likely shadowplayed some of his friends. It wasn’t an unusual story for many of the hotspot sparked or forged mechs in their Cause who’d been deemed to be members of the lower castes.

Megatron’s tanks rolled at the idea that Orion— no, Optimus— had not even considered that risk before potentially sending their newspark off to such a place. And yet, he found himself less than surprised. As a mech of mid-caste, raised to the highest position on Cybertron, why would the thought of the deep danger such places often held have ever crossed the Prime’s processor? Would he have even realized, for a single second, what could happen to the child if his frame was deemed of a low-caste?

Something began to bubble up from low in his frame. A fire of sorts, that, for the sake of his own peace, he must quell for the moment. This was, after all, only hypothetical. He couldn’t allow himself to feel fury about a situation that might not even be real. It took a few deep vents to subdue the feelings, and set them aside for the moment.

“Soundwave, what do you recommend that we do?”

Soundwave sat up, adjusting his stance. “Suggestion: Send a medic to infiltrate Nixaya. Orders: Run CNA comparisons of newsparks against Megatron’s code and the on file code of Orion Pax. Additional orders: If a match is found to Pax, but not Megatron, to order the medic to retreat. However: If a match is made to Megatron, the medic will retrieve the newspark and return it to the Decepticons.”

Megatron considered that answer. The one and only time they’d tried to abduct the Autobots’ newsparks before had ended poorly and been the reason for Jazz and Soundwave’s unofficial kids and cassettes treaty. Leaving the newspark alone if they were solely Orion’s made sense.

But if the newspark was his? 

“I won’t allow the Autobots to hold me hostage by my own sentimentality when they discover our hand in this matter. Perhaps it would be better to never know and leave this hypothetical newspark be.”

Soundwave’s next suggestion came calmly. “Megatron: Would not be held hostage by sentimentality if the Autobots believe the newspark perished.”

Megatron froze, and Soundwave tilted his head. “Hypothetical newspark: If the CNA matches Megatron, must be returned with the utmost secrecy. Decepticon medic: Could easily take the time to rig an untraceable explosive device in the facility before their retreat. Two false frames: Would provide cover for the missing medic and newspark if burnt beyond recognition.”

Megatron stared, and Soundwave suddenly stood, before kneeling.

“Soundwave: Understands that if this plan backfires, his cassettes will be in danger. Newspark: Worth the risks if Megatron wishes to be a creator to his potential creation. Sentimentality: Will entirely be expressed on the Autobot side if the mission retrieves the newspark, but is discovered.”

Megatron took in this idea, and then sighed. “Neither of us can fully enact or decide on this plan at the moment. Retire to your rooms, Soundwave, and say nothing of this even to your cassettes. I will consider your proposal.”

Soundwave nodded, and stood back up, heading for the door. Before it opened, Megatron spoke again.

“Soundwave.”

The mech turned, and Megatron looked him in the optics.

“I still hope that your hypothesis is wrong. I would prefer there not to be another newspark caught up in this war.”

Soundwave’s visor light didn’t visibly change, but Megatron understood that look to be one of sympathy. The mech nodded in silence, before retreating.

Megatron was left alone with his thoughts once more.

It’d taken a while to negotiate her landing on Nixaya, but Ironhide wasn’t surprised. Neutral colonies were more and more scared of letting strangers in these days without mechs to vouch for them on the ground. But apparently the false name Jazz had given her, Overside, hadn’t set off any alarms. And the promise of just wanting to deliver a newspark to the orphanage and stay a few days before moving on had reassured them enough to eventually let her land.

She carefully picked up the newspark and all his supplies before disembarking the ship, greeted by colonial security. She was scanned, briefly questioned, and then guided to the orphanage.

A medic and a priest greeted her there. Not a priest she recognized, thankfully, or else it might have been harder to hide her identity. She was guided to a small examination room, where the medic began to look over the newspark while the priest asked for her story. She spun the yarn Jazz had helped her write.

“My amica and I left Cybertron a while ago,” Ironhide lied. “Their conjunx was killed in crossfire between the ‘Bots and ‘Cons. We just wanted to escape, and when they found out they were sparked, we thought we’d raise ‘em together. But—”

Ironhide let some false tears swell up in her optics.

“When they went into emergence, we couldn’t get to a medic quick enough. Medic managed to save and stabilize the newspark, but not my amica. I can’t do this on my own. I figured that bringing the bit somewhere safe, where they could have a proper family or at least some friends, well… It would be better for ‘em than being raised by a lone spacer.”

This story was minimal, but it would explain Ratchet’s professional patch to keep Optimus’ newspark from looking for a sparkbond, and the reason why she wanted to linger a few days to ensure the newspark’s wellbeing, but not much longer. The priest ate the story right out of her palm, but she got an odd look from the medic. He clearly found something about the story off.

When the newling was declared stable and Overside was given temporary lodging for the next few nights, the priest showed her around the home. Clearly trying to reassure her she was leaving the newspark in safe hands. And while the orphanage was far from the nicest she’d ever been in, it was far better than the temporary triage tents so many sparklings had passed through before the offworld evacuations had been fully underway.

Ironhide had occasionally been to these facilities on Cybertron before the war. Both Nominus and Sentinel had made shows of visiting them to soften their image in times of high tension. Only Optimus had ever actually seemed to enjoy the visits and to do more than use them as propaganda. Where Nominus and Sentinel had been inclined towards dignified interactions with the older mechlings, or holding newsparks who couldn’t fuss much, Optimus had often sat on the floor and read stories to sparklings, while simultaneously allowing them to use him like a climbing wall. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had always wanted to tag along on those excursions to meet new friends and have a chance to play on Optimus, and she’d indulged them most of the time.

She missed them so much.

She hadn’t even realized she was actually tearing up as the priest was off in the distance pointing out the crib that would belong to her Prime’s newspark until the medic spoke quietly.

“Are you certain you wish to give the newspark up here?”

She glanced at the medic and cycled her optics in surprise. He spoke quietly.

“I get the impression you’re not a particularly religious mech, since you didn’t touch the doorway markers when we passed by the holy places. Many of the mechs in this colony, save for a few of us medics, are religious in the old ways. This might not be the best fit.”

Ironhide took a moment to curse herself for not even thinking to act slightly devout. As a Primesguard member, she’d never had to touch the holy symbols representing the Prime and Primus when she passed by sacred spaces, because she was already protecting the embodiment of Primus. So she’d never developed the habits that would have come secondhand to so many. Hopefully that didn’t give her away.

“It’s alright,” She managed after a few moments that hopefully passed more as reflecting on the medic’s words rather than anything else. “My amica and their conjunx followed the teachings. They would’ve raised the newspark to be religious. Feels like I’m respecting their wishes, this way.”

The medic looked doubtful about her answer, but then the priest returned. Ironhide looked down at Optimus’ newspark for what would be one of the last times, taking a chance to snuggle with him.

“I’ll be checking in on ya a few more times before I go, you little rascal,” She crooned with a subtle affection, but let the sense of loss she’d felt when she’d let the twins go slip into her field. If nothing else, to try to convince the medic of the legitimacy of her story. “But this is one of my farewells. Sorry about that. But you’ll be better off, and safer, here.”

The little newspark, still so small, reached for her helm with a coo, curious about her. As he did so, Ironhide saw a little flash of color at the edge of one of his plates.

A subtle hint of red, just like his carrier.

She handed the newspark over to the medic, and then vanished into what would be her room for the next few nights. Alone, she felt her emotions swelling in her spark, violent tremors shaking through her frame.

Chromia instantly reached out on their bond, wanting to know what was wrong. But it wasn’t safe to discuss anything here, so Ironhide just reached out for comfort, and let herself receive it.

She knew that this mission was the most important one she’d ever done, and she also knew that with her abandonment of the Prime, the Primesguard was at its end. Never again would the ancient legion stand tall and proud under the banners of any Prime, whether they be true or false by the reckoning of Caminus. She was the final member, and she had no right to call herself by that name anymore. 

This newspark had needed her protection, yes, but so had his carrier. And by not seeing the truth sooner, she’d doomed all of them to this fate. And, while she could not regret her choice to stay on Cybertron until now for this newspark’s sake, she thought of her own sparklings. Sideswipe’s endless enthusiasm and exuberance towards all things, and Sunstreaker’s constant bad temper hiding the softer side underneath. Children she loved, children she’d promised to keep safe as best as she could, and children who she’d sworn to never let go of again when she’d had them returned to her arms.

All this time, she’d believed she was honoring her first family. But now, with that illusion of the Primesguard stripped away, she saw what she’d done. She’d abandoned the living for the sake of the dead. By her own volition, rather than force. And as much as she’d loved her brothers, she knew they wouldn’t have approved. 

She’d never thought she’d be alone like this again, but this felt like she’d been sent back to the Pits. To those moments right after the twins had been taken from her, and she’d believed she’d never see Chromia again. When she had fought to survive, even if she’d believed there was no future to live for. They’d proven her wrong.

But she’d proven the worst of their doubts in her right.

She had no clue how she was going to tolerate this for at least two more cycles as the sobs shook her whole frame.

To say the situation in Iacon was beginning to grow dire was an understatement. Jazz no longer even attempted to keep Spec Ops contained to its previous wing. Their numbers and energy were reduced to the point that it was simpler to act as if they were a temporary attaché to Tactics. It also made it easier for Jazz and Prowl to plan how to help their Cause in Iacon’s remaining days.

Including dealing with the ever increasing worries related to Project Teletran. Wheeljack had estimates for how long it would take to complete the necessary task. Estimates that did not line up with the timeline their dwindling resources or increased pressure from the Decepticons were giving them.

Jazz felt the optics of the other tacticians on him and Prowl as they sat next to each other for long hours, running calculations and proposals past each other without ever making a sound. Noting Lockback and Mirage’s presence as they came in for their assignments and departed without uttering a single word. Many of the looks seemed to be simple surprise to still find them sitting there after all this time. A few were from mechs almost begging for hopeful answers that no member of High Command could give any longer.

But a few of those looks, Jazz knew, still saw the shadow of Sentinel Prime looming over both him and Prowl. Mechs who waited for the fall they so desperately wanted to see, as if Prowl was the only mech they needed to blame for the Functionist Council’s years of inflicting pain on Cybertron with the blessings of the Primes. Those mechs he kept a close eye on, always wary about fully putting down his guard in their presence.

There were new reports filtering in, and Jazz tried to read through them, but his processor was beginning to flag under the exhaustion. Prowl was an incredible tactician, but there was nothing he could do at this point except buy Project Teletran time to be completed. And that time cost them frames and rations, and even more troop morale. Which was hard to justify when the reason for dragging this war out could not be explained.

Prowl’s doorwings suddenly rolled, rotating in a full circle, before he bolted to his feet unexpectedly. Jazz heard the emergency message go out on High Command’s channel before he could do more than startle.

::High Command, meet immediately. War room. Wheeljack must be present.::

Various affirmative pings echoed in the channel as Jazz rose. “Prowler?”

Everyone in the room was focused on them now, so Prowl just motioned for Jazz to follow him as he strode out of Tactics. Jazz could feel quiet anxiety on Prowl’s end of their bond, but he clearly wasn’t willing to speak until they were safely ensconced in the war room.

The remaining mechs of High Command within Iacon drifted in, leaving more gaps in the group than Jazz would like to admit. Optimus had not even bothered to attempt to call in Elita One or Ultra Magnus to fill the empty space left behind by Ironhide on such short notice.

Ratchet and Wheeljack, having the most difficult positions to quickly detangle themselves from, arrived last. Once they were seated, the room was sealed.

No one asked why they were here as Prowl immediately projected a report of his own making on the screen and began to speak. There were large highlighted sections copied from another report. Wheeljack’s, from the look of it.

“Wheeljack, I need you to explain why there’s been a recent change in the amount of energon to be held in reserve for the launch of Project Teletran. Unless a major error occurred during the typing of your most recent report, you have altered the number from eight million gallons to eleven million gallons.”

Wheeljack nodded. “New numbers. The components from the Iacon Spacebridge drew more fuel than expected in a recent test. I can alter the system later to reduce the needs, but if I had to do it now, the timeline is too long. Better to launch faster with a heavier fuel load than wait around to bring that number back down.”

Prowl’s tense, and Jazz suddenly realizes they’re creeping quite close to danger. That’s a look of rage barely being held in check. “And how long ago did you run these tests?”

Wheeljack, normally fairly laid back, seems to catch onto Prowl’s mood, and Jazz can see the mech’s defenses come up. “Two nights ago. Perceptor and I had to double check what all the numbers meant, and calculate how much extra fuel it’d require before I presented my new report.”

Prowl’s doorwings are sliding into a clearly aggressive stance now. “So you’ve known, even without exact details, that you would require more of our strategic energon reserves for two days, and failed to report it until now.”

Optimus attempted to intervene. “Prowl, please get to your point of why this is such a concern that it required an immediate emergency meeting of High Command.”

“Because if I had known these numbers, or known to expect an increased number two days ago, we would have more time to prepare for the immediate retreat from Iacon’s second wall.”

The air in the room went cold. Prowl’s optics were ice as he swiveled back towards Wheeljack, whose hackles were fully raised now.

“Having only had access to Project Teletran’s previous estimates, I believed we could hold the second wall for as long as it took the project to complete. However, this new request means that we can, at most, hold the second wall for another day. And even that may be cutting it too close.”

Wheeljack’s all but bristled his plating. “I didn’t know—”

“That the situation is dire? You have constantly requested more time and alterations to Project Teletran’s blueprints, Wheeljack! How could you not understand that every single delay costs us precious resources as Iacon’s energon drops and our troops live on rations?!” Prowl’s completely hostile now, on the warpath. “I could have bought us more time if you had seen fit to inform me of anything!”

Jazz glanced at Ratchet, who locked optics with him. A moment of understanding passed between them, and Jazz took a quick vent. Peace was hardly established between them after the revelations about Sentinel’s demise and the medic and spymaster’s newly shared secret. Their conjunxes, however, seemed potentially ready to tear that peace apart yet again. And Optimus would not be able to handle that at this moment.

So, Jazz needed to stop Prowl. Now.

Jazz stood up, a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “Prowler,” He tried to keep his tone polite, but firm. But he filled their sparkbond with a clear desire for Prowl to stand down. The Praxian, in return, turned those icy optics on him. Fury radiated out from his spark that his conjunx was the one undercutting him.

Which was when Ratchet spoke.

“Prowl, I would like to apologize. I had spoken to my conjunx about these tests two nights ago, and I am far more aware of the current state of Iacon’s energon reserves than he is, given that I’ve written the reports about required troop rations. I should have realized that this needed to be reported to High Command as a potential problem sooner than it has been.” Ratchet actually put a genuinely apologetic timbre in his voice, and Jazz could feel Prowl’s startled internal reaction as he turned back towards the CMO. “All I can say is that it’s a genuine mistake, far from an attempt to purposefully undermine any other member of High Command, and if there is anything I or my conjunx can do to buy us back a bit more time, we will make ourselves available to do so.”

Wheeljack was looking at Ratchet with an incredulous look, and frankly, so was half the room, with the other half looking at Jazz with bewilderment. But Ratchet set a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder as well, clearly conveying his desire to prevent a fight. Jazz’s turn, he guessed.

“Prowl,” He began again. “We’re all running on empty. Not enough recharge or personnel. This wasn’t malicious.” Over their comms, he begged his conjunx to understand.

::Prowler. Please. We can’t escape Iacon alive if we keep fighting them like this. Ratchet’s trying to make a peaceful overture with us right now. Help me out here, babe.::

Optimus was glancing between all of them, clearly picking up intents of each member of High Command from the Matrix. Jazz pressed the need for peace down on Prowl, until some of the ice thawed, and the fire dimmed. Prowl took a deep vent, before forcing his frame into a neutral position. It was the best Jazz knew he’d get.

“I need assistance from nearly all members of High Command left here in Iacon in order to organize this retreat on such short notice. Tactics would be the best place to do so. I will need to plug into the TacNet. Ratchet and Red Alert, I need numbers for troop rations and fuel requirements for the inner wall’s defenses. Blaster, I need you to be ready to broadcast orders as soon as we have them completed. Wheeljack, you will add on anything else that Project Teletran may or may not need so we can calculate that as well.”

It wasn’t an apology. But it wasn’t open hostility anymore either. Wheeljack still seemed to be on edge, but Ratchet nodded.

“Should Tactics be cleared for this?” Optimus asked politely.

Prowl nodded, and Optimus stood.

“Then I request all members of High Command put themselves at the disposal of our Chief Tactical Officer as long as necessary in order to ensure a safe and speedy evacuation before our strategic reserves of energon are stretched too thin. Jazz and Ratchet, you will stay here for a moment to speak with me privately. No more than five minutes. Meeting dismissed.”

Prowl nodded, and left as soon as he broke the seal on the room. The other members of command quickly followed, save Jazz and Ratchet. Optimus spoke softly.

“I must thank you both for attempting to bring a peaceful resolution to that argument.”

Jazz and Ratchet glanced at each other, and then Jazz shrugged. “Can’t say we fully trust each other, Op. But we’ll try to make sure all of ‘em get out alive if we can.”

“For the moment, that is enough.” Optimus looked pained. “Ratchet, is there a chance reduced rations for a short time might help buy us more time?”

“No. At this point, the troops are receiving just enough fuel to keep them fully operational. Long term cuts to rations would have them start dropping during fights. And once we retreat from the second wall, the Decepticons are going to know we’re fully on the backfoot. Don’t let them have that chance to push us even harder until we have too.”

“Very well. Jazz, does Prowl require your presence in Tactics?”

“Didn’t sound like it,” Jazz shrugged. “I’m great at planning inventive sabotage, not wide scale retreats. And I’ve only got my two agents left in Iacon. Not enough time to have them set up that many booby traps against the incoming Cons.”

“Very well. I would like to request your company out to the middle city then. I would prefer not to travel alone in this state.” He glanced between them both, and Ratchet paused, before offering out a medical hardline. Optimus quickly plugged it in, and Ratchet considered the data he saw.

“Your frame’s healing well, considering everything. But plug in a pain chit. I can tell you haven’t been using enough of them.” The hardline unplugged, and Ratchet glanced at Jazz. “You keep him safe, understand?”

A nod, and Ratchet turned to leave, but Optimus offered some last parting words.

“There will be no more delaying the inevitable now. There will be a date for the fall of Iacon set soon. And it will be much sooner than any of us wish it to be.”

Chromia knew her conjunx had been in a state of severe distress for days, and yet every time she tried to reach out, Ironhide’s spark made it clear that she either had no time or no safety in which to explain. And yet, now within communication distance of Ultra Magnus’ fleet, the Xantium received no updates from Iacon that gave her concern that the city was finally falling. While circumstances were certainly not good back on Cybertron, they certainly hadn’t yet reached dire.

So why was her conjunx so anguished?

Whatever it was that had Ironhide’s spark twisting in agony, however, was being shielded from their twins. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe showed no signs of noticing anything wrong besides Ironhide’s mere absence from their lives, preferring instead to play dangerous games with Arcee and Springer. Smokescreen, bless him, had tried to supervise, but Arcee and Springer quickly realized he’d rat them out to her or Hound if he thought the games were too dangerous, and were becoming experts in avoiding him.

At least Sunny and Sides liked him too much to prevent Kup’s foundlings from excluding Smokescreen entirely, and for that, she was grateful. The mechling needed more time to be just that, a mechling. With his carrier being who he was, and the expectations that had long been placed on his shoulders, Smokescreen seldom seemed to have the chance to be a child.

Sentinel Prime had declared when the mechling was born that he was the scion of a Praxian noble house that would be raised under the ancient law of the Primal Foster until he was of age to claim his titles and assets. However, with Praxus preferring to be a somewhat insular society from the rest of Cybertron, and no noble house within the city having obviously suffered an extreme loss of leadership, it’d been unclear to what house Smokescreen had ever belonged to. There’d been a rash of deaths, some natural and others less so, across Cybertron at the time. Praxus had taken her fair share of the losses.

Still, there were rumors. Some implied that Smokescreen was the heir of Polaris, Praxus’ Lord-Protector at the time, and he was actually a hostage of the Prime that Prowl had simply been assigned to oversee. Others implied that the Prime was lying, and simply covering up evidence of his own affair with his cold-constructed property, which would have been seen as highly unbecoming. But Ironhide had always doubted those rumors. There was an almost near certainty to her belief on the identity of Smokescreen’s progenitor, but no one, especially Prowl himself, would ever confirm it. A Praxian senator, Ironhide had once whispered to her, who’d been rather besotted with Prowl’s mind. A mech who’d died shortly before Smokescreen’s emergence of unclear causes.

But whether or not Smokescreen was the creation of Senator Crosscut, he’d been raised under Sentinel’s hand instead of his Praxian family’s. Between that and his carrier, an entire book could be filled about how this little mechling was forced to grow up far too fast.

Which was why, despite her complicated feelings on her own sire, she was glad to see that whenever the twins and Kup’s foundlings ran off without Smokescreen, Kup quickly stepped in to fill the void. Albeit, sometimes in questionable ways, but—

“Can you tell me the story about how Praxus’ walls were built?” Smokescreen’s doorwings were alert, but in the way any eager child was, as he polished an old antique blaster from Kup’s collection.

“Of course.” Kup gave an affectionate hum as he tapped some of the ash off of his cygar. “This was before Petrex District became the central hub of the city, you see. So back then, Praxus was like most cities on Cybertron. A spread out, sprawling mess in the age of the Darklands after the fall of the Thirteen Primes.”

Chromia couldn’t help but smile as Smokescreen listened with rapt attention, absorbing all the details of the home he’d hardly ever seen, one now long gone. It was as sweet as it was sad.

She heard approaching footsteps and turned to see Hound appear, Blue tucked into his arms fast asleep. Hound looked worried. She walked over, and he adjusted the newspark carefully.

“There’s a couple new reports that just came in on the bridge. Impactor said you should probably read them.”

Chromia felt the joy dripping out of her field. “Has Iacon—”

“Not yet, but it’s not good. Best we keep it quiet from the sparklings for as long as possible, but Smokescreen’s going to catch on that something’s off pretty quickly.”

Chromia nodded, glancing back towards the room her sire and the Praxian mechling were, but nothing hinted that they’d overheared them. With one last nod to Hound, she headed for the bridge.

Impactor just foisted a datapad into her hand before returning to some sort of game with Roadbuster. Chromia read over the reports within.

One was a partially decoded missive from the second fleet, stating that they had engaged Strika again and that the Xantium, with its current “cargo”, was to wait at a safe location until Ultra Magnus cleared them to continue their approach. A note underneath seemed to be the coordinates Impactor had chosen. A moon of some planet with organic life and energon, and a space station to sell said energon at. Exactly the sort of place to sit tight and wait, and also the exact sort of place the Wreckers were so prone to getting kicked out of.

But she’d deal with that as it came. It’d also be a good excuse to take all the sparklings out for some time away from the ship, to just be children.

It was the following reports that had her spark sinking. The situation in Iacon was quickly deteriorating, and although sections of the report were redacted, she could read through the lines. 

Project Teletran was encountering delays. The strategic energon reserves were running low. The second wall—

Chromia sat down in a chair and rubbed at her helm. Iacon would fall, and soon. She just had to hope the others made it out. 

Hound had been right. Smokescreen would figure that they were off course soon enough. He’d want to know where they were going and why. And then he’d want an update from Iacon. He’d want to know how his creators were doing.

They wouldn’t be able to keep this quiet for long.

She glanced around at some of the Wreckers milling about. Most of them were either doing their own things, or watching Impactor and Roadbuster’s game, which seemed to be growing a bit more contentious. Would one of them tell Smokescreen more than he should know? Or even worse, tell the twins, all the more younger and vulnerable?

She stood up, passing the datapad back to Impactor on the way out, and then headed for her quarters. She’d need to track down the twins soon, but for now, she’d just let herself think over how to break the news to the mechlings.

She missed Windblade. She missed her carrier. She missed Ironhide. Everyone she ever loved, it seemed, she was doomed to end up apart from for longer than she ever should be. Even the twins, whose earliest days she never got to see.

She was about to consider tugging on their sparkbonds to try to call them back to her, so she could begin to explain things, when she felt a sudden flood of emotion that wasn’t her own sweep over her.

Chromie, Chromie, Chromie.

Chromia sat up, optics wide. Ironhide’s end of the sparkbond suddenly seemed to fully burst open, grief, hurt, and raw emotion pouring across it like waves, alongside with an insistent tug that was an old code between them. She scrambled for a particular two-way communication pad in her subspace. It was old and the screen was cracked, but she turned it on anyway, just in case. 

And there was her conjunx’s tear streaked face.

“Chromie,” Ironhide muttered, wiping her face. “You picked up.”

“I always did when I could,” Chromia murmured, taking in her conjunx’s surroundings. They weren’t from any part of Iacon she knew. “Where are you? What’s going on?” An icy fear pressing down on her. “Is Optimus—”

“Fine, as far as I know. Sorry I ain’t been able to talk, but— I got sent on an off-world mission by Prime. And it’s been rough.”

Off-world? Ironhide was off-world after demanding to stay behind to defend the Prime? Her spark spun in anger, and Ironhide’s face definitely took an ashamed look to it in response.

“Chromia, I—” Her conjunx fell silent, guilt joining the emotions on their sparkbond. “Please.”

Chromia took a deep vent and dialed back her anger. “Why?”

“Something happened. Something I can’t talk about, Prime’s orders.” Ironhide took a ragged breath. “He needed me to help him, trusted me to complete a mission that he didn’t trust anyone else to do. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do it either. But I— I’m glad I was there to do it for him, but it meant leavin’ everything still on Cybertron behind for good.”

Chromia took a few more deep vents to keep her emotions from overwhelming her or her conjunx, and then nodded. “Is that why you’ve been so upset the last few days?”

“It reminded me too much of the past, Chromie. Real bad. Hurt a lot, but I wasn’t in a place I could talk without putting everyone in danger.” Ironhide flopped into a berth, holding the screen above her face. “But now I’m out in space alone. Can’t go back to Iacon. Got ordered to rendezvous with the fleet. And I— I miss you and the twins somethin’ fierce.”

“You left us.” The bitter taste of the truth lingers on her tongue. “You forced us away.”

This time, Ironhide’s spark invites hers to share the brunt of her anger, and Chromia does. The pain, the rage, the grief, at being forced away again. Of the painful not-knowing that had been their constant for their entire conjunxed lives before Optimus. Of a wound barely beginning to heal being wrenched back open. And not by orders, or loyalty coding that was little better than shadowplay. No, by choice. Ironhide’s choice.

She watches her conjunx take the onslaught, one that hurts more than their sparring session injuries ever will. Everything she can muster, until she feels hollow and empty from all the pain she’s just excised to the mech she loves most in this world.

And, in the silence that falls between them, Ironhide’s spark reaches back out, with nothing but pure and sincere apology and acceptance of all the unspoken accusations. Of pain, shared pain.

“I can’t apologize that I was there to do the mission I’ve just done. But everything else? I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Come home,” Chromia manages. “Come home to me. To the twins. And don’t— don’t lie to me this time when you promise that you won’t put us through this slag ever again.”

“I won’t.” Ironhide’s voice is firm. “Not again. Not ever again.”

They stay there in the silence for a while, emotions flowing back and forth over their sparkbond. It’s not quite a merge, but in the current circumstances, it’s the best they can do. Eventually, Ironhide finds her voice again.

“Sunny and Sides. How’re they doing?”

“Playing with Springer and Arcee. Missing you. Absolute terrors and delights at the same time for Windblade when they saw her again.”

“So, doing well?”

“Very well.”

Something eases in Ironhide’s spark at that. “Don’t say too much to them. But— pass on my love?”

“Always.”

They look at each other through the haze and low resolution. For so long, this was how the Primesguard Captain and a lower ranked member of the Primal Vanguard had stolen all the little moments they needed. A small screen with a habit of distorting their images and voices and never giving them enough. But with the feeling of her conjunx right next to her in her spark, all that distance seemed so minimal in comparison to before.

“‘Hide,” She began. “We got an update from Iacon, and I think you should know—”

Before Chromia could finish her thought, she heard a horrible screech of something impacting into the side of the Xantium, and then bolts of electricity arced through her quarters. Despite her inbuilt grounding devices, something about this overwhelmed them, sending her systems haywire.

Everything went to black.

Ironhide bolted upright on her berth as her sudden awareness of Chromia dropped from her spark and the communication pad flicked off. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe vanished only seconds later. 

And then came spark searing agony. Ironhide collapsed back onto her berth, mouth open in a scream she couldn’t hear. 

No! No, no, no—

Her processor went into emergency stasis, a desperate attempt to keep her from further harm, as the world vanished from view.

Jazz was surprised when Optimus headed right out into the middle city, a place they would be abandoning within a day’s cycle, with him at his side. The Prime had offered no words on their destination other than a set of coordinates, so Jazz simply took him on the routes that offered the most cover both from Decepticons and their own mechs as they moved any critical supplies into the inner city as fast as they could. 

Sometimes Jazz slipped ahead, scouting and then returning to his Prime. Optimus wasn’t moving at full speed, but he never stopped moving entirely, at least. Not until they reached an old apartment building at the coordinates he’d given. It was a nice place once, before the war. Not so nice that it would imply the owners had been really well off, but it was certainly nice enough to suggest the mechs inside had been doing just fine, both financially and by the caste system of the Functionist Council.

“Alright, Op. What now?” Jazz asked, only to see Optimus produce a key. “Wait, we’re going inside?!”

“Obviously,” Optimus stated. “Why else would we have come?”

Jazz wanted to protest this heavily now. After all, they didn’t have Ironhide to sweep the building in advance, and if he’d known they’d needed to do that, he’d have called Lockback in. But before he could utter any objections, Optimus had unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

Jazz quickly followed. 

Optimus seemed to slow down even more once inside, but none of his movements seemed to suggest that he was aimless. They were all so purposeful. This place had clearly been abandoned for some time. Probably these mid caste mechs had been some of the first to clear out or join up once the war really got going.

Jazz watched Optimus open the door to a set of stairs, clearly not trusting the old elevators to still be operational.

“Mech, how high are we going? You’re still healin’, so-”

“Our destination is on the third floor. I will make it that far.” Optimus assured, and Jazz just guarded the rear as they went up, feeling confused. 

When they reached the landing for the third floor, they entered a hallway. Old community bulletin boards hung up with ancient posters, text nearly indecipherable after all this time. Optimus headed for a specific door.

Jazz stopped him before he opened it. “Will you let me scout ahead for traps this time?”

The Prime nodded his assent, and Jazz, once the door was unlocked, entered quickly. He scanned the rooms of the apartment, before returning and inviting Optimus in.

As soon as Optimus entered the room, his field shifted, as if something very familiar had changed so deeply it’d become alien.

Jazz glanced around. This place looked a bit less abandoned than most. There was a thick layer of dust on everything that clearly hadn’t been disturbed until their arrival, so that did imply it was genuinely empty. But there was so much stuff out and about. Datapads, cubes with energon that had long ago lost its taste and color, and most likely nutritional value. It looked like a mech had walked out of here vorns ago with every intention of returning, and just never had.

“Where are we, Optimus?” Jazz asked, although he suddenly suspected he knew exactly where this was.

“This was the apartment of one Orion Pax, left to him by his creators upon their return to the Well of All Sparks.” Optimus stepped forward, drawing open an ancient curtain. “I wanted to stand in it one last time.”

Jazz looked at Optimus. He’d never actually, back in the days they’d all called themselves Decepticons, been here. Logically, he’d known that Orion Pax had an apartment. He’d also known that Prowl had had him set up surveillance around it to make sure no one they didn’t want poking around there was. 

But given that that had been what felt like eighteen ages ago, he hadn’t remembered the exact block or street, or even the coordinates of the place. After all, most of the interactions he’d had with Orion Pax had been in various bars, the Pits when he’d come to Kaon, or very rarely in the Iacon Archives. Never here.

Optimus suddenly moved with purpose down the short hallway. He hardly seemed to fit in his current form, but he pushed open a door into what had been the main berthroom once upon a time.

“When I was a sparkling,” He murmured. “I would sneak in here early on Primesday mornings, and open these curtains to look down at the park.” Optimus moved aside heavy, dust laden curtains, staring out at an artillery battery in the middle of being dissembled. “They did shows there on Primesdays. Acting out stories and myths. My carrier and sire always mumbled and groaned about me waking them up so early on their days off. But they usually took me. Once, when I was sick, carrier bundled me up and let me sit here all day to watch it from a distance.”

Jazz looked out alongside Optimus, and then glanced up at the big mech. “We’ll go get him, Optimus. Once we’re safely out of here. Even if I have to ditch Prowl and the bitties after only one night of being with them again to go get him, I’ll do it.”

Optimus said nothing, just looked through the dirty window, and then turned towards a small storage closet. He opened it up and pulled a box down from the top shelf. It was labeled Orion’s Old Toys.

Optimus opened the box with purpose as Jazz watched him sort through the contents.

“They kept the ones they felt I’d had the most attachment to, in case I wished to have them for a potential newspark of my own some day. I never thought—” He stopped, and then sighed. “I never had thought I would actually need them.”

Optimus finally selected a single toy. It was a small plush of sorts, made of a highly durable material, clearly meant to represent a cyberwolf, albeit a much more cuddlier one than existed in reality. Jazz could see from the slightly worn edges along the ears that this had been a highly favored toy. The bright colors mostly remained.

Optimus considered the toy, and then subspaced it. He then tidied up everything else, returning the box to its shelf, and closing the door.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah?”

“I will not ask you to leave your family so soon after your reunion with them. But— I may need to take you up on that offer, in time.”

Jazz nodded, reaching out and setting a hand on Optimus’. “Yeah, mech. Of course.”

Optimus took a shuddering vent, and then nodded. “We should head back to the inner city. Thank you for indulging me.”

And with that, Optimus left the apartment quickly, outrunning the memories inside. Jazz wasn’t far behind, but he spared a glance back at the door before he headed down the stairs.

A familiar voice greeted him as he did.

So full of regrets, brother. Perhaps, with the fall of Iacon coming soon, this will be one of your last.

Jazz kept himself from snarling as he turned away, shaking his helm slightly. Now was not the time to be thinking about Ricochet.

The medic hadn’t quite understood the summons he’d been sent, but he responded to the call nonetheless. While a summons to meet Soundwave could be a fatal occurrence, he could hardly think of a reason why it would be at this moment. Most fully fledged medics, if they had joined a side, had gone to the Autobots. And he’d hardly done anything traitorous enough to make himself worth the risk of killing. A few objections to one mech’s assignment was hardly treason.

Right?

Still, best to approach the situation carefully. No reason to risk earning the current second in command’s ire, or risk his cassettes ruining the polish the medic had put on for this little meeting. If he was going to be killed, he at least should look halfway decent while begging for his life.

So he was rather shocked when, after having his subspace searched by a very bored looking mech under the supervision of Ravage, the cassette motioned him into a room that was rather secure looking. Soundwave stood there with Megatron, and then nodded to Ravage. 

“Ravage: Dismissed. Ensure no one is able to overhear our conversation.”

A nod from the feline cassetticon, before he disappeared and the room was sealed. The medic’s tension increased. If they were going into lockdown to speak to him, perhaps he’d better start begging for his life now.

Megatron, however, spoke first. “Soundwave informs me you are a surgeon with vast experience, despite your high caste position.”

A pause, and then the medic shifted. “Lord Megatron?”

“Can you keep a secret, medic?” The leader of the Decepticons was eying him warily. “If you’re incentivized enough, will you do so permanently?”

Hmm.

Perhaps he wasn’t going to die here today after all.

The medic smiled. “What incentive are you considering offering me?”

Chapter Text

Chromia struggled to online her optics, her vision blurring in and out of focus. She was laid flat out on her berth, having clearly been sitting and then collapsing suddenly. She tried to recall her last memories.

Ironhide. Talk of the twins. Off world. Reunion soon. Iacon—

She jerked upright. The sound of impact. Electricity arcing through the ship. She instantly reached out on her spark. The twins and Ironhide’s bonds were still there, but inactive. Was she the first mech awake?

She jumped into the group comms of the Xantium, and found a few of the Wreckers groggily coming online.

::What hit us?:: Twin Twist mumbled. ::’Cause it packed one hell of a punch.::

::Unclear,:: Impactor was groggy. ::But I doubt it was accidental.::

Chromia felt her spark grow tight. ::Sparklings. Where are the sparklings?::

::I’ve got eyes on Sunny, Sides, Cee, and Springs.:: Whirl reported moments later. ::All offline but okay.::

A ping from Hound, and then his voice. ::Blue’s still with me. Crying. I don’t think he’s any more hurt than the rest of us, but he’s definitely scared.::

Chromia pinged her sire. No response.

::Kup?:: She tried again on the group’s channel. No response. ::Smokescreen?::

::We’re not all up yet,:: One of the newer recruits Chromia wasn’t as familiar with managed. ::Kup’s probably still offline.::

It took a few seconds for Chromia to rise to her feet, her frame wobbling with the lingering effects of the shocks. ::I’ll go find him. Whirl, can you get all the other bitlets to Hound? His holograms might be the best defense if they’re the targets.::

A few affirmative pings came about her looking for Kup, but none from Whirl. Honestly, Chromia hadn’t expected it from him. Over their private channel, Hound muttered he’d go find the bitties himself if she secured Smokescreen.

From her chronometer, although it might be out of whack, it seemed only a few kliks had passed. She stumbled out of her quarters and headed back towards the room her sire had last been in, blaster raised as she leaned on an inactive electric lance for stability.

Still, even as her frame shook off most of the effects of the attack and she didn’t need to learn on her weaponry anymore, she felt the tension growing. She moved faster. If they’d been targeted for something, what could it be other than the sparklings. But with five of the six accounted for—

She swung around the corner into the small room. Her sire’s frame lay motionless, still colored with life, but unconscious. However—

She quickly hurried to Kup, plugging into a medical port and forcing a reboot. The older mech jerked awake.

“Kid, what the—” He startled at the sight of her, having clearly expected someone else. “Chromia, what’s going on?”

“Where’s Smokescreen?!”

Kup’s optics were sliding in and out of focus as he turned his helm. “He’s there, he’s right there.”

Except he wasn’t. Chromia felt her sire’s field turn to surprised confusion as he realized the mechling wasn’t there at all. She straightened up, quickly leaping back into the group comm channel.

::Smokescreen’s been taken. He’s the target.::

A few curses, and then Impactor grunted.

::Kup, you join up with Hound and protect the other five bitlets. Everyone else, time to do some hunting.::

Deadlock was like most Decepticons when it came to sleeping in Iacon’s ruins. Find a decent piece of shelter out of reach of the second wall’s artillery bombardments, discover a vaguely horizontal surface not made entirely out of scraplets, and pass out there until your next shift came around. It was generally a pretty decent way to get in some recharge, and with his rank, he really just needed to pop over to Command once a day instead of worrying about a commanding officer most of the time. Megatron gave him his assignments, he got them done, and then he recharged. Rinse and repeat.

But today was different. Something was trying to wake him up. Something familiar.

“Ravage?” He opened up blurry eyes to see the feline cassetticon sitting, patiently waiting. It was still dark out. Forcing his optics into focus, he sat up straighter. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Bosses want you. Something’s off on the walls. Megatron wants a second opinion.”

Deadlock nodded, scooping a couple of pieces of jellied energon out of his subspace, with all the metal additives he needed to fight any frame deficiencies. He popped them into his mouth, took a swig of a regular fuel ration, and then nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Ravage led him out into the night, both mechs keeping to their root modes. Ravage ran and Deadlock just followed, keeping himself in shape by dodging around obstacles or leaping over them. No one questioned him. He was Conclave, and being led by Soundwave’s oldest cassette. It was obvious where he was going at this hour.

When they reached their current command center, Ravage headed up to the top floor, and then the roof. Deadlock joined him, as Ravage hurried to Soundwave’s side, and Soundwave turned to Deadlock with a tense expression. Megatron, meanwhile, made no acknowledgement of Deadlock’s arrival just yet, using a powerful rifle sight to study the second wall.

“What’s the sitrep?” Deadlock hummed as he approached. Soundwave answered.

“Frontliners: Have observed more activity than usual. Autobots: Appear to be decommissioning and retreating from the second wall. Seeker flyovers: Have provided potential images of deconstructed artillery batteries. Megatron: Wishes for Deadlock to observe and corroborate potential findings.” 

He was handed a datapad with the images from the flyovers. Those from a few days ago were set alongside those from this evening. The quality of the images was poor, but it did look like the Autobots were dismantling their defenses. After a few moments, Megatron straightened up and offered the rifle sight to Deadlock.

He took it and studied the wall. The activity was frantic compared to the last night shift he’d observed. Weapons being torn down or stripped, mechs moving like their lives depended on it. Because they did, and there was no way the Autobot army didn’t realize that they were going to be discovered, being this obvious.

Deadlock straightened up, considering how desperate the situation must be if the Autobots were giving up the second wall without forcing the Decepticons to crack it open. He studied a few more sections that could be seen from this vantage point, and then hummed.

“They’re definitely retreating.”

“Then we must advance,” Megatron said. “Soundwave, alert the troops. I want movement within thirty kliks—”

“I wouldn’t.” Deadlock turned to Megatron. “It’s better to let the Autobots have this night as a little victory, to ensure our more thorough one over the inner city.”

Soundwave tilted his head slightly, but Megatron looked annoyed. “Explain your reasoning, quickly.”

Deadlock nodded, handing the rifle sight back to Megatron. “Western side of the wall. They’ve sent more backup to the troops tonight, to handle the retreat. If we advance now, there’s more ‘Bots to fight back. Both sides will take heavy casualties. But if we wait, we gain the middle city with no bloodshed.”

“Which leaves the Autobots with more frames to throw against us in the battle for the inner city.” Megatron sounded unimpressed.

“It also leaves more Autobots surviving on decreasing resources.” Deadlock hummed. “They must be abandoning the middle city because they’ve lost too much of their strategic energon reserves. Which means rationing will grow increasingly tight. And Autobots won’t siphon from the dead.”

A pause. Deadlock could feel Megatron’s optics on him, considering his words. 

“Kill them, those rations stretch on longer. Their soldiers left are well fed and in the most fortified part of the city, which doesn’t need that many mechs to keep us out. Let them all live, and soon enough they’ll be starving. And starving mechs are easy to break.”

A truth too many of their side knew well. Megatron and Soundwave seemed to have a silent conversation, and then Megatron sighed.

“Let them have their little victory then. We will defeat them soon enough.”

Soundwave nodded, and retreated. After a few seconds, Ravage followed. Deadlock stood next to Megatron in the silence.

“Ratchet and Wheeljack,” Megatron finally spoke. “They may not survive this siege.”

“I’m aware.”

Megatron hummed. “While I do not wish deactivation upon them, should this siege end and we find them greyed, I would like to extend an invitation for you to become my second in command.”

Deadlock paused, turning back to Megatron. “Why?”

“Because, Deadlock, you are one of the mechs who helped me see how deep the corruption truly ran. You have the ability to lead large groups of troops when needed, and do it well. If I fell, you could command the faction’s loyalty. I understand where your line is drawn. But should the need for that line end up being erased by fools who don’t understand, then I need a mech like you. Perhaps even if they both survive the siege. I might easily be able to excuse their acts if such a high ranking mech of our Cause vouched for them.”

You could protect them.

Deadlock took a deep vent. “I’ll answer you when the siege is over. But a word of warning, Megatron?”

Megatron looked at him quietly, and Deadlock hated the words, even as they forced their way across his glossa.

“If they both die or live, arrangements can be made. But if one dies and the other lives? The survivor will do whatever they can to ensure your death. They won’t live without the other.”

A pause, and then a sigh. “Understood. I assume, should that situation come to pass, that you will refuse?”

A nod, and Megatron turned back towards Iacon’s second wall. Deadlock took the dismissal for what it was. 

And he prayed into the abyss, that night, that he hadn’t just condemned the mechs he cared about most to death.

Wheeljack snarled as something in the damn engines malfunctioned yet again, banging his wrench against the offending objects in his best imitation of Ratchet, before reviewing the blueprints. Perceptor frowned at him.

“Striking it will not fix the malfunctions.”

“No, but if it makes my conjunx feel better, I thought I’d give it a try,” Wheeljack growled, pacing. “What’s wrong in our damn calculations, and how do we fix it? Quickly.”

Perceptor didn’t rise to the bait. “The best science is never swift.”

“Yeah, well, the best science doesn’t generally happen in the middle of a siege with rations running low either. Go double check this.” 

Perceptor didn’t argue with Wheeljack’s brusque dismissal. The chief engineer sat down, observing the mechs working Project Teletran below with tired optics.

The ship was almost finished. And as soon as it was, Iacon could be abandoned, with all her remaining Autobots aboard. But if Wheeljack couldn’t get the ship done, all his protective shielding and mirages which had kept the worksite from being discovered by seekers overhead would be for nothing when the Decepticons burst in through the front doors.

He wasn’t used to the pressure that came with having so many lives in his hands. Never before had the stakes been this high, at least for him. He thought of Bulkhead, and wished he still had his amica to lean on. Bulk would’ve known what to say, what to hit that would magically fix the damn problem. But Bulkhead had died so long ago now that he’d lived more of his life without his amica then he had with him.

He wasn’t a religious mech, but he hoped the Afterspark was real, because he missed his friend.

He was dragged out of his thoughts by approaching footsteps, and glanced up to find his conjunx. Ratchet slowly sat down next to him, and then extended a cube.

Wheeljack took it with ease, knocking it back and then sighing.

“Triage over?”

“Wasn’t necessary. The ‘Cons let us retreat without attacking. They’re taking the middle city right now, without spilling any energon.”

Wheeljack cycled his optics. Ratchet sighed. 

“I doubt it’s out of compassion. My suspicion is someone told them that if we didn’t lose mechs, they might be able to starve us out faster.”

Wheeljack could hear the frown in Ratchet’s voice, and used the old name for the mech in question. “Drift?”

“Who else?” He groaned. “That damn kid…”

Wheeljack hummed, not willing to comment on it. Drift had been one of those mechs in the Dead End that’d gotten stuck under Ratchet’s plating. His conjunx would never forgive himself for not being able to save Gasket for the kid. An echo of a past memory, Wheeljack was sure. 

But that was the way of the Dead End by the time Drift had wound up at their door. Mechs died for the gears of Functionist Council to keep spinning. Ratchet had almost started to think of the hitmech like he was their creation back before the war. And while Wheeljack had always kept a bit more distance, he knew it bothered him too, that Drift had chosen becoming Deadlock over staying at their side. They’d given a piece of their sparks to him, and now they had to deal with the fact that it was being used against them. 

But he was a fully grown mech, making his own decisions as they had. And they all had to live with it.

He finished his cube, and Rachet took back the empty one with no complaint. After a few seconds, Wheeljack spoke.

“We need this to work, Ratch. But I’m worried it’s not going to.”

A pause, and then a hand on his back. “I know. Which is why I’ve requested a— well, a temporary transfer of sorts.”

Wheeljack looked at his conjunx, and Ratchet shrugged. “Hoist, as of this morning, is acting Chief Medical Officer of the Autobots. I, meanwhile, find myself suddenly attached to the Chief Engineer’s department, and at his disposal.”

A cycle of the optics. “How’d Prowl react to that?”

“He said if it got this project completed faster, he had no objections. I told him I was glad, or else I’d have to put a pede up his aft. Got frowned at for that.”

Wheeljack snorted, and Ratchet took his conjunx’s hand, squeezing it. Wheeljack knew his cojunx had felt the burden growing on the scientist’s spark for weeks now, let alone the last few days. But Ratchet’s spark hummed steadily. They were in this together.

“I want to see every blueprint relating to the ship now, even though I know I’ve already seen most of them. Let’s see if me doing some double checking of your math fixes the issue.”

A laugh, and Wheeljack helped him up. “Alright, sunshine. Let’s go get this damn thing airborne.”

Even as Ratchet rolled his optics at the old nickname reemerging, Wheeljack felt both their sparks ease up. Facing a problem together had always made them stronger. With Ratchet’s help, everything would be finished. 

They just had to hope it left them enough time.

Smokescreen felt sluggish as he woke up, only to realize he was slumped against an unfamiliar bulkhead with chains, actual chains, around his feet. Quickly flicking his optics back off, he tried to observe his surroundings without looking awake. Jazz had told him to always try to preserve the element of surprise if possible.

He turned up the sensitivity of every single sense he had at his disposal. His doorwings began to build an image of his surroundings, with the softest of clicks of the chain he could make, as if he was just shifting in his sleep. Every noise helped him build an idea of the room in his mind.

He smelled fuel, but it was dirty and low quality. Not like the medbay sometimes smelled after a lot of casualties had come in. No, this was a permanent stink across the ship. A junkyard ship, especially considering the sound of the engines. They weren’t purring. And Jazz had taught him how to differentiate between an engine that had been designed to sound like a junker for undercover work, and ones that actually were. This ship wasn’t a good one.

When nothing seemed to move around him, Smokescreen finally began to dial on his optics. He increased the power slowly, until he could actually properly see his surroundings. The room was empty, a few stasis chambers in the back, and then several sets of chains and shackles. Smokescreen considered what he knew, and came to a conclusion. Bounty hunter. 

Now… who’d set a bounty on him?

He dialed down everything but his audials, which he cranked to maximum sensitivity. In the distance, he could hear two mechs arguing. One was just muffled by the wall, or potentially walls, between them. The other, fainter voice, was definitely being received over comms. And they were using some sort of distortion filter.

“And you’re certain you captured the correct one?”

“It’s a damn Praxian, third frame. Blue and red, with a yellow chevron. Traveling on the Xantium. How much more damn specific do you want me to be?”

“I want to make sure you’ve done the job I paid you for. Another mech tried this once, and he failed rather spectacularly. And the infant is of little use to me.”

“Mech, I don’t care about your plans. I used your damn disruptor and got the package. I just want to get paid.”

“And you will, once I confirm that’s indeed Sentinel’s little overgrown experiment on a glitched spark!”

Smokescreen felt his doorwings shoot upright. He knew that little endearment. 

He turned down his audials after that, instead looking around at his surroundings and taking in his options. There wasn’t much to utilize around him, but his hands were loose, and he still had all the contents of his subspace. This hunter was sloppy, which made sense. He doubted the mech who was after him had enough influence or funds anymore to hire a good bounty hunter. So this hunter had assumed since Smokescreen was still a mechling that he wouldn’t pose a real threat.

He flicked his doorwings in amusement. Guess no one had told that hunter who his geni was.

He pulled out a few tools, and tried to listen for approaching footsteps. He wasn’t very good at this yet, but Jazz had been teaching him. Jazz didn’t like to talk about why he was teaching him all these skills, but Smokescreen knew.

The moment the familiar face of his geni, who’d been acting very strange, had been replaced by a stranger. One with a near identical frame to Jazz, but different colors. The mech had smiled at Smokescreen like this was a great big game, as he held Blue in one arm, and the twins clung to his other hand.

“Don’t spook the others, Smokescreen,” he’d said. “I wouldn’t want anything… unfortunate… to happen.”

Never again. He wasn’t letting this happen ever again, even if he could hear his origin’s voice pointing out that it technically already had. He picked the first lock, and eventually, it gave way.

He quickly started on the second one. He heard the sound of the ship’s engines in the distance, making more noise as they strained. Clearly trying to kick it into high gear to go somewhere. He needed to make sure he’d escaped before they reached their destination. But this shackle was taking him longer. The damn thing was rusting!

When he finally got the lock to pop, the hinges squealed. Smokescreen flinched. Had that gone unheard?

The footsteps suddenly on swift approach didn’t seem to imply he’d been so lucky. He scrambled upright and tried to quickly find a defensible position, but the doors were opening before he could. An amateur mistake! He should have already known where to run, but now he had to face his captor.

The mech in front of him was ragged. Pieces missing, replacement parts put together with whatever had been on hand. But they were also armed to the teeth, and Smokescreen wasn’t.

Still, he flared his doorwings out in a threat display. “The Wreckers are going to come after me. Better give up now and just let me go.”

“Please, those idiots?” The mech laughed. “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it. Now, kid, how about you show me how you slipped your locks? I need you alive, so let’s see if we can keep it that way.”

Smokescreen just rattled his doorwings, puffing out his plating. The mech frowned as they pulled out a weapon.

“Fine.”

Smokescreen dodged the stun bolt, transforming and gunning his engine, darting around the bounty hunter and into the hallway. He headed towards what he prayed was the bridge. If he could just get out a distress call—

He barely dodged the second shot as the hunter raced after him. He knew he wasn’t supposed to use the gift Jazz had given him, the one his origin didn’t know about, but— well, it was for these exact sorts of situations!

He engaged the mod, and watched the hall behind him fill with smoke as he swerved to avoid getting shot at. The mech cursed, and Smokescreen left him behind after clicking the mod off so he couldn’t be as easily tracked.

When he finally reached the bridge, he rushed to the controls and threw open the comms channel as he transformed. But he hadn’t expected it to immediately ring the last caller.

Which meant Smokescreen found himself staring face to face with a familiar mech. They looked startled, but then scowled.

“You spawn of a glitched mistake—”

Smokescreen hung up. 

But whatever time his mod had bought him was gone, as the bounty hunter reached the bridge and lunged at him. He tried to dive out of the way, but this time, the mech managed to clip him with a stun shot. It didn’t knock him out, but his legs went numb, and Smokescreen collapsed.

“You’re going to regret this, kid,” the bounty hunter spat, approaching him. Smokescreen turned and rattled his doorwings again.

“I know why he wants me, and I’m not gonna be his bait! He’s not getting my ori!”

The hunter laughed. A dark sound, angry but amused nonetheless. Smokescreen tried not to flinch as familar memories threatened to creep out of the back of his processor.

“You should hope he gets ahold of your originator swiftly, little mech. Or else you’re going to have a very, very bad time.” The mech leaned down over him, clearly ready to scoop him up and carry him to a stasis chamber. They didn’t notice the subtle flick of Smokescreen’s wrist as they did so. “You’re just as bad as that glitched mech you emerged too.”

“No,” Smokescreen growled, before letting a little smile slip onto his face. “I’m worse. Just like my ‘geni.” 

He swung his hand upwards, right into the bounty hunter’s face, and specifically, their nearest optic. Warm fuel started spilling over his hands, and the mech barely had time to snarl before the knife was buried so deep in their processor that there’d be no coming back. Smokescreen scrambled to get out of the way of the falling frame, and watched the mech hit the ground, already going grey.

With considerable effort considering his numb legs, he pulled himself towards the comms station, stopping along the way to drop the ship out of its current travel speed and course trajectory. With that done, he reached the comms.

Ideally, he’d just call the Wreckers and ask them to come get him, saving his originator and Jazz a lot of worry. But Impactor hadn’t exactly given him the Xantium’s comm codes, and it wasn’t programmed into a directory on this ship. So, he called the only desk comm code he knew by heart.

The mechs of the Tactical Hub startled as Smokescreen looked around, and then spotted Trailbreaker.

“Think I could talk to my ori?” He asked, a little nervous. But the mechs of his origin’s team looked even more frightened. Trailbreaker managed to sputter out that he’d get him on the line, and then the screen flickered black for a few moments. 

A couple seconds later, Smokescreen found himself looking at the Prime. Optimus startled.

“Smokescreen?!”

The sound of his origin shouting his name in the background overlapped with several other voices, all equally startled and shocked, and Smokescreen gave Optimus a little wave. 

“Hi. Do you think my origin could, uh— could he find out where the ship I’m on is and tell Impactor to come get me?”

As soon as the Wreckers had managed to reach the ship, and Impactor had relayed that the mechling was safely back in the hands of Autobots, Prowl had promptly crashed. Hoist had just immediately taken him to the medbay, with the assumption this entire incident might end up triggering a secondary crash.

Jazz wasn’t even sure what’d happened in the command meeting after Smokescreen’s call. He just had to remember to take deep ventilations as he sat in stunned silence in the medbay.

Jhiaxus. Not Soundwave, or a rogue Decepticon agent, or even mechs with vendettas on their own side. No, this wasn’t anything he’d prepared for when he’d sent Hound along to protect his and Prowl’s bitlets. Fragging Jhiaxus. As if they didn’t have enough issues, barely surviving in the inner walls of Iacon. Now Jhiaxus was after their bitties. Or rather, Smokescreen specifically. Because Jhiaxus wanted to torture Prowl. Because Jhiaxus suspected, just like everyone else, that Prowl had arranged Sentinel’s fall. And for that, he wanted Prowl dead and to hurt the one he deemed responsible for Prowl’s decision to take Sentinel down. Smokescreen himself. 

Jazz groaned, trying to stop the throbbing pain in his helm. The voices swirling around, laughing at him and taunting him. The shadowy outline standing before him, yellow visor bright as nothing but pure acid dripped from the mech’s honeyed voice.

You’ve failed. Like you always do. You can’t protect anything you care about, can you? Not our origin. Not your so-called bitties. Not your brother. Everything you do, it’s all led to failure since you chose him.

Jazz stared down Ricochet head on this time. “You’re just my imagination,” he said, as if that could take the pain away. But Rico just laughed.

Sure I am, Jazz. But that doesn’t mean what I’m saying is any less true. You became his tool, acted on his behalf, fell in love with his bitlet and him. And where’s that led you in life? To the losing side of a war? To the medbays and sleepless nights worrying over them all? To killing your brother? To not being there when those bitties need help? 

“I’m defending everyone.”

No. You’re still just fighting for him and him alone. Tell me, big brother, since you always insisted you were the eldest twin. If the situation were reversed, do you think he’d even do half of what you do? Or would he leave you to rot?

Jazz stumbled to his feet, kicked something, and began to pace. Ricochet’s laugh faded, but he felt like a caged beast. Ready to strike at anything.

So, when someone tripped him, he hit the ground, rolled, and spun around to attack the mech responsible. Except the mech moved faster than him, and Jazz was pinned. A sign more of his distractions than anything else. 

Ratchet looked Jazz in the optics, and then sighed. “Office. Now.”

“Thought you weren’t the acting chief medical officer right now.” Jazz snapped back. He needed to leave, to find something to do, someone to kill—

“I’m still a medic that can declare you unfit for duty. Office. Now.”

Jazz felt the medic release him, hissed, but then headed right for Ratchet’s office. Ratchet followed, closing the door and locking it. They stared at each other for a bit.

“So,” the old medic finally hummed. “If you think you can outrun the mandatory sessions with Rung that I’m going to be assigning you as soon as Project Teletran’s complete, you’ve got another think coming.”

“What?”

Ratchet crossed his arms, not looking amused, but he also didn’t look particularly angry, which was a first. “Mandatory sessions with Rung. You’re getting unglued at the edges, Jazz, and I’m not the only one who's noticed. Teaching Smokescreen Spec Ops skills? Using your access to give him an illegal frame mod? Adding micro transformations that lets him hide damn stiletto knives?!”

“All those things saved his life today!” Jazz snarled. He would not be reprimanded for the actions that had saved his eldest bitty.

“He’s a child!”

“He’s my child! Prowl’s bitlet! He’s been in danger since the day he was sparked, and he knows that better than you and most of High Command do!”

Ratchet stepped closer. “What I know, Jazz, is you’ve been running from something you don’t want to face for a very long time. Optimus has asked us all to let it slide. But I won’t let you go on it anymore, because you’re going to get your sparklings killed if you keep running.”

Jazz bared his fangs. Most Autobots didn’t have them, but he’d hardly seen any reason to get rid of them. After all, he wasn’t like most Autobots. But Ratchet was an immovable wall, hardly intimidated.

“If you don’t stop this, you’re going to get Prowl killed too.”

“You—”

“I know, I don’t understand him, and I don’t understand you!” Ratchet threw up his hands. “But that mech would follow you to the grave. And you’re dragging him and yourself right towards the one your brother’s buried in! The rest of us will be lucky to save Smokescreen and Blue’s lives when the two of you reach it!”

And that implication was a step too far for Jazz.

He screamed, all but launching himself at the medic. Ratchet fought back, but this time, Jazz wasn’t in a fugue state. He pressed every old injury and aching joint he could see on the medic, years of preparation for betrayal from the other mechs of High Command readying him for this fight. The moment when he had almost nothing left to lose, and had to protect everything he had left. 

Except suddenly, like a burst of sunlight, a commanding voice came as the door was kicked open, almost blinding him.

“JAZZ, STOP THIS!”

The Matrix of Leadership was an oppressive weight against his field, and Jazz hissed, but dropped the medic. Ratchet was bleeding, but not enough. Not enough, he needed more—

When he turned, it wasn’t Optimus’ face that caught him off guard. It was Prowl’s. His conjunx was awake and staring at him with horror.

What…

What had he just done?

“I pro’oked him,” Ratchet muttered through a bleeding nose and heavily dented frame. “Should ‘ave expected—”

“I don’t care, he knows better,” Optimus’ engine had never before rumbled in such a dangerous way at him, or at least, Jazz didn’t think it had. “Jazz, this is behavior unbecoming. You are suspended from duty, effective immediately.”

“Optimus—”

“Immediately. I will not allow Spec Ops to be controlled by a mech I cannot trust.”

Something in Jazz’s spark cracked at that declaration.

Prowl was tugging on their sparkbond. Confusion, upset, disbelief. All of it evident as the room around them echoed with Optimus’ proclamation. Everyone, even his own conjunx, united against him. And Jazz heard that honeyed laugh once more.

“Jazz!” Prowl called out as he bolted past him and Optimus, heading for the medbay doors. He pulled on their sparkbond hard, begging him for answers. “Jazz, come back!”

He didn’t.

System rebooting: Please stand by…

Ironhide was groggy as her frame came back online. She felt like she’d gone ten rounds in the Pits nonstop as she tried to figure out what could have hurt her so badly when she heard a message over a hardline.

::Commander, you’re safe. Please vent normally.::

She’d been alone the last time she’d been aware of anything.

Ironhide forced herself to move fast, reaching for a blaster and shoving it up under the chin of the first mech she saw as soon as her optics opened. Which was also, from the looks of the hardline, the mech currently playing around in her systems.

“Who the frag are you?!” She hissed, voice ragged from disuse. How long had she been unconscious?

The mech was perfectly still, and Ironhide realized there were plenty of other witnesses around them, visibly tense and frightened at her reaction. But this mech projected complete and total calm as the surprise faded away.

“My name, Commander Ironhide, is Fixit. I was appointed as a medic for refugees fleeing Cybertron’s war by Optimus Prime himself. You were at the ceremony, if you can recall it at the moment.”

Ironhide felt her processor lagging, but a glance revealed the medic was carrying the Autobrand. He projected calm at her, and slowly, the blaster lowered.

She didn’t like the wobble in her hands she saw as it did.

“My apologies for startling you,” Fixit continued. “But when we found your shuttle adrift, you were in stasis, and your energon levels were critically low. I’ve been working on bringing you back to operational status ever since.”

Ironhide tried to sit up, but the medic stopped her. “Please, Commander. Spark shock is not easy to recover from.”

“Spark shock? I—”

And then suddenly, the memories hit. She scrambled upright, sitting and immediately feeling her tanks roll. Not a wise idea, but a necessary one before the panic set in.

“My— my conjunx—”

Fixit quickly raised his hands. “Commander, please. Lay down—”

Ironhide could see mechs around her. A few other Autobots, security personnel from the looks of it, and some random neutrals. But she didn’t care. She needed to know, and she needed to know now.

Fixit paused as she pressed nothing but pure need over the hardline. 

“I need to have my spark scanned for my sparkbonds with my ‘junx and my creations. Now.”

A pause, and then a nod. Fixit disconnected himself from her system, and Ironhide panted as some of the adrenaline drained from her frame, only to be replaced by a deep and unbearable anxiety. She tried to reach for Chromia and the twins, only to feel searing pain.

“You need to stop attempting to reach them for a moment in order for me to properly scan you.” Fixit tried to keep a gentle tone. Ironhide debated growling at him, but she just glared instead. The medic, thankfully, didn’t seem to expect her to do anything less. He quickly scanned her spark once she cracked open her chest plates.

A pause, and then Fixit motioned for her to close her chest plates. She did as asked, and he sat down next to her. 

“I see three bonds. One conjunxal, two creator-creations, although the two bonds are remarkably similar.”

“Split-sparks. The twins are split-sparks.”

“Ah. Yes, that would do it.” Fixit poked slightly at the readout. “The bonds are all currently inactive due to the spark-shock you’ve experienced, but they aren’t severed.”

Ironhide hadn’t meant for it to come out as a roar, but it did. “Meaning?!”

“There are multiple reasons spark-shock can happen.” Fixit glanced at her, projecting certainty. “But your conjunx and creations are still alive. Did you suspect otherwise?”

Ironhide nodded. “All quiet. At once.”

Fixit took that in, and then softened his gaze. “That was likely the cause of the spark-shock then. Suddenly offline bonds are sometimes mistaken for bond-break by our frames. And that would explain the stasis.”

“I need to confirm—”

“You, commander, need to lay down,” Fixit interrupted. “Your frame is still healing from this ordeal. In my current role, I’ve been able to occasionally make contact with Ultra Magnus’ fleet. My understanding is that High Command’s sparklings were evacuated on the Xantium, correct?”

“That’s not public knowledge—”

“It has become such over the last few cycles. The Xantium was recently hit with some sort of experimental weapon, in an attempt to kidnap Smokescreen of Praxus. No casualties were reported, other than the mech foolish enough to attempt to kidnap a mechling under the supervision of the Wreckers. The Decepticons condemned the strike, and our own side has been broadcasting that it was an unrelated party.”

Ironhide recognized the slick sort of PR Soundwave would’ve slid out to make sure Jazz didn’t start picking cassettes off of the battlefield easily enough, but she also knew that sort of propaganda went both ways.

“I need to make contact with Ultra Magnus and—”

“No. You’re laying down. I will make contact with Ultra Magnus and ask for an update to be forwarded to us for you to read after you’ve rested. And after I’ve taken these refugees to their new home, we will rendezvous with the fleet. Understand?”

Ironhide tried to argue, but Fixit cut her off. She didn’t remember if this medic was one of Ratchet’s students or not, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been.

“Your conjunx and creations are alive, Ironhide. But I cannot guarantee you’ll survive to see them if you don’t allow yourself time to recover.”

Ironhide considered that, and then grumbled. “Fine. Just tell Ultra Magnus, if he asks, that I was doing an off-world mission for the Prime. He’ll need to talk to Optimus directly for anythin’ he wants to know ‘bout that.”

A nod, and Fixit let her sip at a little energon to help reset her rasping vocalizer. Then he made her lay back down.

“I’m going to plug in a pain chit now to help your frame heal from the shock.”

“Just a little one,” She muttered as she watched the medic move to plug one in. “I don’t need a big one—”

From the quick way her optics faded and she dropped into recharge, Fixit had disagreed.

Prowl hated the way mechs in the Command Center looked at him over the past few days. Some were furious. Others tried to speak to him with sympathy. And some just pitied him. All of these things Prowl attempted to brush off, keeping himself firm and emotionless when spoken to wherever possible.

He would not return to those days when the mechs close enough to power saw the truth of Prowl’s position in Sentinel Prime’s government. The truth that, no matter what he did or how he did it, Prowl was always going to lose. He’d been a brilliant tool, and an easy person to blame for every little wrong. Those who knew it had given him those same looks then. 

He’d rather drown in the Rust Sea than ever feel so belittled again. He was not a mech to be pitied. He was one who was to be respected.

And yet, everyone seemed to have little but pity for him these days, unless they were part of the old guard who preferred disdain. Word had gotten around about Smokescreen’s accidental interruption of High Command’s meeting. How his mechling had been soaked in energon from the mech he’d killed, begging for a rescue. How, once his sparkling had been safe, Prowl had crashed.

And how Jazz, in the aftermath of said crash, had assaulted Ratchet before vanishing into the ether.

Mirage claimed Jazz wasn’t AWOL, and was still checking in on Spec Ops frequencies. When Optimus had pressed the acting Spec Ops Head during a command meeting to see if it was the truth, Mirage’s optics had gone steely. Prowl was tempted to ask what the Matrix had seen, but he was afraid. Afraid to find out if Mirage knew why Jazz had vanished, taking nothing with him but that accursed little box full of incense resin.

Maybe that was why Mirage’s looks irritated him less than others. Maybe he knew something about Polyhexian hitmech customs that told him Jazz wasn’t coming back. Jazz was silent on their sparkbond, and Prowl hated how easy it was to hate him for that in this moment.

And how easy it was to hate himself.

He spent as much time as he could alone, keeping himself busy with work. In his Tactical Hub office, in the war room, or in the terrifyingly empty habsuite. If there was anything he could do to keep his mind off of Jazz’s absence, he did it. Ratchet had attempted to ask him if he needed anything, an unusually generous offer, but Prowl had just told him to finish Project Teletran before slamming the door in his face. Ratchet both was and wasn’t to blame for this situation, but he was an easy target for the Praxian’s limited anger he let himself feel over this situation.

Optimus was probably going to send Rung after him soon. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He moved through the command center with his doorwings kept constantly alert. He knew how many mechs might feel more eager to act out violently towards him now, without the specter of Meister looming over them to remind them to back off. In some ways, the Decepticons compromising Jazz’s secondary identity early in the war had kept Prowl safer. But now, he stayed as paranoid as he had been near the end of Sentinel’s reign. Not the sort of paranoia that sometimes led to Red Alert scouting a perimeter fifteen times. No, the one born out of necessity from having been Sentinel’s right hand for so long, and knowing how unpopular it made him.

He was alone in his office when the knocking came. He was inclined to ignore it at first, until the medical override unlocked the door. He prepared to tell Ratchet off, or defend himself from Hoist’s good intentions, but instead found Rung watching him.

Ah. Well, that had been expected.

Rung looked at him, and then glanced around the room. Prowl had cleaned it in a fit of sleeplessness the previous night, and was glad he’d done so now. It gave less away.

“Rung,” He inclined his helm politely. “I am a little busy at the moment, so I hope you don’t need much of my time?”

“That remains to be seen.” Rung produced a thermos of some liquid, and two cups. “I hope you are aware that while my specialty is different from others that I have just as much of a right as any medic to declare you unfit for duty, correct?”

Prowl nodded, and Rung gave a pleased nod. They both also knew that Optimus could not afford another member of High Command being reassigned at the moment, and that any suspension Prowl received would be promptly overturned. But politeness forbid him from acknowledging that fact just yet as Rung poured two cups of tea.

He recognized the citrine tea from the color, and held back a grimace. Smokescreen preferred ruby tea, although like any Praxian of status, he was always ready to provide other options for his guests. Citrine, with its bitter flavor, had once been Prowl’s favorite, before he’d sworn the drink off forever.

Still, despite the risk, he took a sip when Rung passed the cup to him, and set a hard limit to the ATS’ power. 

“I’ve been speaking to Mirage and Lockback,” Rung began, trying to keep the conversation light. “Asking a few questions about how young Smokescreen came by all the skills that allowed him to rescue himself. I was curious as to if you might enlighten me further on that topic.”

Prowl debated if he could stomach another sip of the tea in order to make it look less like he was avoiding the question, but came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be worth it. 

“I have kept myself separate from Smokescreen’s time bonding with his unofficial progenitor. I did not wish to insert myself into their relationship as long as it has remained flourishing.”

“So you have no idea what your conjunx does with your eldest child during their time together without you?”

Hmm, Rung was fishing for something else now. Prowl redirected them.

“Jazz teaches Smokescreen to cook, and will often accompany him to the self-defense lessons Ironhide and Chromia teach. I am generally aware of where they are going, and what they intend to do there. I prefer not to pressure them to share all the minor details.”

“Such as the hundreds of hours Jazz has had Smokescreen log in the Special Operations training sims?”

Prowl did take a sip of tea, considering his answer carefully, even as the flavor nearly made him choke.

“I was unaware of that,” Prowl set the cup down. 

“And if I say I don’t believe you?”

Prowl just grunted acknowledgment at that statement, and wished he had any pressed energon to wash the taste of the citrine off of his glossa. “You are allowed to have your own thoughts on the matter, Rung. But I did not know.”

I just suspected as much. 

It’d been no secret to him how much Ricochet’s betrayal had rattled Jazz. How suddenly they’d had to fear shadows behind every corner coming for the sparklings. It’d been what had prompted Ironhide to begin the self-defense classes, with Optimus’ blessing.

But those classes weren’t enough, not if someone with Ricochet or Jazz’s level of skills was involved. And Smokescreen had known it. They’d all hoped the classes would ease the nightmares. But the recharge fluxes had only gotten worse.

Until the day Jazz had taken Smokescreen to Special Operations, and when they’d come back, Smokescreen looked relaxed for the first time since that awful night. For days at a time, Prowl would watch the two of them leave, and pretend he didn’t know.

And, as Smokescreen had talked them through what had happened while awaiting his rescue, Prowl had been shocked by just how much Jazz had done. Training to kill a mech bigger than you quickly and efficiently? A Special Operations grade frame modification? The lack of fear in his mechling’s eyes?

Prowl had looked at Smokescreen, and for a moment, his eldest creation was a complete and total stranger.

“Prowl.”

His attention returned to Rung, but he felt oddly detached from the conversation suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Smokescreen is a highly vulnerable and traumatized mechling. You and I both know that growing up with so much of Sentinel Prime’s attention on him led to him often being emotionally abused and neglected.”

“I did my best.” The defensive bite remains, all these years later. He’d first heard that said when he and Jazz had tried to adopt Blue, and he still hated it. “We both did.”

“I am not arguing that you didn’t. You were hardly in a better situation yourself.  You could not prevent either the neglect from your forced absence, or the abuse received from the other mechs around you. But the answer to these traumas isn’t to throw a mechling into training that very few adults can handle. All of these actions might have easily made things worse for Smokescreen. I won’t know for certain until I’m able to reevaluate him.”

A numb fury was filling Prowl’s frame. He took another sip of the tea, but even the taste couldn’t bring him back to himself.

What did this mech know? What did any of them know? His family had walked through the fires of Unicron himself and come out on the other side alive. The anger kept bubbling up, but there was no place for it. Instead, it poured into the abyss where all Prowl’s emotion had gone after the betrayal that had changed everything.

He remembered being pulled out from that abyss before. How only a mech he’d arguably lied to, a complete and total stranger, had expressed his curiosity at Prowl’s goals, and extended a cautious hand out to him. How that hand, even with all the strings attached at the time, had pulled him out of the hatred and ill intentions he could have so easily devoted himself to in pursuit of his personal freedom.

He found it so easy now to look down at the abyss within himself, and wonder if he should fall back in. It had been almost peaceful there, with no cares other than survival and freedom, expressed in cold calculations and names handed to a hitmech. 

“All mechs can be corrupted with time.”

“That include you?”

Prowl stood, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here. Here in the Command Center, with danger all around, and the taste of citrine on his lips. If he didn’t move, then he risked losing everything.

Rung’s objections might as well have been directed at the wall as Prowl strode out of the room, past the tacticians he commanded, and out of the base. He didn’t know where he was going, or when he’d get there. But he knew what he was outrunning.

He’d been made to be used all his life. Cold-construct. Political asset. A brilliant processor needing to be replicated. A mech who knew the system better than anyone else. His current master might be kind, but he still lived and died by the generosity of the powers that were. A few mechs had tried to look underneath it all before. Ironhide, before she’d gone to the Pits, had probably been the closest to seeing the truth.

But only Jazz had ever found it.

He suddenly felt his frame lock up, and Prowl dropped to his knees in the middle of the training field as his body behaved beyond his control. He could see it now, as he stared into the abyss. The vision of what others had wanted him to be stared back at him. He saw a mech who was nothing but numb, cold, with only disdain and furious pain left in his spark. A mech who could be molded and shaped, the perfect slave. 

His tanks rebelled at the image even as he felt himself falling closer and closer to it. He remembered the first time his frame had betrayed him like this. Cold-constructed mechs were not allowed the privilege of rejecting the fuel within their tanks unless it was truly a life or death situation, but his frame had no longer cared. Jhiaxus had snorted at yet another weakness of his glitched spark, and Sentinel had glowered at him in disappointment.

There’d been citrine tea too that night, and for thousands of nights after. No one except Ironhide had tried to comfort him then. As a new spark had grown off of his own, and his mind had tried, over and over again, to leave the reality of his situation behind and become the image he now faced. 

His thoughts went back to his oldest creation. All Smokescreen had ever been to the powers above them was a means to an end. And he knew his own mechling knew it. Knew it still rang true, even now.

He and Smokescreen would always be used, and used, and used—

He retched, and came to the realization that there were too many mechs around him. His frame, however, forced him to obey its demands even as his mind recognized the potential threat far too late for him to do anything about it.

As a hand came far too close to his doorwings, it was suddenly snatched away. Prowl became aware of a mech screaming in pain, and another one growling low in their throat, taking a defensive stance over him. Plating rattling and vocalizer spitting.

“Try to touch my conjunx again, and I’ll do more than break your hand!”

Jazz. Prowl suddenly felt a pressure in his spark, and a hand reaching down into that abyss, yanking him out before he fell too deep.

“They’re insane! They’re both fragging insane!” Someone was screaming, but Prowl didn’t care as he felt Jazz’s field brush against his. Fear-comfort-worry was pulling him towards the surface, and letting him extend a hand to his conjunx.

And then, a voice Prowl never expected to hear defending him.

“You went for his doorwings. You should feel lucky Jazz didn’t take your whole arm off at the joint!” Ratchet’s voice was annoyed. “Never touch a Praxian’s doorwings when they’re in severe distress unless the damn things are bleeding!”

Jazz pulled Prowl to his feet, and Prowl felt like everything around them was blurring. He could swear he heard Ratchet and Jazz speaking with civility, and Ratchet even dismissing Jazz without much anger. But then Jazz tugged him away, and he followed. He wasn’t certain where they were going, until he found themselves standing in their habsuite, Jazz leading him to the washrack.

“— still dissociatin’ on me, Prowler. Come on, just say something, please—”

Prowl tried to say something, but his next moment of awareness was when he was sitting under solvent spray, getting scrubbed down by his conjunx. Hands on his doorwings had him stiffen in agitation, but then soften as that familiar EM field extended into his plating.

“— sorry, so so sorry—”

It was as the solvent started to cool slightly that he felt himself properly come too. Jazz was rinsing his own plating at this point, and Prowl stared at him.

He looked like scrap again. Clearly neither of them were doing well. Prowl tried to stand, but his frame still felt rebellious, off kilter.

“Prowler—”

“When did you return?”

A pause, and then Jazz’s visor flickered slightly. Prowl took a deep vent.

“Jazz—”

“Last night. Ratchet found me camping out in my new office. He—” Jazz paused, and then sighed. “He was coming with me to help me talk to Optimus ‘bout what happened between us when we saw you running past. Probably no point in apologizing now though, after I broke Counterstrike’s hand. Doesn’t make me look like I regret much at all.”

Prowl recognized the name of one of the mechs who definitely wouldn’t have been friendly, had his hand settled on his doorwings. He shuddered, knowing he would have been powerless to protect himself. 

Power. How fickle the ebbs and flows of its tide could be.

“—stop that, Prowler. You keep getting all foggy, I can feel it.” Jazz turned off the solvent spray, both of them damp and shivering now. “What happened?”

Prowl tried to decide where to begin. Some part of his processor knew that if he wanted to clearly communicate his distress, he needed to explain the last few days. But another part of him managed to completely throw that away, merely shouting at his conjunx.

“You left!” It carried an accusatory note. “Jhiaxus came, and you left me alone!”

Jazz’s field took the brunt of Prowl’s unintentional emotional assault, clearly more prepared for this reaction than Prowl himself had been. “I did.”

Prowl shuddered, his field going haywire as everything he’d been desperately suppressing came rushing back out of the abyss. Rage bubbling to the surface one moment, only to sink and be replaced by fear the next, and pain after that. “He wanted— he was going to use Smokescreen— to get to us! To get to me! And you left!”

And as quickly as everything else had come to the surface, it was overwhelmed by despair. That everything they’d tried to build to keep the ones they cared about most safe was being erased. That there was nothing they could do to protect themselves, Smokescreen, or Blue. He was drowning, and he wasn’t sure he could stop it.

Jazz’s voice pulled him out yet again. His voice was intense, strangely so.

“We’ll kill him, Prowler. Kill Jhiaxus like all the others. They aren’t going to use our bitty, Prowl, never again. I promised you that when we bonded. He’s gonna be free. He’s gonna pick his own path. He won’t be a tool of the powerful, he will be powerful.”

Prowl felt another shudder wrack through him, and Jazz grabbed his helm to steady him. Ice-blue optics meeting a frighteningly bright visor.

“Sentinel is dead. We’ll get Jhiaxus.” Jazz’s voice wasn’t steady and reassuring, instead bubbling with his own rage, and something else. Something that left Prowl leaning forward as if he needed more of it.

“He was made to be used! We both were! I didn’t— when he was sparked, I hated him!”

“No, you didn’t.” Jazz’s snarl tugged Prowl even further away from the abyss. “You were used, and hurting. You blamed him at first because he was the only thing that couldn’t fight back. But you realized who the true enemy was. Because you have a processor that only comes once in a generation, and you saw that those mechs wanted to have a bitlet as smart as you that they could control more than you. And you liberated yourself, him, and millions of others in the process! And now you and I will make sure those in power will never try that again!”

Jazz pushed their forehelms together. As their fields shifted between emotions too fast for either of them to know what they felt anymore, Jazz almost sounded giddy as he spoke.

“I killed Crosscut. Knife to the spark, like you asked, for everything he did to you. He promised you freedom, and then planned to steal Smokey from ya while he left you in chains. And I killed him! He ain’t ever coming back. When Jhiaxus is dead, Smokey’ll be free. No one’ll ever try to use him again. Not Jhiaxus, not Sentinel Prime, and not Senator Crosscut!”

Prowl felt his doorwings tremble, and then he was yanking Jazz to him. They were still damp with solvent, shivering from the near-battle highs they were both riding, as they merged. Sparks all but hissing as they turned from two mechs into one.

Maybe Counterstrike was right. Maybe they were fragging insane. But who wasn’t in this war? And if he and Jazz were the maddest mechs alive, he’d take it.

Anything to avoid falling into that abyss ever again.

Somewhere from within their merge, Jazz agreed.

Nixaya was, for all of its intensely religious populace, a rather quiet planet. Ambulon liked the silence, even as he disliked the intense devotion to Primus so many of the mechs around him seemed to display. He worried about it a lot. He’d thought about joining the Decepticon Cause early on in the war, but his mentor had encouraged him to instead consider the growing Cybertronian diaspora. She’d despised Functionism too, often having been one of its victims despite her hotspot sparked medic talents simply because of her arachnid alt-mod. Ambulon had agreed to leave with one such mission at her encouragement, and ended up landing here.

On one hand, he enjoyed his work. Newsparks and young sparklings were sweet to work with, and they were worth every fatigued evening or morning. And yet, he could already hear echoes of what’d been murmured on Cybertron before the war growing here. Optimus Prime might have outlawed Functionism, but the optics of the Prime were a long way from Nixaya, and these priests had spent more time under Nominus and Sentinel than Optimus.

Their newest newspark seemed to be adjusting well, at least. The little mech had been given a newspark designation of Splash, because his coloring was coming on in such splotchy patches of color, and it’d been a long time since any of them had seen a newspark that young. Splash was mostly red and yellow so far, with some orange creeping in. But he still had a few silver streaks left on his minuscule plates.  

All the medics adored him. Ambulon tried to ignore the curious priests who wanted to see the newspark, and was glad that at this age at least, he could throw most of them right out of the infirmary when they got too close.

And he had that excuse, because something was off with this bitlet. Newsparks needed a little coolant mixed in with their fuel. Growing protoform was hot work, and a newspark could get low fuel circulation without enough coolant, causing them to go limp and barely react to any stimuli. But where Ambulon knew the suggested amount was a couple ounces a week, which was more than enough to keep such tiny new engines running smoothly, Splash needed far more than that.

None of the medics here could identify the exact problem with their newest patient yet. He was still too small for any scans to reveal the issue with the equipment they had. They had a lot of it, but not the incredibly specialized machines needed to accurately scan a newspark as small as Splash.

A knock on the door of the room Splash was being kept in startled Ambulon, and he turned as one of his coworkers, Mercury, entered. An unfamiliar mech was at her side.

“Ambulon,” Mercury nodded respectfully. “I was hoping I might introduce the new medic to you?”

Ambulon set down Splash as he glanced towards the stranger. A mech in all black paint, with a nearly pure white faceplate. A Velocitronian, he thought, from the mech’s outward appearance. Definitely vain enough to be one, from the high quality gloss of his polish. Ambulon was sure he was getting judged for the rather erratic appearance of his own paint by comparison.

He’d heard a new medic had arrived in the colony a few days ago. He hadn’t been expecting to meet him this soon, but clearly the medic must know his stuff to already be getting shown around the base in its entirety.

“Ah,” Ambulon turned fully towards the mech, extending out his hand. “I’m Ambulon, Chief Medical Officer of the Nixaya Colony.”

The Velicitronian, because Ambulon definitely knew it the second he heard the slight accent, at least had no hesitation when it came to shaking his hand.

“Adonys.” He smiled. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Chapter Text

Ambulon still hadn’t decided what he should think about Adonys. Putting a new medic through the wringer was a customary test of the mech’s mettle when arriving at a new hospital or outpost. Despite the Velocitronian’s preening during off hours and complaints towards others about their own upkeep, he had showed little regard for anything other than medical care when confronted with a real trauma incident after a few security mechs had gotten into a wreck. He had shouted orders and handled the wounds like a mech with years of experience.

He’d probably had served as a racetrack medic on Velocitron, Ambulon decided. That would explain the familiarity with extreme trauma. He passed the gauntlet with flying colors even if his personality sometimes left something to be desired.

And, now, he was perusing Splash’s file. At this point the newspark’s strange need for additional coolant had been passed around to every medic on Nixaya, each one offering their own opinions on what might be the cause. Now it was Adonys’ turn.

Adonys, always talkative when proclaiming his own beauty or despairing the state of his polish, was quiet as he perused the file. A priest named Sermon had joined them, one Ambulon especially didn’t like and had tried to kick out of the room. However, with Splash not actively in distress and the orphanage being run by the priests, this one had appointed himself as a guardian of their newest charge and would only leave if medically necessary.

Perhaps that was why Adonys was being quiet. Ambulon had gotten the impression he rather disliked priests too. 

Finally, Adonys set down the file and reached over, gently handling Splash as he examined him. Splash fussed and whined, disliking being poked at, but when it was done, Adonys settled him back down in the cradle.

“I have two theories,” He offered to Ambulon. “Inform me if either has already been tested and found to not be the case.”

Ambulon nodded, and wished once again that the priest would leave. 

“The first is that there’s some minor to moderate deformity in the spark chamber. Perhaps it’s not the proper size for this newling, and this is generating extra heat. If that’s the case, he will most likely grow out of it in time, provided we make sure he receives proper nutrients, care, and additional coolant.”

“We’ve been unable to confirm, but that’s the lead suspicion,” Ambulon shrugged. “However, he doesn’t seem to have any other symptoms of a spark chamber defect.”

“It could be very small.”

“Not at that accelerated coolant processing rate. We’d be seeing some other symptoms or signs of distress, but he’s otherwise completely healthy.”

Adonys considered that, and nodded. “Let’s set that aside then. The other theory I have is based on a few case studies back on Velocitron. This newspark may have a mutation resulting in a larger cooling system than most mechs. In which case, he’s perfectly healthy but just needs more coolant than most mechs.”

At that, Sermon adjusted himself. “Explain?”

“Some of the fastest Velocitronians have additional coolant systems they were born with. It’s a mutation that so far has been found exclusively in racing frames. It allows mechs to stay cool longer as they move, and discharge excess heat easier. A rather useful adaptation on my homeworld, considering our climate. Mechs with such mutations are some of the few who can leave the moving cities during the night and catch up before daybreak.” Adonys hummed. “It’s a valuable skill.”

Sermon, however, seemed less than amused. “So this newling might be a racing frame?”

Adonys shrugged. “It’s only a theory. As I’ve only seen this mutation in Velocitronians, it may not present the same in Cybertronians. We’re all the same species, and we share our origin point of Cybertron, but the colonies have experienced some genetic coding drifts as we’ve adapted to our environments."

Sermon snorted, and excused himself. Ambulon thanked Primus for his absence as he stood.

“I’d never heard of that mutation before. Was it ever published outside of Velocitron?”

“Doubtful. It’s a rare mutation even on my homeworld. I’m only familiar because I had an apprentice with the condition.” Adonys rolled his shoulders. “A small coding sample might allow me to check for known markers of the mutation, but I’ll need to fetch a kit of adaptors so I can take a sample from such a young newling.”

Ambulon nodded, and he and Adonys crossed the medbay to fetch them. But as they did, they could hear Sermon in the hallway, complaining loudly into his comms.

“A racer. At best, that means he’ll be good for entertainment, and nothing else. And who will want to adopt him then?!”

Ambulon bristled, but not nearly as much as Adonys. The Velocitronian’s plating was flared as they stepped into the supplies closet.

“I thought Functionism was banned here.”

“Technically, it is,” Ambulon muttered. “Doesn’t mean most of the priests don’t preach it in a more subtle forms. Or just say it out loud anyhow.”

After a few moments, Adonys seemed to force calm to wash over himself. His plates settled as he grabbed the necessary adaptors, and they returned to Splash’s room. But Ambulon knew the mech was still angry.

He held Splash as Adonys took the samples needed to search for potential mutations, and rocked the newspark as he whined in protest at the invasive test. No one liked needles at his age. Adonys, once he was through, sighed.

“How anyone can look at a mech and judge them like that, I will never understand.”

Ambulon paused, and then snorted. “Adonys, you’ve called the rest of us slobs with no sense of pride in our appearances every day.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Ambulon stopped, and then glanced at the mech. Black plating, white faceplate, and red optics. Without his medical skills, on his homeworld, he would’ve been a racer as well as a valuable member of society, able to fill whatever job he’d sought out for himself if it was available. On Cybertron, before the fall of Functionism? A mere entertainer. Sometimes, entertainers were wealthy mechs with political influence and freedoms. Most of the times, they were little more free than the gladiators in the Pits. Buymechs who had the choice to either sell their frame through racing, or in private clubs.

Adonys’ clear knowledge of Functionist rhetoric implied he’d spent time on Cybertron, and likely had had to argue with enforcers, and potentially the Functionist Council itself, that his innate medical sensors gave him the higher caste position he already had the education for. As if special hands were all that a medic needed to thrive.

“I know,” Ambulon let his tone be somber. “My mentor was one of Cybertron’s most skilled medics. She trained the head of Iacon General Hospital before the war. But she could never hold that position herself because she had an arachnid-alt mod.”

Adonys paused, before he let out a pained laugh. “How ironic then that we both find ourselves serving under this system, then, despite our hatred of it. Neutrals, yes. But almost Autobots all the same.”

“No,” Ambulon sighed. “Autobots at least make an effort to clean their house. Neutrals? They don’t.”

With that grim proclamation, Ambulon met Adonys’ optics. Some sort of understanding passed between them, and as Splash finally settled down, Ambulon got him into recharge. Maybe Adonys’ personality would never fit in well here, but his spark?

Ambulon thought that his spark just might be in the right place.

“I’ll leave you to run your tests. Stay out of trouble.”

“You do the same.” Adonys waved a dismissive hand in his direction, but made no additional comments about hoping Ambulon patched up his paint before he saw him again.

Well, that was progress.

Hoist had put Iacon on half rations the last two days. Which, Ratchet knew, meant that they were out of time.

He’d reviewed everything Wheeljack and Perceptor had set in front of him for Project Teletran, and done it all while running interference to help Jazz and Prowl, a sentence he never would have said at the beginning of this siege. He still wouldn’t say he trusted them. But it seemed as the stress of this war pushed down harder and harder on them, he could see just how young they were and how much of their lives had been spent merely as the pawns of the bigger players.

None of them had been ready for the toll this war would take on them. But Prowl still hadn’t truly gotten a moment to taste freedom, Smokescreen feared the monsters trying to take his origin, and Jazz could hardly manage to keep the entire family afloat on his own while actively ignoring his own lingering guilt.  Children. They were all children.

And speaking of children, or at least mechs younger than him and Wheeljack, he thought of Drift. Hurt so badly by the system that he couldn’t see upheaval from within as an option. He only sought destruction now, Ratchet supposed, even as his processor argued otherwise.

Drift had saved them. Let them escape. Call it repaying an old debt, or whatever you liked, but this war wasn’t as black and white as they all wanted it to be. 

But what was clear was that, should Megatron breach the inner city as he was clearly preparing to do, it would be a massacre. There was no amount of beseeching a mech so deeply hurt by everything this city had once represented that would appease him.

Ratchet remembered that day at the Senate. That fight in the aftermath. How Orion Pax had been so certain as Megatron had walked away from him, that in three day’s time, the Matrix of Leadership would reject him. That, after that rejection, they could reunite their cause, and change Cybertron for the better. 

And Cybertron had changed. But Ratchet found himself wondering, as much as he hated to, if it had truly become better, or just a new kind of evil.

He turned back to the plans for Project Teletran. The project needed to be finished, and yet, it wasn’t. Under a projected image shield, Decepticon flyovers had reported that Iacon’s old gladiatorial arena had been left empty of little more than supplies, acting as a storage depot.

However, Ratchet looked over the shape of a new class of ship resting on the arena floor, and knew, if they could just get it spaceworthy, that it would truly be his conjunx’s magnum opus.

Was it finally ready at last?

He watched as one of the last tests was run to test the worthiness of Project Teletran. The most recent changes, the results of long nights pulled by himself, Wheeljack, and Perceptor, would reveal if Iacon could be saved. Inspections and repairs, changes made to the way the new components of the Iacon Spacebridge were integrated into the ship. Every test run got them closer to the project’s completion. And yet, somewhere, it had always failed critically.

He looked around as all the mechs that’d been working on this project for months, or even years and decades now alongside his conjunx, watched the tests run through. They were holding their half rations tightly as they drank them, the tension in the air unavoidable. The rumors in the rest of Iacon had made their way inside these walls. It seemed that Megatron was preparing to attempt a breach of the walls of inner Iacon imminently. There was a terrifyingly high chance that such a maneuver would be successful. No help could come from the Autobot fleet in space. Soon enough, the Decepticons would control Cybertron completely. 

The only question left now was how many Autobot corpses would line the streets of their final great conquest?

Ratchet paced as he watched the engines come online. He knew Wheeljack and Perceptor would be on the bridge with a skeleton crew, looking over all the results from the engine room on a workstation. The last few tests, from the outside, had all seemed passable, but the crowd of workers wouldn’t cheer until they were told everything was successful by those on the inside.

Wheeljack kept their sparkbond quiet, so Ratchet was as in the dark as the workers were. He waited, and looked towards the afternoon sky above them. He watched a few Decepticon flyovers pass by, more frequent every day. He tried not to let his spark sink as he observed so many passing overhead today. The attack would be coming soon.

Suddenly, however, his spark was soaring. He whipped his head around, looking towards the ship. While everything looked the same as the last time Wheeljack had run these tests, something had changed.

His conjunx’s spark was flung fully open, joy and delight as a burden pressing him to the ground came off of his shoulders. Ratchet dropped his cube, transformed, and drove down out of the stands, knowing the whispers it would cause as he reached the arena floor. Project Teletran landed, and Ratchet waited for the gangplank to lower. Perceptor was well put together as always when he emerged, although Ratchet could detect a faintly pleased look to his face.

Wheeljack, however, was beaming.

It didn’t take long for the cheers to start erupting from the workers as Ratchet ran forward, and Wheeljack laughed as he was picked up and spun around. Project Teletran was complete. Project Teletran was complete!

Wheeljack opened a comm channel with Optimus directly, including Perceptor and Ratchet on the call. ::Optimus, it’s ready. Project Teletran is ready.::

A brief pause, and then a quick response. ::Congratulations to both our chief engineers, from myself and High Command. You are to immediately begin preparations for launch, and to receive all remaining Autobot personnel in Iacon.::

::We will proceed as ordered. Optimus, as Prime and commissioner of this ship, it’s your right to name her, if you’d like.::

A longer pause this time. Ratchet could feel Perceptor moving off to pass on orders to the workers, allowing Wheeljack another moment to celebrate his success before moving onto the evacuation.

Optimus’ reply, when it came, made perfect sense.

::We will call her the Ark. She is to be a vessel of salvation. No other name would do.::

::Of course,:: Wheeljack smiled. ::Good name for her. Once we’re off-planet, I’ll get her all done up right with it.::

The call ended, and although they couldn’t celebrate long, Ratchet turned towards Wheeljack and pulled his conjunx into a tight embrace.

“Bulkhead would be proud,” Ratchet murmured, and Wheeljack, in their sparkbond, agreed.

It’d become obvious Iacon was beginning to starve, Megatron thought, watching as the Autobots began to make more and more mistakes during their patrols the last few days. All while he and Soundwave devised the best place to crack the inner walls wide open.

He’d had seekers flying over, testing the shield integrity with weapons every few hours. Sending back aerial footage and anything of use. With the darkest part of the night soon approaching, they would strike.

And, as long as everything went to plan, he hoped that by dawn, Optimus Prime would be thrown down in front of his feet. He was to be captured alive.

Megatron mulled over his strange relationship with the latest tyrant to take that name as he waited for the fresh coat of paint on his gladiator markings to dry. His once greatest confidant, his lover more than any other mech, and most beloved of them. Now his greatest enemy, standing in that spire that represented Cybertron’s pain more than any other.

He wanted Optimus Prime dead. He wanted this accursed legacy of pain and suffering finished once and for all, so no one else would ever endure these torments again.

And he wanted Orion Pax back. To smile at him, to laugh, to grin when he revealed all of the things he’d smuggled to Kaon that he wasn’t supposed to. To discuss myths and legends, histories and facts, and everything else they’d once done to occupy their time.

He shook his head in frustration. This idea of this child that may or may not exist was making him grow soft. He knew he should end Pax— Prime. End the lineage of that accursed Matrix of Leadership, the supposed successors of a god who cared so little for his people he had not intervened as some were deemed disposable, or slaves. There was no Primus. If there ever had been, the Primes had killed him.

And yet, he softened the blow when he should be prepared to strike harder than ever. Because the idea that Orion may have carried a child that had been theirs made him hope that there was still an Orion Pax under that exterior of Optimus Prime.

Pax had been uncertain at first when approached. A mech they’d brought to see the horrors of the Pits himself, so he could ascertain how much the lower castes suffered. One who had listened at first in surprise, then despair, and finally with grim resolution as story after story of pain and suffering was laid at his feet. Who had turned to Megatron at the end of that day and asked what they needed him to do.

He’d smuggled out so much information that was meant to be for the archivists and the Prime alone. Truths about how the Thirteen had not been the infallible gods everyone claimed. How myth differed from reality. The true numbers of mechs killed in riots, rebellions, and everything else the Primacy wanted suppressed. If it could be found in the Archives, Orion brought it to him or sent it, via Wheeljack or Ratchet or Jazz. Back when Megatron had trusted all four of those mechs to help him overturn this tyranny.

And now, they all sat at the top of it, insisting in every offer of peace that they still wanted to help him change the planet. Change the planet? How, when they had taken the very seats of corruption they had so long railed against?

Optimus Prime was not Orion Pax. And he never would be. 

And yet—

And yet, he hoped there was a way to pry that artifact from his chest and return Optimus to his beloved Orion. Even as he knew that Orion was dead, and could never return.

For a moment, he let the grief swirl in his mind, the mess of contradictions his life had become since Orion Pax had died to bring Optimus Prime to this world. He finally forced himself to set it all aside, as he looked out over Iacon’s night sky. 

Tonight. This must end tonight. He could untangle the mess of Pax once he held the Prime in chains. Once he knew if Soundwave’s suspicions about Ironhide’s departure were true. Then, and only then, could he truly begin to free himself of this. 

As if knowing his mind was finally ready, Soundwave entered the room. Megatron took the offered datapad and looked over it. When he looked up and met Soundwave’s visored optics, he knew with a final sort of certainty that it was now or never.

“Send out the orders, Soundwave. Time to see the rot in Iacon fully rooted out of Cybertron.”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave took the datapad back, and Megatron spared one last glance towards Iacon’s still intact inner city.

The fall had finally come.

Jazz had spent the last few days in limbo, as Optimus mostly ignored his existence as long as all he did was take care of and help Prowl in ways that allowed the Prime to pretend he wasn’t there. He didn’t go near missions Mirage and Lockback did. He just ran errands for Prowl and kept his conjunx functional.

All that changed the second the news of Project Teletran’s success had come, and the immediate evacuation ordered right after. In this all hands on deck situation, Jazz might technically still be suspended as the active Head of Special Operations, but he didn’t let himself act like it. He ordered mechs to quickly consume full rations when Hoist gave permission for them to do so, and to then proceed with the tasks at hand.

All the data in Special Operations and Tactics had already been copied over to the Ark’s new computers and stations. But they still had to destroy everything they were leaving behind. They couldn’t risk the enemy gaining even the smallest scraps of information from the records, or to be able to repurpose the infrastructure to suit their needs. Prowl was trying to manage the rapid decommissioning of several departments within Autobot HQ as others handled the evacuation.

Jazz just set himself to work fully destroying the Tactical Hub as Prowl worked. Special Ops would have to be next as Mirage and Lockback were rigging explosives. Optimus wanted the Ark launched by dawn at the latest. With night falling around them, they didn’t have much time. 

Especially when the remaining lights flickered. At first, Jazz assumed it was simply the result of the remaining dregs of the strategic energon reserve being diverted to the shields as the Ark was fully fueled. But then, he heard the distant rattle of a percussion wave. That flicker wasn’t the shields being reinforced. They were failing.

Prowl’s doorwings flicked as he pulled himself away from his station, and Jazz swore at the few mechs still around. “They’re breachin’ the walls! Move, slaggit, move!”

Mechs ran towards the old gladiatorial arena, but Jazz started in the opposite direction towards Spec Ops. After a few seconds, he heard Prowl following him.

“Mirage, Lockback!” He shouted into his external comms. “Spec Ops ready to blow?”

::Almost!:: Lockback snarled, clearly double checking something as a transmission went out from Blaster.

::Iacon’s inner wall breached, southern sector! Shields down, Decepticon airforce inbound. By order of the Prime, immediately fall back to Iacon’s arena, fall back!::

Every Autobot would have that comm message, and Soundwave would have it too within milliseconds. Thankfully, they had a smaller shielding unit deployed over the arena that should still have power, but that wouldn’t last long if the whole ‘Con airforce started hitting it nonstop.

More explosions were coming, closer and closer. Jazz needed to get to the old Ops station and help his agents, his friends—

::JAZZ, STOP!:: Prowl’s comm came too late as the Praxian’s doorwings picked up some sort of warning he hadn’t, bringing the mech skidding to a stop. Jazz tried to as well, but his momentum carried him further into the disaster suddenly unfolding around him.

A missile must have just made contact outside of this stretch of the command center, because Jazz felt the shockwaves rush through him as the structures overheard shattered, debris falling atop him before he could even react.

He heard his name, and then silence.

When Jazz next found himself aware of anything, Ricochet was there. Surrounded by debris, laying in the darkness, but never alone. Because Ricochet was sitting next to him, laughing as his yellow visor flashed.

All that effort for nothing, right? 

“No clue what pitslag you’re on,” Jazz managed the words as a mere croak. He was hurt, badly. He didn’t need his HUD readouts to know that. His pain sensors were going haywire, and yet he didn’t actually feel the pain. Shock was one hell of a drug.

Listen, brother. No sounds around. Just you and I, alone down here. Jazz leaned back as he tried to assess the situation more fully, and didn’t hear anything at all. Why would a falling city be quiet unless the battle is already over?

Jazz tried to expand his awareness, but his frame seemed to refuse. Ricochet leaned over him in the darkness, smiling even as energon trickled out of that fatal wound. His brother’s grin had his spark sinking.

He abandoned you, Ricochet sang, that favorite way of teasing each other as kids becoming something sinister. Abandoned you once and for all, and left you to die. You picked him over your blood and code. And he’s abandoned you.

Jazz tried to comm Prowl. Tried to open their sparkbond. Nothing but silence greeted him. He couldn’t feel Blue either. Why wasn’t anything working? He’d had dreams like this before, but this couldn’t be a dream. He didn’t hurt like this in dreams. He didn’t feel an absence in his spark like this during dreams.

I told you, Ricochet’s laughter echoes. Told you he’d betray you. That he was nothing good waiting to happen. And you refused to listen. And now, when his final uses for you have concluded, he throws you away like trash.

“He wouldn’t.” The snarl’s raw. Not after everything they’ve gone through. Everything they’ve done. Prowl wouldn’t just abandon him.

Then try again, big brother. Comm him, call for him. You won’t get any response.

Jazz did just that. Screamed and screamed until his voice went hoarse. Until he felt like his vocalizer was going to explode. No response. No gentle embrace on his spark, no reply to his comms.

He was alone. Alone, crushed under weight and fear. Ricochet’s appearance seemed to be growing brighter now, and Jazz spat at him.

“You’re nothing but a damn memory I can’t get rid of! You aren’t real, he is! You’re dead, and I’m—”

What, Jazz? What are you? Ricochet leans closer. Brother and friend, or conjunx and betrayer? Killer for hire with a code, or pet assassin of corruption? Dead in the well, or alive in the world above?

Jazz felt the panic setting in as Ricochet got face to face with him, and that energon dripped from the fatal wound he’d inflicted onto his own face. It was warm at first, but then the image of his brother above him began to grey, as the drip grew colder and colder.

Are you dead or alive, brother? Hurry up and pick, or else someone else might pick for you.

“He’s coming,” Jazz tried, even as everything around him screamed that he was alone. Left for dead in Iacon’s final fall, or already on his way to the Afterspark. “He’s coming.”

Ricochet’s laugh echoed from his greyed frame. And you believe that?

Jazz realized, with horror, that he didn’t.

Lockback reached Prowl first. He and Mirage had heard the missile’s impact outside, the sound of a section of the Command Center being torn asunder, and they’d blown Special Operations sky high at the same moment, before running for the breach. It was probably going to be the easiest way out now.

However, the panicked shouting of a Praxian digging through rubble had them running there instead. Lockback could see Prowl wasn’t immune from the blast’s damage that had caused the rubble. One of his doorwings was half crushed from impact, and shock must be the only thing keeping him from screaming in pain. Energon was dribbling from his mouth, indicating the loss of a couple of denta, and his hands were embedded with rubble shards, though that might be from the digging more than anything else.

“Jazz!”

Lockback didn’t even need to glance at Mirage. He got above Prowl and started pulling away more rubble as fast as he could.

::Commander? Jazz? Jazz, respond!:: 

Silence.

Mirage was working at the rubble too, trying to keep an optic on the sky and an audial on the comms chatter. Prowl seemed shocked when he noticed their presence, but didn’t object. Lockback wondered if the blast had knocked his audials offline. If they had, Jazz was likely deaf too. He redoubled his comm efforts, and Prowl finally opened a proximity comm.

::He’s alive, unconscious, but something’s wrong. I think he’s dying. Please.::

::We don’t need a please.:: Lockback managed, deeping deeper into the rubble and scanning for any sort of indication of Jazz’s frame. ::We’re staying until we get him out, no matter what state he’s in. And the same goes for you too.::

Prowl’s doorwings attempted a flick of acknowledgemet, but that caused the Praxian to grunt at the pain. The initial shock was wearing off. They needed to get Jazz out and soon, before Prowl was hit with a different wound, one that might be even more deadly.

And then, Lockback felt his hand connecting with metal plating, still warm.

“Here, dig here!” He shouted, and Mirage darted to their location, pulling whatever he could back. Slowly, an arm came into focus, and then the rest of a frame was quickly unearthed. Prowl probably didn’t realize the sounds coming out of his vocalizer were happening. Hitches and gasps as Jazz was freed, revealing a mangled leg that was a source of massive energon loss. The edges of his frame were trying to grey.

Nope, not today. Their pain in the aft commander was not dying today!

“Here!” Mirage threw a transfusion kit at Lockback. “I’ll hardline in, find the cutoff!”

Lockback nodded, getting the transfusion line into Jazz and then into his own arm, before activating the machine. Watching his energon flow into into the still bleeding Polyhexian while Prowl watched with silent terror.

If they lost Jazz here, Lockback doubted Prowl would live long enough to make it to the ship. The spark shock would drop him before they could even attempt to stabilize him.

And then, the bleeding stopped. Mirage had found a cutoff point. Ratchet could replace a leg. He couldn’t fix dead. The greying hints at the edge of Jazz’s plates faded, until Lockback knew he couldn’t sacrifice any of his own remaining energon if he wanted to make it out of here alive himself.

He disconnected from the transfusion lines as Jazz’s visor flickered, before going right back online. When he stepped back, he staggered for a moment, before finding his footing.

Prowl’s comm beat Mirage’s. ::Status?::

::I’ve been worse. Equilibrium’s a bit off, but I’ll be okay.::

The sharp look the Praxian sent him meant that question had been for Mirage, who was still hardlined into Jazz. Oops. 

::He’s in bad shape, stuck in emergency stasis, but I think he’ll be okay as long as we get him to the medics. Ratchet’s going to kill us for this, but I’ve got to try to bring him back online.::

::I understand. Do it.::

They all knew the risks. It wasn’t wise to see if you could reboot a mech in emergency stasis, but in Spec Ops, sometimes you didn’t have a choice. Mirage forced the reboot.

In moments, Jazz’s frame was twisting in the rubble, pain surging through his field as Mirage disconnected. But pain meant you were alive, as Prowl grabbed his conjunx and forced them both to their feet. Both mechs were barely standing, but Prowl’s optics went steely.

::My audials are gone. I can’t reboot them, and I can’t see well without full use of my doorwings. But I can carry him.::

Lockback nodded. ::We’ve got your backs, and we’ll be your eyes. The two of you always have ours.::

A grateful brush of Prowl’s field against both his and Mirage’s was thanks enough. Jazz still seemed out of it as he limped alongside his conjunx, only seeming to be able to stare at him.

“Ya came back,” It came out as a croak. “Ya came back for me.”

Prowl didn’t hear it, but he didn’t need to. He turned and pressed a quick kiss to Jazz’s helm, bloody lips and all. 

And then they were moving through the night as fast as they could, the city illuminated almost solely by explosions. Rushing towards their only hope of salvation.

He was warm-sleepy-safe tonight, his surroundings lulling him into a sense of deep security. Chewing on the edge of an insulation sheet as he moved around in his crib, sprawled out when he’d finally drifted off, the corner of the sheet still in his mouth.

He woke up when he was picked up. He made a gurgle of surprise, and then felt the calm field on one of the mechs caring for him. The black-sleek one.

“Hush, little one,” His red optics were soft, affection easy in his tone. “We can’t have anyone knowing we were ever here now, can we?” 

He saw the shadow of the purple mech with the strange dangling things from her head. She was frowning slightly, seeming worried. He whined. Something didn’t feel right.

“Shh, everything’s going to be fine.” The black mech set something in the cradle, something the newspark shied from. “Your test results were good, little one. So now, we need to go elsewhere.”

They moved through the clinic’s rooms, and then entered a small closet. The newspark saw another thing that confused him. It looked like a mech but all wrong. And then there was a mech there. He recognized that one. The scary talking one that no one liked. But he wasn’t moving, wrapped up somehow. Only his eyes moved, and the newspark shied from their gaze.

The black-sleek mech holding him smiled, as he grabbed a prepped bottle from the shelf. “The only condolences I can offer you, Functionist, is that you’ll be reunited with your beloved council soon enough. Don’t worry. The charges should burn hot enough to kill you quickly. Which is better than you deserve.”

The newspark was being offered a bottle. The shadow of the purple mech with the yellow optics was closer. He didn’t want to drink right now, and he resisted the first few attempts to make him take it, until the black-sleek mech opened his mouth, and ran the bottle over his glossa. The outside tasted bitter, but the dribble of fuel was good. He latched to get the taste out of his mouth, and soon the bitterness faded into the taste of food.

“There we go. Sorry, little one. Needed to ensure you stayed quiet through the next part.” A poke from the black-sleek mech had him give an indignant chirp. “And now, to get your audials disabled—”

The world went quiet, and he felt tired. So tired, as he was lifted more securely into the black-sleek mech’s arms. Then they were moving, and the rocking sensation of being carried was lulling him towards sleep.

They were outside, if the sudden whisper of cool air meant anything. Moving quickly towards an object the newspark could barely register in the darkness. A sudden bright flash of light as they entered the object was mercifully cut off by a closing ramp. 

He could see the purple mech’s shadow still, as he was settled down in a small crib. As the black-sleek mech hurried away, and the purple mech leaned down.

“I’ll guard you, little one. Rest now.”

That warm, echoing and overlapping voice, pulled him straight down into recharge.

While Ratchet was watching some of the last mechs come scrambling into the arena, he knew the Decepticons would soon be on their heels. But he still hadn’t seen any of Special Operations appear, or Prowl.

Primus damn him, where were they?

Finally he saw Mirage darting into the arena, carrying a couple of injured mechs, and behind him—

Prowl was stumbling like a drunkard, Jazz heavily leaning on him. Ratchet knew he’d been ordered, by Optimus, his own conjunx, and Hoist, to keep his feet firmly on the ship, but when he saw Prowl suddenly losing balance, he disregarded them all.

He bolted forward, stabilizing the wounded Praxian and Jazz at the same time. Prowl quickly commed him.

::I believe we both had our audials ruptured in a blast. Jazz was buried underneath rubble, I was thrown by the shockwaves. Jazz was unconscious, and forced into a reboot, sustained leg injuries and severe energon loss, and I-::

::I can see you’re both in bad slagging shape. Thanks for the information about the audials.:: Ratchet glanced towards Jazz, who seemed to be mumbling some sort of mantra. ::Any idea why your conjunx keeps muttering that you came back for him?::

::None. His comm suite is either offline or damaged. That’s what he’s saying?::

Ratchet merely pinged confirmation as Lockback came into view, firing into the tunnel he’d just came out of. “The overhead shield’s failing! We need to go, now!”

Ratchet could feel the order being repeated over official channels. Telling mechs to get onboard now. Ratchet half lifted the second and third in commands as he reached the ramp, and Mirage grabbed a few more injured mechs with color left in their frames, dragging them aboard.

The second Lockback was on the ramp, and the few others Ratchet could see, he flipped on the direct intercom line to the bridge .

“All members of High Command aboard, all troops we can see aboard. Go, go, go!”

The lurch of the ship underneath him as they lifted from the ground, ramp still deployed down, indicated just how ready Wheeljack had been for that call. A few more mechs came running, and Lockback and Ratchet both leaned down, grabbing arms and anything they could to pull them aboard. The overhead shield that had protected Project Teletran from discovery for all these years flickered one last time, and burst apart after protecting the ship from one final missile. Ratchet heard the shield generator on board the ship activate.

There’d be no more rescues now. He lifted his optics away from the arena floor, and the ramp slowly began to raise as they rose into the air. Ratchet looked out, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Iacon as it had been.

However, as they rose over the top of the walls, he saw an unexpected glint of metal, and his optics found the source.

Deadlock held the rifle, aimed directly at him. Ratchet stood there, looking at the mech growing smaller by the second. He’d told the kid he was meant for something greater once. And now here they both were.

Deadlock’s helm lifted from the scope, and Ratchet wondered what was going through the kid’s mind. But as the ramp closed, he saw the rifle lowering. 

He didn’t spare Iacon one last glimpse after all. He knew what he was leaving behind.

“Hold on!” His conjunx called over the intercom, and those engines roared. The Ark lurched forward into the sky, rising as fast as it could away from Cybertron. 

Iacon was gone. Cybertron had fallen.

And Ratchet, once they were out of atmosphere, had soldiers to tend to.

The dawn light properly illuminated the arena floor as Megatron examined the ground, before looking skyward. He paced as Soundwave took reports of the sightings.

So this had been Project Teletran, had it? A massive ship, a modified-Vanguard Class design from their best guesses based on the descriptions. A new flagship that had been capable of evacuating all the remaining Autobots on Cybertron.

He turned away with disgust. Let Optimus have the taste of escape. It was a bitter one compared to the taste of victory. Cybertron would soon be purged of its rot fully. And that future would come under his guidance, not the guidance of any mech calling themselves Prime.

Chapter Text

The Fist of Iacon was a comfortable ship, Ironhide had to admit. She’d arrived only hours before the news from Cybertron about the fall of Iacon had reached them, and had watched Strika’s forces retreat while Ultra Magnus had harried them within reason. Strika was likely ordered back by Megatron to solidify his position on the planet. And as aware of that as the entire fleet was, they also knew the reality that to pursue was pointless. And Ironhide was glad to assist Ultra Magnus in putting out the fires the Decepticons had left behind.

The general hadn’t questioned her upon her arrival, and in return, she didn’t ask what Optimus had told him about her mission that was, after all, supposedly to bring him something. They’d held a private meeting in his office where they’d mostly just sat and visited as they both pretended it was the exchange that made her cover story solid to anyone else.

Primus only knew if Jazz was going to get some very befuddled Spec Ops reports from his agents already in the fleet about it, but that wasn’t her business now.

Instead, she was focused on the rendezvous with the survivors from Iacon, on board a ship now named Ark, and the implications that would come with that reunion. Her departure had not been unnoticed. The Primesguard, for all extents and purposes, had abandoned its Prime.

She knew, if she’d asked, that she’d once again be reinstated. The Primesguard would live on, simply because Optimus would allow her to continue being its sole member. But the idea was sour in her mouth. She had violated her oath, but had done so for the most important mission a Prime had ever given her. 

If the Primesguard had to die, and it was clear Optimus was of the opinion that one day, somehow, it would die with her, than let it die in a silent moment of glory, unsung but greater than anything else she’d ever done so far. Rather the silent but proper end than another fate.

And with its death? She could look forward, and let her life begin again. And that life began with the reunion far closer at hand than her and her Prime. 

She wasn’t alone while she waited. Elita One had joined her, and they’d shot the breeze while the Xantium had been on approach. But as the Xantium had begun docking, they’d fallen silent.

Ironhide’s sparkbonds were still lying dormant. She needed to see her mechlings and her conjunx. She needed to hold them, kiss them, and spin them around. And finally, the wait was over.

The second the Xantium’s engines were properly silent, she was moving forward. Every agonizing second of absence, every grieving moment, every terrible memory and nightmare during this siege, all of it was at an end.

The ramp lowered. In fact, it’d hardly connected with the ground when a pair of tiny alt-modes came zipping down it. And as the two sparklings reached the outer limits of her field, theirs brushing against hers, sparkbonds came back to life.

Sideswipe transformed first, flinging himself into her open arms as she tucked him close. “Carri! Carri, don’t ever do that again!”

She wrapped him in a massive embrace as Sunstreaker circled around her a few more times before transforming back into root mode as well and flinging himself into her other arm, all but clawing at her plating as his sulking combined with longing. She held him just as tightly as she stood, memorizing them still being small enough to hold like this. Safe in her arms, half of her whole world.

“Never again, bitlets. I won’t do that ever again. I promise.”

She could hear other footsteps coming down the ramp, several of them in fact, but one was distinct to her. A firm pedestep with a soft click against the metal of the ramp. A familiar scent of crushed crystals and medical grade grease. A brush of a field against hers that felt like home.

She didn’t look up at first as Chromia joined them, her arms joining Ironhide’s as they firmly held the twins. A warmth that Ironhide hadn’t realized she’d been lacking filled her whole frame.

As their sparkbond came back to life, she could feel the question and demand rolled into one. A promise that she knew she could never break once she made it.

“Never again. I won’t put you through this ever again.” Ironhide lifted her helm, and her optics finally met Chromia’s. “It’s done. The Primesguard is done. Never again over you.” 

Chromia hummed, leaning against her conjunx in exhaustion mixing with relief. “Hear that?” She murmured to the twins. “Carrier’s going to stay with us. No more running. No more hiding.”

“Good!” Sunstreaker stated it like a threat, a visible pout obvious, and biolights flashing in angry patterns. It looked like a puffed up cyber-kitten, and Ironhide had to resist laughing.

Her family was here. And she was home.

Wheeljack had finished programming the Ark’s name properly into the computer system. Although the ship was Ark, he thought he might keep calling the computer Teletran. Just felt right. The bridge was nearly empty, and once he had a few pilots properly trained on her, he wouldn’t be spending that much time up here anyhow. For now, however?

He heard the door open, and the clearance codes were verified as Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer. He glanced at his conjunx, who looked like he hadn’t seen a wash rack in days, and whose optics were laser focused on him.

Wheeljack signed out of the terminal and came to Ratchet’s side. They didn’t need to say anything, just walking to their quarters. A few crates of belongings still waited to be distributed through the room. But the private wash racks offered a chance for them to both clean up.

Wheeljack got all the little nooks and crannies Ratchet normally struggled with, and Ratchet worked on his shoulder and neck joints, leaving them both sighing as hot solvent eased the aches and pains. Once they were dry, they slipped out into the small living room. The kitchen lay empty as they sat down on a sofa that threatened to give up the ghost if either of them added the weight of a single new modification or tool. It’d need replacing in the future. At least the recharge slab was halfway decent.

As they sat with each other in the silence, Wheeljack felt everything he’d held back in order to keep working bubbling up to the surface. After a moment, Ratchet hummed in a way that said he knew Wheeljack had something to say, and he was listening.

“I thought—” He glanced at Ratchet, hoping he’d understand. “I thought we might never get out of there.”

“I never doubted you,” Ratchet said. “We’ve had close calls before. This was just another one of them.”

“I just—” Wheeljack groaned. “Ratchet, I’ve felt what it’s like to lose an amica. I don’t want to know what it’s like to lose a conjunx if I managed to survive it. And I don’t want you to know what that’s like either.”

Silence, and Wheeljack met his conjunx’s eyes.

“Bulkhead and I always joked we were each other’s lucky charms. That one of us would always be there to get the other out of trouble. But he’s gone, Ratchet. I’ve still got Seaspray, and you, but I couldn’t— I don’t—”

He lost the words he wanted to say, and just pressed himself tighter to his conjunx’s plating.

“I was terrified I’d not only fail to save any of us, but I was going to fail to save you.”

Ratchet’s arms are tight around him.

“I know you have that sort of pressure all the time. Triage means choosing who lives and who dies. But for me, that’s not supposed to happen. I’m supposed to build things, invent things that help, protect, and endure. I’ve had small groups of mechs sometimes place their lives in my hands in my line of work, and it’s hard, but the damage if I frag up is limited. But this? Ratchet, I could have—”

“Stop. Stop this right now,” Ratchet grabbed his face. “Wheeljack, I know how hard it is. How much it hurts that we can’t save them all. But you didn’t fail. You didn’t fail. We’re alive, almost everyone on board is alive and escaped. They’d all be dead if it wasn’t for you, Wheeljack. You saved them. You saved them when no one else could.”

Their helms were pressed together now, Ratchet holding him there.

“Wheeljack of Helex, without you, none of us would be alive. I know it hurts. But in your field and mine, our victories aren’t counted in battles, they’re counted in lives. You saved nearly every mech in Iacon. You won this fight, Wheeljack. No one else could have done it except you.”

And with that, Ratchet stood up and led him to their berthroom. They merged, and Wheeljack felt Ratchet all around him, helping him untangle the complex knots his emotions had tied themselves in, until the hurt had been soothed, and he felt like he could breathe again.

When they came out of the merge, Ratchet sat up. He pulled something out of his subspace. An old bottle of engex. Wheeljack recognized this particular one.

“Ratchet-”

“It’s alright.” Ratchet muttered. “We promised we’d drink this when there was something worth celebrating. And tonight? Tonight, you are very much worth celebrating.”

They drank the engex slowly, savoring the liquid fire, and neither mentioned the name of the mech who was supposed to be there drinking it with them.

Jazz was alive and mobile, if you counted teetering around with crutches as your new leg integrated as mobile, which Mirage did not. Jazz, thankfully, had gotten a good whack into Mirage’s backside with a call to “mind your form!” as he’d wobbled away. Lockback had burst into laughter at that, and Jazz grinned.

He might not get reinstated as the Head of Special Operations after his fiascos in Iacon’s final days, but at least he could still catch Mirage off guard. He’d treasure that skill forever. 

He slipped into the small medbay suite he and Prowl had been assigned. How the hell he, having been buried under rubble and nearly bleeding to death, had arguably taken less damage than his conjunx, was a stupid mystery they’d never answer. He just had to integrate a new leg, while Prowl’s hands and doorwing had to heal after major repairs. Jazz hoped the mech looked better by the time they reunited with their newsparks.

He’d thought Prowl was asleep when he sat on the edge of his conjunx’s berth. He wanted to sit there with his conjunx as he marveled over the mysteries of fate that had brought them and kept them together while Prowl slept. That, for some reason, despite both of them living the most fragged up lives possible, they chose each other again and again. He’d set a gentle hand over his conjunx’s wrist to avoid touching the still healing hands, when Prowl spoke.

“Jazz. I need to ask you something.”

Jazz glanced up in surprise. Prowl onlined his optics slowly, looking towards the ceiling. Clearly he’d been deep in his own thoughts.

“Yeah, mech?” 

“What happened when you disappeared those few days? Why did you think I wouldn’t come back for you?”

Jazz grimaced. Not what he wanted to share after enjoying how wrong he’d been in those doubts. “It’s hard to explain, Prowler.”

“We both have little better to do.” Prowl lifted his temporarily useless hands. “Your company and words would greatly alleviate the agonies of my current state of uselessness, even if it takes some retellings to get it right.”

“You aren’t useless,” Jazz pointed out, and Prowl finally glanced at him. He had this way of scrunching his optical ridge when he felt someone was being purposefully obtuse, and Jazz loved to see it when he was trying to get a rise out of the mech. Right now, however, it wasn’t that amusing. “Seriously, Prowler. Don’t say that.”

“Why?” Jazz couldn’t answer, and Prowl hummed. “Ah. It bothers you?”

“Mech, we just discussed not that long ago that people been using you your whole life. And now you’re placing your value in not being able to do a job? Of course it bothers me. I wish you could see yourself the way I do sometimes.”

“Yes, I believe that is the point of this discussion. Why did you think I would abandon you?”

Jazz groaned. “Fine, fine, just— give me a second.” He used a crutch to pull a chair over, and propped his healing leg up onto it. It gave him a few moments to figure out where to start.

“Ricochet’s been on my mind during this whole siege. Everything I did, it felt like he was right there. Questioning me. Questioning you.” Jazz took a deep vent. “Prowler, I really don’t have the words for it just yet. When I was gone, I was visiting the place I’d taken his frame to. I burned nearly all my incense, begging him to forgive me and leave me alone. He wouldn’t. He just wanted to keep hurtin’ me, and the best way he could do that? By constantly pressing me about how much faith I had in you.”

Prowl was silent. His optics didn’t give away much, but Jazz could feel his spark. There was an uncertainty there, clearly wondering if Jazz’s doubts were right.

“I think, when the missile hit, that I was dreaming? I’m not sure. It wasn’t like anything I’d had happen in a dream before, although given the fact I was bleedin’ out, it might have just been that I was dying. Ricochet was there, Prowl. I thought I was awake, that everything was working. My audials, my comms. I was comming you, screaming for you, listening for you. But I couldn’t hear you, and you weren’t responding. I thought Ricochet’s— well, ghost I guess— I thought he was right. I’d abandoned you when you needed me, when Jhiaxus went after your bitty. Of course you’d abandon me.”

Prowl considered that, and then pressed his wrist against Jazz’s hand as best as he could. His spark still betrayed his doubts in himself, but the words had confidence behind them as he spoke. “I know I am not like other mechs. I do not always process things, especially emotions, the same way as you do. I am damaged in ways neither of us can comprehend. But Jazz?”

Jazz looks into those optics, and they’re fully bright now. Blue ice that some mechs say is dangerously cold, but Jazz has always seen the beauty in.

“I would not have conjunxed you because you were simply some sort of means to an end. I would never simply abandon you because it seems merely convenient. We are a partnership. You are half of my spark. I have not chosen much in my life. But you? I chose you.”

Jazz nodded, leaning in and pressing his helm to Prowl’s. “I’m with you, Prowler. Til’ the end of this all.” 

“We either both live or we both die,” Prowl murmured. Which was technically a response. But hey, Jazz would take it.

Their fields enmeshed as Jazz ended up flopping onto the same medberth so he could snuggle with his conjunx. They stayed there in silence until, at some point, they both drifted off to sleep.

Time slipped by slowly, even as their speed meant they were crossing the distance to the fleet swiftly. Mechs recovered from their injuries and either resumed their usual duties, or found new ones needing to be filled.

Optimus watched it all from his seat on the bridge, or from his new office. He’d mostly healed from the physical trauma of emergence, but now he had to figure out how to lead his Autobots through their new trials and tribulations. A people cast adrift, without a proper place to call their home. He would have to see if they could find a planet where they might be able to settle down and live in peace. If he was lucky, that would be the end of this. As much as it hurt, Megatron could have Cybertron if it meant he and his people could live in peace.

Perhaps, even, Megatron might be a better ruler than Optimus’ predecessors had ever been.

“Optimus?”

Optimus turned to see Mirage. The mech stepped forward when acknowledged.

“I’ve come to request that, once he’s cleared for field action, Jazz be reinstated as Special Operations Commander.”

Ah. That.

Optimus had left that rather thorny issue alone as the weeks since their abandonment of Iacon had passed. He was still angry. He’d needed Jazz and Ratchet to hold that tentative truce, and while they’d tried at first, Jazz had shattered it in an instant with that attack. Provoked? Perhaps. But he shouldn’t have taken the bait. 

He felt that echo in the Matrix again. The feeling of Sentinel’s death. The way his spark had wrestled with the half truths and lies that made Jazz when he’d first ascended to the Primacy. The question he’d asked, and the answer he’d received. The one he now struggled to believe.

“I cannot make a decision on that matter until I have spoken to Jazz.”

“Will you make that a priority?” Mirage asked. “We’re due to reunite with the fleet soon, and I would like the chain of command to be clear when other Special Operations agents join us on the Ark, whatever the decision is.”

Optimus nodded, and waited for Mirage to depart before comming Blaster. The commsmech gave him Jazz’s location within a few seconds. 

He headed down to one of the observation decks. Jazz was sitting in the sill of a large window, looking out at the cosmos blurring past them. Optimus saw the ritual setup in front of Jazz, and stopped. He didn’t want to intrude.

“Ain’t gonna bite, mech, I ain’t done anything with it yet.” Jazz didn’t look away from the window as Optimus continued to approach. The Prime stood there in silence for a few moments before Jazz spoke again. “I fragged up in Iacon. I won’t hide that from anyone. Lost my temper and did something I shouldn’t have. It’s right that you suspended me. And if you decide I’m better off as a subordinate agent under Mirage, I won’t argue with your call.”

Optimus looked at one of his oldest friends in this Cause, and sighed. “I needed you and Ratchet to hold Iacon together for me, in my… state. I trusted you to do so. You didn’t uphold that trust.”

Jazz finally turned, meeting his optics. He kept his tone low, soft. “I won’t deny that, Optimus. But I’d nearly just lost my bitty. I’d just watched you—” He cut off the words before he risked revealing something he shouldn’t. “I made a mess of it all. Ratchet though, he’s promised not to hold a grudge. And I’ll keep your secret, Op. I promise, you can trust me on that, no matter what you decide.”

They look at each other, and Optimus considers the mech.

“You’re dangerous if you lose control of yourself,” He finally offered. “It’s an unacceptable risk in the Head of Special Operations in the midst of a war.”

“Ah,” Jazz nodded, looking back out of the window. “Mirage will do good. He can work with Prowl well enough, and Hound and Lockback will help with the busywork, and keep us all in good shape—”

“Which is why you are on probation,” Optimus concluded.

Jazz’s optics snapped back to him, and Optimus nodded towards the setup.

“As much as I disapprove of your actions with regards to the training you’ve given Smokescreen, and the way you handled yourself with Ratchet, you’ve sacrificed more than should be asked of any mech for this Cause. You’ve served well. I asked you then if I could trust you, and you’ve proven I can. Now, I simply ask: Do you trust yourself?”

A pause, and then Jazz glanced down. “You have to believe the decisions you’ve made in this business are the right ones. You can’t let the doubts set in. The doubts… they’re what gets you and your agents killed.”

“Do you have your doubts?”

Jazz sighed, gesturing to the setup. “Just the one.”

Optimus paused, and then set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Time moves on. They say the spark heals. But it always lingers, the loss. Always there. Especially the ones you feel most responsible for.”

Jazz didn’t need to ask, and Optimus knew he didn’t need to answer. But he also sensed something different in Jazz’s field.

“Ricochet,” Optimus spoke carefully. “He loved you. That love led him to fear for you, and that fear led him down a dark path. In the end, he was as motivated by love as you were. Don’t doubt he ever loved you, even if he didn’t know how to show it in the end.”

He retreated slowly, but politely asked Blaster to redirect traffic from the area for a while. 

Let Jazz come to his own conclusion on the matter, hopefully once and for all.

The flame caught and took hold. Jazz looked out at the stars as the heat grew, and yet, when he turned to place his last remnants of resin incense on the burner, the ritual words refused to come.

He thought about his childhood, learning the craft in Staniz that defined many of the mechs living there. He wielded blades before he walked, learned the benefits of silence and silver tongues, how to hide your true craft by mastering dozens of others. Punch has raised his bitties to be the cleverest and most efficient killers there were. Where Jazz failed, Ricochet succeeded, and vice-versa. 

It’d been the only life he and Rico had ever known. The only life Punch had ever known. It was survival, in a kill or be killed world. One where form defined your function, and thus those who could pretend to have many forms could very effectively fill this particular function. It was a world he both had and hadn’t left behind, when he’d risen to a position that had once been called the Hidden Hand of the Prime. 

Where had it all gone so wrong? 

You know the answer to that.

Jazz looked up to see the shadowy figure of his brother sitting across from him, facing away from the stars. Looking down at the floor of this new ship with that golden visor of his.

“Yeah, I do.”

You picked a mech who worked for the Prime. A mech who used us.

“They all used us, Rico.” Jazz reached down and stirred the ashes around the coal. “We were paid to kill. To be extensions of the people we served, as long as they gave us enough money to make the risk worth it.”

But not like him. 

Jazz glanced back up. Ricochet’s ghost, or this figment of his imagination that handled his guilt by inventing the ghost, was still there. But unlike all the times before when Jazz had been the one refusing to meet his gaze, this time Ricochet refused to meet his.

“No. None of the others were like him.”

You say that with admiration.

“Because you never listened to me when I explained why I admired him.”

I listened plenty.

“Yeah, you technically heard my words. Didn’t try to understand them, but you did hear them. So you did one half of listening.”

This time, Ricochet throws a rude hand gesture his way. Jazz snorts.

“Yeah, there’s my brother.”

They fall back into silence for a while. Jazz realizes, after a moment, that today’s the anniversary of that fateful day. He’s been so focused on their exile from Cybertron, his conjunx, and their bitties, that he’s failed to notice the irony of this confrontation happening now. He wonders if it’s raining yet in Iacon, or if it’s dry.

“I tried to stop you that night. Primus, Rico, did you think I wanted to do that to you? I never wanted to find myself in that situation, but you and Soundwave put me in that place. You looked me in the optics and threatened me and everyone in my family except yourself. And you did it while you held a weapon to my bitty. To an innocent child.”

Ricochet doesn’t respond, and Jazz keeps going.

“We both saw Punch kill mechs for less. Ori died so we could escape a threat like that! And you, you expected me to what?! Just throw away the happiness I’d managed to build, the family I’d accepted into my spark? What kind of mech did you think I was? As sparkless as you accuse my conjunx of being?!”

No response, and Jazz snarls. “Unicron damn it all to the afterspark, not only is talking to you talking to a literal wall, you’re acting like one. Stupid ghost or imagination or whatever you are.”

I’m not stupid. I lost everything when you didn’t come with me, Jazz. When we found out what he was, and you chose him over me.

“I chose to wait and see what he was up to. To see if he was enemy or ally in our fight. I didn’t choose him that day. That came later.”

Then why didn’t you ever come back home? I waited for you. For weeks I waited. And you never came back. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do?

“You had Nightrush.”

Nightrush was the backup, the second fiddle, the emergency plan. Meister was always the reality we needed. Meister had the confidence, the strength, the influence. You took Meister from me, and everything that came with him. I’d never been alone before, Jazz. Like you always said, you were my big brother, and you were supposed to protect me. And suddenly, overnight? I’m on my own for the rest of my life, because I questioned one of your calls.

Jazz wanted to argue. But the words couldn’t come out of his vocalizer.

Meister wasn’t supposed to be his identity. Punch had crafted, with both of his children, a single entity. Meister. The killer who could do everything, be everywhere, and disappear without a trace. 

Because there had never been one Meister. There’d been two. Until one chose to follow his curiosity about a Praxian cold-construct, when the other refused to work for the regime that had killed their originator. 

Jazz still remembered the sound of that voice. His predecessor. Tying up loose ends from the moves she’d made to put her particular king on the throne. He remembered keeping his hand over Ricochet’s mouth as he’d been healing from injuries received during a hit gone wrong. Keeping them both completely still and silent as Airachnid had dissected Punch, constantly wondering where the little sparklings had gone out to play. Without their mods, their training, their skills? They both would have died that night, and Sentinel Prime would probably still be sipping tea in the Basilica.

Sentinel’s rise had cost them their originator. And his fall had been the final thing that eventually cost them each other. 

“I’m sorry, Rico.”

For what part?

“For everything. Not being able to save ori. Leaving you and choosing to keep Meister’s identity for myself. Tricking you into vouching for me to the ‘Cons. Asking you to help me kill Sentinel, and then standing there doing nothing when you did him in. And most of all? Rico, I’m sorry that every damn wrong decision I made led to you standing in that room that night. I’m sorry I killed you. But never ever ask me to apologize for loving him or those bitties. And don’t ask me to apologize, in that moment, for having to choose them over you.”

There’s a hiss from the coals. Jazz realizes he’s dripping washer fluid. Fragging hell, can’t a hitmech confront his one and only ghost in peace?

Does he love you?

Honestly, that response short circuits Jazz’s processor. “What?”

Your fragging Praxian. Does he really, genuinely, love you? 

Oh. Jazz manages a nod. “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a pain. And he’s terrible at emotions. He tries not to be, but he’s so, so bad at them. And he can’t cook, and he likes to do this thing where he—”

Okay, okay, I get it! He’s a fragging nutcase, but he’s your fraggin’ nutcase. Ricochet looks up. At least I can tell our ori that, when I see him again in the Well. 

“You— you’re accepting my apology?”

Ricochet shrugs. I’m a ghost, or your imagination. Never been clear on that myself either, frankly. I can’t really accept an apology. But— well, let’s just say that I can’t keep holding this all against you when I can’t beg you for forgiveness for what I did. As much as I want to be angry? I’m tired, Jazz. I’m so fraggin’ tired. I want to go home. I want to see ori again. 

“Why don’t you go then?”

Because, until you let me go, I can’t.

Jazz looks at Ricochet, who gestures at the setup. You’ve been trying for years to send me off, but you haven’t ever seemed to ask why I won’t go. And it’s because we both know this isn’t ever going to be properly settled in this life. You and I, we can’t fully ever be at peace with what happened to us. But we can accept that it happened. We can accept that we both did things right, and did things wrong. And then? Then, if you choose to be with him one last time, I can choose to go home. 

“You really think that the Well will be home?”

Ori’s there. Once I find him? That’s home. One day, when you find your way there? You’ll know it too.

“You’ll have to find ori first.”

That’ll be easy. I’ll just listen for the sounds of Sentinel Prime being eviscerated on the astral plane. The screams should let me hone right in.

Jazz couldn’t help it, he laughed. Ricochet looked up, and there was a smile on his face. A genuine smile. 

Tell your Praxian I still don’t like him much, but I guess the kids are okay. That Smokey… he’s going to take after you in all the wrong ways. Good with a knife though. Gotta give him credit where credit’s due. 

“High praise.”

Just calling ‘em as I see ‘em. Ricochet turns towards the stars. Anything you want me to tell Punch?

Jazz has so much he could say. That he’s sorry he’s the reason Rico’s in the Well, that he didn’t extract the vengeance Punch deserved. That he loves his conjunx, and his bitties. That he wishes Punch and Ricochet were both here, living and breathing, to see the family he’s built. To be a part of it.

But, if the Well isn’t as far away from life as the world view he was taught implies? Punch already knows all that.

“Tell ori that he was right and I was wrong about prayin’ to Mortilus. It’s not just superstition.”

You’re going to inflate his head.

“Ah well. Risks we take.”

Ricochet chuckles, still looking out at the stars.

“I love you, you know. Still do. Always will.”

I loved you too, Jazz. Never forget that.

Jazz watches the figure for just a little longer. Sees the way the starlight dances over dark plating, the way his brother sits like there’s not a care in the world that can bother him. The golden-orange glow of his visor. Memorizing every last thing he can, before he lets go.

When he releases the ventilation he hasn’t realized he was holding, he knows what he has to do.

The stars. They’re so beautiful. I’m glad I got to see them one last time.

Jazz looks down, and places the last bits of incense on the burner.

“I call Mortilus, who guides all to the Afterspark…”

He recites the prayer without looking up. He watches the smoke rise, as the fragrance fills the air.

And suddenly, with overwhelming certainty, he knows Ricochet has followed the familiar scent of fragrant smoke, and gone home. No one sits across from him. There’s an absence in his head. 

His brother is well and truly gone.

He’s still sitting there, in silence, when Prowl finds him. Bandaged hands reach for his, and he meets that gaze.

“He’s gone, Prowler. He’s gone.”

Prowl nods, and in the arms of his conjunx, and a suspiciously empty observation deck, he sobs.

Over the last few days, Ironhide had been able to put her mind back into a familiar and joyful sort of mood, as she attempted to help Hound and Chromia wrangle mischievous sparklings into semblances of decency. And, with news of Jazz and Prowl’s safe escape, Smokescreen had gone from concerned eldest to leader of the troublemakers, although he still had more restraint than Arcee or Springer as they ran rampant through Ultra Magnus’ flagship.

Ironhide got the feeling that the general would probably be happy when he could put them all back into Optimus’ hands after Arcee had snuck onto the bridge and tried to paint “Wreck’n’Rule” on the captain’s chair. Ironhide also didn’t fully understand the smugness in Chromia’s field when Kup was dressed down over the incident, but happy conjunx, happy life.

But the Xantium had departed yesterday, and now the Ark was coming into view, as their party and dozens of others boarded shuttles bound for her. There’d be crew exchanges, supplies swaps, the restaffing of Special Operations, and everything else that Ironhide was no longer in the loop of, as she held the twins while Chromia carried Blue. Hound was keeping Smokescreen entertained, because while the mechling was trying to look serenely patient, he was jittery and they all knew it.

When they landed on the Ark and began to disembark, Smokescreen joined them as Hound headed off to his own reunions with loved ones. Smokescreen reached the floor, flicked her doorwings a few times, and then spun, keying in on his creators.

“Origin! Geni!” He rushed towards Prowl and Jazz with speed as he wove through the crowd as they tried to follow behind. Jazz was leaning on a crutch with a new leg, and Prowl had bandaged hands and one of his doorwings was clearly still self-repairing. It was clear they’d taken a nasty beating, but it didn’t stop Prowl from dropping to the floor to pull Smokescreen into a massive hug.

Smokescreen looked like he was about to burst into tears. All the stress and strain, all the masks, dropping away as he was safe in his originator’s arms once more.

Chromia placed Blue into Jazz’s arms, and at the brush of his field, the newspark howled in discontent. Jazz just laughed as he cradled him.

“Be angry all you want, bitty, I’m just glad you’re back!”

Ironhide moved to step away. She’d had her reunion with her family. Let Prowl have one with his. But a bandaged hand caught her before she could.

“Ironhide,” Prowl looked at her in a way she hadn’t seen in years, even with Smokescreen still tucked into his shoulder. “Chromia. Thank you. They— they mean—” Prowl paused, and then grunted. “You know how much they mean to us, because you know how much yours mean to you.”

Ironhide snorted. What a Prowl thank you that was. And yet—

“Yer welcome, Prowl.”

All around the Ark, reunions and rejoicing were in progress. These were living mechs, survivors, and they were safe for now. As they left Jazz and Prowl to their reunions, and spotted Lockback, Hound, and Mirage in the middle of theirs, Chromia chuckled.

“Maybe we can find where our new quarters are and get these two to bed?”

“In a bit. Mind if I go talk to Optimus for a bit?”

Chromia paused, and then nodded. “I trust you.”

It was harder to disentangle herself from the twins than it was to find her Prime. Optimus noticed her approach, and Ironhide got the feeling he’d been waiting for her.

“Ironhide.”

“Optimus. I’d like to ask you somethin’.”

Her Prime predicted the conversation, but went in the wrong direction. “If it’s in regards to the Primesguard, I won’t strip you of the title. We can rework the oath, and—”

“I don’t want to be Primesguard anymore.”

Optimus cycled his optics, and Ironhide hummed. “Give me a ceremonial discharge, full honors. Then dissolve the unit. I’m glad I was there for you, but you were right. I shouldn’t have stayed. I should have gone with them.”

They look at each other, and then Optimus hums. “We’ll have to create a new position for you to hold in High Command.”

“Eh, you’ll figure out something to call me.”

“I think I should also disband the Primal Vanguard, if you don’t mind.”

Ironhide snickered. “All for lil’ old me?”

Optimus smiled. “You, Ironhide, and your entire family, are worth more than some special names. We’ll discuss this more later. For now, go enjoy the night with your family.”

“We’re heading to bed.”

Optimus laughed at that. “Ah. Well, I can hardly blame you.”

They both pretended they didn’t hear the longing in his voice.

After that, Ironhide tracked down Ratchet and Wheeljack to get the location of her new quarters and the entry access codes. It was easy, after that, to head off before the drunken celebrations got underway and introduce the twins to their new place. They unpacked as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe explored, and by the time they were ready to put them into bed, they were exhausted. It only took a few lullabies to send them off into recharge.

“Little demons, they always settle for you,” Chromia chuckled. “Benefits of being their carrier rather than their sire, I supposed.”

“I suppose.” Ironhide leaned over. “Now. I’m wondering if you and I might have plans elsewhere in this new hab of ours.”

A laugh, and the pair headed for their new room when Ironhide received a ping. Not a usual one, but from a comm code she didn’t recognize. She paused, and Chromia came up short.

“Just a sec,” What had done that? Ironhide flicked through a couple of systems, until she found the source.

An attempt had just been made to communicate with Overside’s shuttle, automatically redirected to her personal comm.

Ironhide froze, and then swore, remotely accessing the terminal on the shuttle and downloading the transmission. When she opened it, she read it quickly on her HUD.

Her spark sank.

“Ironhide?” Chromia’s voice was soft. “What’s wrong?”

“I— I have to go speak to Optimus again. I’ll be back, but—” Ironhide took a deep vent. “I’m sorry, Chromie.”

Her conjunx sighed, and leaned up. “I know. Go. I love you.”

Ironhide didn’t hesitate. This news needed to be given now. She opened up the comm channel.

::Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz. Where’s the new secure war room? We need to talk.::

Ambulon was covered in soot, still picking through the wreckage for anything salvageable, when Mercury came to his side.

“They found Adonys and Sermon.”

Dead, of course. Ambulon knew that. Three fatalities in a massive blast, they’d been lucky it was that low. A shuttle had taken off shortly afterwards, one with no known association to any anti-Cybertronian or even Cybertronian faction, and of an unclear make. Just like the device that had turned their infirmary into a scrapheap. 

Splash had been so badly burned that they hadn’t even been able to confirm if what they’d found was the newspark or not until they’d autopsied it and found the cracked sentio metallico of protoform underneath. At that point, Ambulon had ordered the newspark buried, not keen to provoke anyone further, including himself.

The priests were milling about as news spread. Sermon had been one of the worst, and Ambulon wouldn’t mourn him. But Adonys? He’d deserved better.

So had Splash.

“—but as a medic, the rites—”

“A Velocitronian racing frame. Not a proper medic. Bury him without rites.”

Ambulon could feel Mercury trying to hand him a fuel ration, but he stood up straight. He was done with this. Done with everything that reeked of functionism. He turned and stalked up to the priests.

“You will bury them both with the full rites,” He snarled.

One of them looked up at him, unamused. “And who are you to decide that?”

Ambulon stepped forward towards the mech, shoulders squared, anger in every single syllable.

“You claim to follow the will of Primus, as embodied by the Prime, correct?” When one of the priests nodded, Ambulon continued. “Optimus Prime declared Functionism dead. As dead as the Functionist Council must surely be. As such, every mech of every single caste, and career, deserves the full rites.”

“Optimus Prime is a mech led by personal desires, not the true will of Primus.” The priest he was looming over spat. Ambulon stepped into the mech’s personal space.

“If the will of the Matrix is the will of Primus, Optimus is the first true Prime in ages. Learn your own gospel. I don’t even believe in your god, and I know it better than you. I am the chief medical officer of Nixaya, and that was a medic under my command. He, the newspark, and your priest? Full rites. Every single one of them. Or else I fear the rot of Unicron is already in your spark.”

Ambulon didn’t wait for a response. He turned and marched away. He’d tried, for his mentor, to stay out of this war. But now?

Mercury caught up with him as he neared the outskirts of the settlement. “Ambulon?”

“I’m staying just long enough to make sure they give proper rites to all those mechs. And then I’m leaving.”

Silence, and then Mercury leans closer. “To where?”

“Nearest recruiting station I can find.”

She looked at him, and then sighed. “I won’t ask what side. None of my business. Think I can hitch a ride?”

Ambulon cycled his optics. “You want to join up too?”

“No. I’m staying neutral. But I don’t want to stay here.”

Ambulon paused, and then nodded. “Once I get to a recruiting station, you can have my shuttle.”

They stood there in companionable silence until the anger eased out of their sparks somewhat, and they were able to go back inside. On the way past the burnt wing, Ambulon considered if he should contact that spacer who’d brought Splash to them. It might be cruel, but so would letting them believe a lie that the sparkling was safe and happy.

He pulled the comm frequency for the mech’s ship from the security records, and back in his quarters, composed a message. When he hit send, he just prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that he’d made the right call.

“How? Why?”

Optimus’ voice was a hollow shell, and Ratchet looked at the Prime, wanting to offer out a hand.

“They’d been keeping him in the main clinical area still, apparently.” Ironhide delivered the painful report in a way only a mech used to having to set aside their personal thoughts for moments like this could. “Something about coolant processing issues had them keeping him under observation. Whoever attacked them struck at night, likely to minimize casualties. The only victims were the medic on duty, a priest, and the newspark.”

“I could send agents to investigate.” Jazz offered. “They’re a neutral colony, but a priest’s death, let alone a newspark’s, would be reason enough to poke around as an agent of the Prime.”

The silence fell, and Optimus was looking down at the table. Shock was numbing his field, and Ratchet knew none of these words were reaching him right now.

“Optimus,” Ratchet spoke. “I’m so sorry.”

Optimus suddenly stood, and looked at all of them.

“I must take my leave. Please, do as you see necessary in regards to this— this matter. I just—”

Ironhide’s tone was soft. “Go, Prime. None of us blame you.”

Optimus nodded, and disappeared. Once the door was sealed again behind him, Ratchet looked around the table. 

Optimus wasn’t the only one in shock. They all were. Ironhide, who’d taken the newspark to that colony and checked its safety, only to have to bring them this terrible news. A mech who’d once had to send her own newsparks away, but unlike their Prime, she knew they were safe and sound tonight.

Jazz was rubbing his face, clearly thinking of his adopted creations. How many plans had he made, likely on Optimus’ behalf, to go fetch the newspark and bring him back to his carrier? How many nights would he be wondering now, until he was able to get agents on the ground there, if Soundwave had broken their long held truce? 

And Ratchet? If he’d seen the signs earlier, if he’d known? How many times might he have been able to have prevented this disaster in the first place? To help Optimus keep his newspark safe with the others as they’d fled, rather than know how deep loss cut yet again. What could he have done?

In this terrible secret, they were all alike. Looking around, Ratchet spoke.

“This fighting, this anger. We have to end it now.”

Ironhide glanced up as Jazz looked over. Ratchet sighed.

“I might not always be as fond of some of you, but we all care for him. Even if we have to drag the rest of High Command along kicking and screaming, this has to end now. No more fighting the way we have. No more forcing him to act as our perpetual peacekeeper. We keep this a secret for him. We work together for him. We stop letting every little thing divide us for him. We’ve made some progress. Now it needs to be permanent.”

The silence echoed in the room, until Jazz finally nodded. 

“No more grudges, no more fights. It’ll take us all time to let ‘em go, but— it’ll be better for everyone if we do, not just him.”

“I won’t argue,” Ironhide managed. “Sometimes, secrets are easier when shared. No one has to know why the three of us can work together now. We just have to do it.”

Ratchet glanced at them, and then sighed. “Kids, the both of you, and your conjunxes too. Go. Be with your families. We can sort more of this out later, when we know more about what happened.”

He watched them leave. Jazz’s frame slumping into his crutches, Ironhide’s head hanging low. He felt his own shoulders sag. But he felt his concerns reaching out towards another mech. Another kid carrying a burden they shouldn’t be.

::Optimus? If you need me, please. Call me. I’ll come keep you company, or do anything else you might need.::

There was no reply for a while, and then a short one. ::Thank you for the kind offer, Ratchet. But for the moment, I would like to be left alone.::

Ratchet doubted that was what Optimus really needed, but it was hard to argue with a grieving mech who asked for space. 

::If you change your mind, I’m just a call away.::

A ping of acknowledgement, and then silence. Bereft of anything else to do, Ratchet returned to his own habsuite.

He didn’t think he’d find himself able to celebrate for the rest of the night.

Optimus closed the door to his hab, checked that the lock was in place about four times, and then went over to the boxes of possessions brought into his new home. The benefit of a ship was that space was limited. This was no lavishly decorated palace bedroom. It was simply a small apartment built for a mech of his size.

It had felt like it could be a home in time. He’d had three rooms outside of the living area, kitchen, and washrack. One for him, one for the sparkling he’d eventually intended to find again if possible, and one for a small library and office. But now, he was facing the idea of living alone with all these rooms.

Technically, that had been the plan when Wheeljack had brought him the design for this suite. The third room was going to be a personal library separate from the office. But after many nights spent wondering, he’d come up with the different purposes that these rooms would never now fulfill. There would be no adoption, no sound of small feet running to him at night to ask for help after a nightmare, no playing with the other sparklings of the Cause. No holding the last good piece of Megatron he still had close to his spark, and wondering just how differently things could have gone.

No, instead he was just left with a bitter taste on his glossa as he opened the boxes, slowly and methodically, looking for something he’d packed such a short time ago.

And there, in a small insulation sheet, he found it. The worn plush from his own childhood. Holding it in his hands, he wondered if his newspark had been in pain. If they’d suffered. If his stupidity, his decision, had been their death sentence.

The Matrix pulsed within him. Did it know that a spark it had been bonded with had gone to the Well ahead of that spark’s carrier? Did it sense his grief and despair? He stood, carrying the toy to his berth, and sat down, staring at it.

Who would ever know what this pain was? So few of his faction would ever know that he’d carried a spark. And if those that did suffered a loss like this, although he prayed they never would, they’d be free to speak of it. To seek comfort from others, and help. But he would have to keep quiet. To hold this in his spark to never be acknowledged, save with the select few who, he once again prayed, would never have to fully understand the depths of this grief. 

He would have to carry this secret to the Well with him, into the Afterspark. Perhaps, there, Primus would reunite him with his little one. The little newspark he hadn’t even named.

He looked up towards the ceiling, and then out a small viewport as the stars nearby. With a whisper, he spoke.

“Primus, look out for him. Treat his small spark kindly.”

He could hear the tears in his voice, even if he couldn’t feel them falling from his optics.

“Give him all my love, and never let him know pain. Hold him tight, until I can do it myself.”

He was squeezing the toy, feeling the sobs shaking him, and he concluded his prayer.

“Til all are one.”

He didn’t know how long he lost himself in the grief after that. Time had no more meaning. The world was gone, there was nothing under his feet or body but an endless sea of loss on which he floated alone. The glow of the Matrix and the gentle whispers of ancient Primes were his only companions.

Eventually, mercifully, he fell into the blackness of a dreamless sleep, where awareness could not follow.

Chapter Text

As the morning sun rose over Iacon, Megatron found himself standing in the Prime’s Spire of the Primal Basilica, admiring the sight only Primes had been allowed for so long. No one would have permitted him, a miner, a cold-construct, a slave of Functionism, to ever stand here. And yet, here he was. With all of Cybertron under his command.

Soon, they would fully weed out the remaining rot from within. And while he would and had already allowed as many others to enter the spire as wished to, this morning, he sought to be alone, save a few he permitted to join him up here.

Strika had made her way up shortly after him, joining him in the pre-dawn light. She had already joined hundreds of members of her fleet in scoffing at the opulence of the Primes. Unlike the Autobot Command Center, nearly completely destroyed and where salvage crews still worked to find anything of use, the Primal Basilica had been left mostly untouched in the bombings. Megatron had enjoyed how it allowed his faction to see the visible evidence of corruption up close, as they looked at the gilded halls and lavish displays of wealth and power left behind.

And as much as he hated the rest of this, he enjoyed the view of the sunrise. Although the Prime might claim ownership of this spire, he could not own the joy in a mech’s spark at seeing the rising sun, or the sight of a glorious Cybertronian dawn. Life began again, as the world spun.

Soundwave had arrived at some point, but not the fourth mech he had permitted to join them this morning. As the sun finally fully rose, he turned towards the others.

“Soundwave, can you confirm nothing that might overhear us is present here?”

“Affirmative. Cassettes: Working on other tasks.”

“Good,” Strika crossed her arms as she turned to face them. “We have possession of Cybertron now. What are our intentions with it?”

“First,” Megatron hummed. “We will salvage anything of use in Iacon, including all records both of Autobot Command, but also of the Senate and Archives. Any artifacts that survived should be taken elsewhere for use, or for our own museums and histories. We must make Cybertron a society that will not repeat the sins of the past, because it remembers them.”

“And what should be done with Iacon afterwards?” 

“I have yet to decide.” Megatron sighed. “Did Ultra Magnus send any of the fleet back towards Cybertron?”

“No. He followed our fleet long enough to ascertain our course, before they broke off. I presume this Ark sent out a call for a rendezvous?”

Soundwave nodded. “Decepticon agents: Confirm that Optimus Prime issued a call for the fleet to rendezvous. Autobot plans: As of yet uncertain. Ultra Magnus: Currently only a day or so away from the rendezvous point.”

“Have any agents been selected to transfer aboard the Ark?”

“Affirmative.”

Megatron let out a relieved sound. “At least we won’t be left blind as to their movements and intentions.”

He stepped back towards the railing, looking out over Iacon. Strika approached.

“You need to designate a real second in command and soon.” She offered. “In the event I had fallen in battle, the fleet had my Air Commander Slipstream to turn to. If you fall, we have no one.”

Soundwave offered up his own opinion. “Deadlock: May be our best option in the present circumstance. Deadlock: Member of the Conclave, and a personal friend.”

“He does good work too.” Strika hummed. “Is that your decision then?”

“I haven’t decided yet, because Deadlock has proven… resistant to the idea.”

“Deadlock: Is no more compromised by his past than you are.” Soundwave cut to the chase. “Megatron: Would be wise to pick a mech of such loyalty as second in command. Deadlock’s devotion to the Cause: Unquestionable.”

“He didn’t join us this morning. I had hoped I might ask him again here, with you as witnesses.”

“Well, you did phrase it as an invitation to the three of us, not an order.” Strika shrugged. “If you ask him in private, which he’d probably prefer anyways, you can always do it again later in front of us to make it all official.”

Soundwave hummed an agreeable note. Megatron looked out over the city, and wondered just where Deadlock might be.

And then Soundwave paused, moving to receive a transmission. After a moment, he spoke.

“Megatron: Something for your audials only.”

Ah. Megatron had a sneaking suspicion he knew what that was about.

Deadlock jumped down off of a pile of rubble, moving along swiftly. Out in the outer city, he really didn’t have to worry about much except running into mechs on his own side, but today? 

Today, he wanted to be alone.

The grey pre-dawn light had found his feet on familiar paths through the damaged city, as what was left of Rodion, Iacon’s poorest suburb, came into view. He moved past the small hotspot he’d emerged in, gone cold like every hotspot had in this war. He ignored the shapes of small sparks extinguished before they’d been able to come to fruition. It was a sight every soldier had unfortunately become accustomed to.

He glanced into the ruins of the home he’d been raised in. Looted, from the looks of it, rather than bombed. He was glad to see a half torn notice in faded ink on the door.

Evacuate, by order of the Prime and Autobot High Command.

Even as he felt comfort at knowing the sparklings of Rodion had been considered just as worthy of saving as those of more affluent districts, he felt a sinking sensation in his tanks as he wondered if they were truly safe, or if they were somewhere where Functionist sentiment would be preached, and they would be taught the same way he had. To shrink in on yourself, to hide who you were, to do whatever it took to survive, because no one would be helping you.

He hated the thought, so he pushed it aside and continued on towards his goal.

Slowly, Rodion changed into the slum of the Dead End, and Deadlock felt his feet settle on his real home soil for the first time in years. He glanced at the sky, and the light of the distant dawn. Soon, it would creep over the walls.

Best he get where he was going then.

He liked the feeling of running, the full use of his joints. Once, running had been something he only did when he was trying to disappear with stolen food or syk, or when he was escaping the enforcers because of the syk. But now, feeling each joint stretch and flex without pain, and with the knowledge he had fuel in his tank and more to fill it with?

Running was fun, as his feet followed the familiar turns and twists to his destination, until he stood there, looking at the front doors.

The Dead End Clinic looked little changed by time, he thought, as he opened the front door. Somewhere, in a distant corner of his processor, he heard a faint bellow of wipe your feet, kid! He snickered at the memory, and then he stepped inside.

The inside was looted, of course, but the dust implied it’d likely been by Iacon’s own residents, and long before his side had breached the outer walls. However, the freshest sets of footsteps before his had a familiar look to them. A pair had walked through here, probably shortly before the outer wall was breached.

He followed the familiar pedes’ shadowy tracks towards the back. They’d gone to the records room, and left the door open after they’d gone. Looked like not even the most ambitious of mechs had been able to crack that safe open during the looting. Wheeljack’s work, most likely.

But why leave it open now?

He stepped inside, and saw the datapad, next to a small cube of something. He wasn’t certain if it was oil or fuel, or even engex. He tapped the datapad, and when it presented him with a lock code, he tried the old combination he’d once used.

It unlocked.

Kid,

You picked your side, we picked ours. Wish it hadn’t gone this way, but it has. If you ever change your mind, we’ll vouch for you. If you don’t, we wish you well. 

You always were destined for something greater than this. I hope the road you’ve taken leads you there. 

Always remember that you are loved,

Ratchet

Deadlock glanced towards the cube, and dusted it off. Inside, he saw a familiar combination. Energon, mixed with magnesium and silver.

He subspaced the datapad, and then headed towards the back. A quick tug had the old ladder to the roof slipping down, and he climbed out. He quickly moved to the best spot to view the sun slipping over Iacon’s outer wall.

He remembered all the celebrations here. All the times he’d sat here with two other mechs and shared toasts and fuel to their growing Cause. To the new speeches that had the Senate up in arms, and the Functionist Council furious. The nights they’d sat here under the stars or rainclouds, whispering quietly about disappearances or concerns. The sorrows shared here when celebration wasn’t possible.

He remembered the feeling of the dawn light on his face, with a warm hand on his back. 

Ratchet and Wheeljack might not be here, he supposed. Nor Gasket, who he missed just as much. But he was here. He was alive. And he’d done greater things than anyone had ever expected him to do.

Empty.

Warrior.

Addict.

Survivor.

Shareware.

Friend.

Buymech.

Confidant.

Low caste.

Conclave.

Drifter.

Decepticon.

He looked up as the first rays of sun slipped over the wall and fell across his face. He’d made it through this siege, like he had all the others. He’d lived. And so had the ones he’d loved. He drank the fuel, although from how long it’d been sitting, one could hardly call it good. But he’d had worse.

It felt like a celebration, even if it was just for one. And he enjoyed this dawn better than any dawn he might have with the other Decepticons in the Primal Spire. 

Soundwave had directed the shuttle to land in a small clearing near the Autobot’s command center, as Megatron had taken up residence in one of the few parts of the structure left standing, and already cleared of anything of use. If Megatron had had to hazard a guess from the colorful illustrations across one wall, it’d been a member of High Command’s before the evacuations. Ironhide’s, most likely. Which meant he could secure the rooms, or at least one of them, if necessary.

It was a strangely designed ship that Soundwave had used for the mission, and it was a shame to know it would have to be destroyed, as the mech inside stepped out. The medic was carrying a large case.

“Lord Megatron, Soundwave,” The Velocitronian politely inclined his head, unable to salute with his cargo that he seemed reluctant to release.

“I trust your mission was successful, Knock Out?”

“Indeed. Is there somewhere we might speak in private?”

Megatron nodded, and motioned for the medic to follow him. Soundwave fell in behind them like a shadow as they went to the suite. Once inside, Megatron motioned for Soundwave to ensure it was secured. Knock Out watched with interest, and as soon as Soundwave nodded to them, he set down the case.

“I went to Nixaya and acted according to the dictates of my mission.” Knock Out knelt down in front of the case. “I found the only newspark that matched the information given, and was able to eventually invent an excuse in order to take a CNA sample and compare it to the two provided codes.”

“And they matched?”

“Both of them.” The case was unfastening. “So, I followed the retrieval protocol. I was discovered by one of the priests, but disposed of him. No other collateral.”

Megatron tried not to loom over the medic as the implications of the words fully set in. Both matched. As the case opened, and something within made a highly displeased sound.

Knock Out reached down and lifted out a newspark. A shockingly small one, which hissed as it was held, bundled in insulation sheets, against the medic’s red plating.

“Would you like to hold your newspark, Lord Megatron?”

Megatron glanced at Soundwave, who had approached to consider the hissing newling. Soundwave glanced at him with certain expectations in his eyes, and Megatron found himself forced to admit something he rather wouldn’t.

“I’ve never— I’ve never actually held one.”

Knock Out’s optics cycled, but then he nodded. “Cradle your arms. Fusion cannon out of the way. You want to hold them somewhere secure against your chassis, with their head supported. This young, they can’t fully hold them up on their own most the time.”

Megatron did as asked, and Knock Out, as carefully as he could, placed the newspark in them. At first, the little one just kept hissing, its tiny field very displeased.

With caution, Megatron brushed his own field across the little newspark’s. It fell quiet, made a curious churr, and moved slightly.

Small blue optics met his. Megatron lifted the little one closer, trying to figure out the strange weight in his arms, as those optics seemed to be trying to figure out him. They could have studied each other for hours.

“Nixaya: Free of Functionism as claimed?” Soundwave asked, even as their voices seemed to fade into the background.

“Hardly,” Knock Out snorted. “The medical staff, maybe. Most of them weren’t that religious. The Chief Medical Officer definitely wasn’t a forged medic, but I wouldn’t question his qualifications. But the priests still preached it and clearly intend to continue practicing it unless someone properly cleans their house.”

“Very well. Knock Out: Dismissed.”

“I have to object.”

“Your price: Will be paid soon. Dismissed.”

But Knock Out didn’t take the hint. “I’m well aware it takes time for some things to be signed off on, Soundwave. But I need assurances that things will happen as promised!”

The loud exclamation had the newspark suddenly hiss again, clearly not liking the sound of Knock Out’s voice. Megatron looked up in annoyance at having his first moments holding his own newspark so rudely interrupted.

“Breakdown of Velicitron will be removed from the Combiner program soon,” Megatron said sharply. “I will keep my promises to you, medic, as long as you keep the ones you made to me. You will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Your mission, if they ask you about a mission, was a casual intelligence gathering one, and you returned unsuccessful.”

“But—”

“Breakdown will be removed from the combiner program, and you will receive the negotiated position. In time, when it does not appear you are being favored for anything that might be connected to the incident on Nixaya, or this one’s arrival.” When Knock Out looked ready to launch another protest, Megatron raised a hand. “Breakdown will be reassigned from the combiner program much more promptly than that. But I will not station him with you until a suitable amount of time has passed. Understood?”

A pause, and then the fight seemed to slip out of Knock Out’s frame somewhat. 

“Yes, my Lord. I will wait. And keep your secret, I can promise you that.”

“Good. Go.”

Soundwave got the medic to finally leave as Megatron turned back towards the newspark, who was staring at him with those blue optics. Despite his annoyance, the newspark did not fuss or cry just yet. Slowly, with as much care as he could manage, he removed them from the insulation sheets, and properly looked at them.

The newspark was mostly red, a brighter shade than Orion had had, with yellow accents and slight hints of orange. Soft nubs stuck out of his back, protoform still taking shape under thin, colored plating. A pale faceplate let those optics shine even brighter as Megatron leaned down to look at creation he had unknowingly sired.

The newspark slowly raised a hand, fingers splayed out, and Megatron felt the tiny hand brushing against his nose. A chirp from the newspark, and he glanced at Soundwave. In a rare moment, Soundwave had pulled back his battlemask, and graced Megatron with a smile.

“Newspark: Content, and curious about you.”

Megatron nodded, looking back down at the little one, and then, cautiously, tracing his face with one of his own fingers. The newspark made a delighted sound, hands reaching up to catch the massive finger.

“I— Soundwave, what do we—” Megatron couldn’t find the words, as he watched his son’s tiny fingers try to grab his. “What do we do with him?”

“Short term: We must keep him hidden. Autobots: Cannot know of his existence here until their suspicions about Nixaya have abated. Long term: Dependent on if Lord Megatron wishes to have a spark bond with his creation or not.”

A sudden sneeze from the newspark seemed to startle him. And then a soft warble, followed by crying.

“Newspark: Will also require feeding and other attention. Soundwave: Is experienced, and will show you how.”

Megatron, despite the many times he’d been glad for Soundwave before, had never been more grateful for him than he was now in this exact moment.

Flatline had tried to keep his curiosity at bay after he’d been summoned to Megatron’s quarters. Still, the shock of today was quite a lot to take. Megatron had been elsewhere upon his arrival, and the image of Soundwave, juggling a newspark that was certainly too large to be a cassetticon and looked at him with shockingly blue optics, was just—

Unsettling?

Still, he’d maintained as much professionalism as he could, scanning the newspark and examining them to the best of his abilities with the tools at his disposal. Soundwave hovered at a polite distance, but close enough to keep a permanently watchful eye.

“He seems healthy,” Flatline finally offered. “Ventilations are good, sparkrate’s well within normal newspark parameters, and no deformities to the protoform. His coolant processing rate seems to be accelerated, but I don’t detect any other signs of spark chamber deformation. Worth keeping a close optic on that, but other than giving him some excess coolant in his fuel, it doesn’t seem to need much else to treat it at the moment.”

Soundwave nodded. “Flatline: Much thanks.”

Flatline paused, before continuing.

“The fact that his spark’s blue, however, and the fact no one’s come to me seeking medical care relating to emergence is another matter.”

Soundwave paused, and then turned. “Flatline: Unwise to ask.”

“As chief medical officer of the Decepticons, there are no secrets of medical matters to be kept from me. Did you find that newspark in the wreckage? If so, it had to have been within a day or two of the siege ending, and then you hid it from me for all this time since?”

For a moment, Soundwave almost looked embarrassed. Flatline had learned enough of his tells to know when the communications officer was trying to avoid something for personal rather than professional reasons.

“Soundwave.”

“Newspark: Megatron’s.”

Flatline felt his optics cycle, and Soundwave apparently decided to just lay it all out on the table.

“Megatron: Sire. Orion Pax: Carrier.”

Okay, Flatline had to sit down at that. Soundwave observed him, and then continued.

“Flatline: Secrecy required in this matter.”

“Yeah, no scrap!” Flatline hissed. “You stole the Unicron damned Prime’s newling?!”

“Prime: Sent newspark to Nixaya for adoption. Prime: Unaware we have obtained his and Megatron’s newspark. Prime: Believes, or will soon believe, that the newspark perished in an explosion.”

Flatline put his helm in one hand, before glancing at the newling. The little mechling was exploring his surroundings, tugging on the sheets. Some toys that had likely been left behind by the previous occupants of this suite surrounded him, and he stared at them curiously.

“What the frag is Megatron planning to do with him? He can’t seriously be planning to—”

The sound of an opening door had Soundwave shift, and Flatline cut himself off. He stood before Megatron entered the room.

“Megatron.”

“Flatline. Is he well?”

“There is a minor concern dealing with coolant intake.” Flatline managed. “And the major one concerning his optics and spark.”

Megatron paused, glancing at Soundwave.

“Flatline: Has been informed of newspark’s origins. Flatline: Is Chief Medical Officer of the Decepticon Cause, and your personal medic.”

Megatron sighed. “I see.” He walked over to the newspark, and then carefully lifted him. Once he had him resting against his chassis, the little one settled, even as Megatron still seemed rather uncertain of how to interact with them.

It was a strange image, Flatline thought, and yet the look of an uncertain sire cradling a newling was one of the most common things he’d ever seen among new creators. Megatron traced the newling’s face, earning him a few chirps and churrs before a tiny yawn escaped the little one.

“Pax- Prime sent him off. All but abandoned him. I was not going to let my own code be raised in a neutral colony, learning Functionist sentiments.”

“And how are you going to inform the rest of the Cause about this situation, then?” Flatline hissed. “Soundwave said the Autobots think he’s dead. How long until they trace it back to us? How long until Prime comes back with Ultra Magnus’ fleet to get him back?”

“They won’t be able to connect the explosion on Nixaya to us. Soundwave has ensured that.” Megatron looked up at him. “I have been uncertain how I might introduce him to the Cause in a way that avoids suspicion.”

Flatline looked at the mech, and after a time, Megatron shifted his gaze back towards the newling. Flatline considered the image a little longer.

For some reason, the second time, it didn’t seem so strange. While Primes might have used such moments to soften their image, this almost seemed to sharpen Megatron’s. He would protect this thing he’d helped bring into the world with the full might of his frame and Cause. To defend it, and keep it safe, the way he’d sworn to defend them from the Functionist Council and Senate.

“I guess the question then is if you intend to present this mechling as a foundling, your adopted creation, or your creation in code. And if you intend to form a sparkbond or not.”

“If I sought a sparkbond?”

“Right now? He has a professional patch that prevents one from forming.” Flatline groaned. “Ratchet’s work, no doubt. I’d remove the patch after installing a line of code in you that allowed a creator-creation bond to form. The second he teeks your field, the bond would snap into place. But then you would either have to announce him as your creation in adoption or code. Sparkbonds are serious business, and he’s stable without it. As for if you chose to present him as an adopted mechling, or of your own code? That, I have to leave up to you.”

Megatron didn’t look up, but he must have commed Soundwave, because the comms mech gestured that Flatline should leave and escorted him out personally. But Flatline stopped in the outer room of the suite.

“Him and Pax?”

Soundwave paused, and then nodded. Flatline took a long ventilation. True, he’d joined the Cause well after the movement had split. It’d been his skill that’d gotten him this far, not early admission, but still.

“If he chooses to announce him as his code, mechs will be wondering about the other half of the equation. And you’re not going to be able to pass for the carrier.” 

“Soundwave: Aware. Soundwave: Considering potential options to present as the carrier.”

“Dead or living ones?”

“Options: Living.”

“You’re going to have to pay up one hell of a bribe then, to get them to keep this quiet. I leave that to you if it comes to pass.” Flatline rolled his shoulders. “I know my oath. I won’t breathe a word of this. Comm me if the newspark needs anything.”

A nod, and with that done, Flatline left.

As the weeks had passed, Iacon had been fully turned upside down by his army for anything of use. Their time in this once grand city and center of pain and corruption was drawing to a close, and Megatron had little use for what remained.

Darkmount in Polyhex would serve as the capital of this new world for now, free of the pain of the Primes in that tower. There, he would consider his options. To settle in his victory and risk becoming so comfortable that he invited invasion, or go after the Autobots and risk them perpetually fleeing him, dragging this war out even longer.

For the moment, however, he remained undecided, as he sat in the pre-dawn light in the Primal Basilica’s tower yet again. It was a strangely peaceful place to be, despite the pain caused here. No wonder the Primes had kept such control on this view belonging to them, and them alone. And with it being one of the last mornings before the beginning of the Iacon’s rainy season, he enjoyed the feeling of the light. He could see the clouds forming in the distance, and knew that by tonight, the city would be subject to the yearly floods of acid rain.

However, Megatron was hardly alone these days, even taking in a final sunrise from this tower. The case the newspark had been brought to him in still received a fair amount of use, smuggling the little one out of his quarters when neither he nor Soundwave could stay alone with the little one for the whole day. He’d learned so much from Soundwave about caring for newlings in the last few weeks, and the little one so far seemed content with his stumbling around in the dark and doing his best. Fussier than some newsparks, Soundwave had said, but most likely due to the lack of sparkbond to facilitate communication as to his needs.

So here he was, in the pre-dawn light, holding the little mechling to his chest. He was asleep under an insulation sheet, curled into the warmth of his sire’s frame. Comfort-safety-warmth radiated from his field when it flared out in what must be the little one’s dreams.

A familiar set of footsteps approached. Soundwave did not announce himself, as he appeared in Megatron’s field of vision.

“Flatline: Wishes to know if a decision has been made in how the newspark will be acknowledged.”

The thrumming of his fingers was Soundwave’s only reply for a few moments. Megatron had considered this issue over many nights of staring at the small newling. Each option had its own advantages and drawbacks. But he had to consider not what was best for him, but best for the new life he and Pax had unknowingly created together.

He wondered if Prime had been considering the newspark or himself when he’d sent the little one to Nixaya. The lack of consideration shown to the selection had set something curdling in Megatron’s spark ever since he’d first held his son. Orion, like always, had not considered the consequences of what he did, and their newspark had nearly paid the price.

He did not wish to lie to this newspark more than he had to about his origins. He wanted this little one to grow up feeling safe and wanted, to be known as his son, his heir to his legacy. For this newspark to have the chance to be whatever he wanted to be, regardless of his form. To never be told he was nothing but a function. 

In truth, Megatron supposed, he had spent the last few weeks agonizing over a decision he’d already made. He had no idea who he’d bribe into pretending to be the other parent to this mechling in order to hide the truth of their parentage from the Autobots, or how long the little one would need to stay hidden in order to keep his existence from being connected to Nixaya. Whatever sacrifices he might need to make to make sure this newspark always knew he was loved and wanted would be worth it in the end.

“It has.” Megatron looked to Soundwave. “I want the sparkbond. I want it to be known, in time, that he comes from my code.”

Soundwave’s field expressed approval at the decision. “Flatline: Will be summoned immediately.”

Megatron turned back towards the sleeping newspark. What did this little one dream of, he wondered? Could he ever know how much he was loved? How much he was wanted? 

He’d never imagined himself as a sire, and yet? Now, with this newling in his arms, the thought seemed right. A way to remember what he fought for every day and moment. A mechling who would grow and learn that he was free to be anything, anyone that he wanted to be. A hope for the future of a new Cybertron.

He wanted to see that happen in the world he’d unknowingly been creating for this little one. Before, he’d fought in the abstract for a desired future. And now that future was in front of him. And the future wasn’t Orion Pax somehow returning to him. No. The future was this child, and all who’d come after him. He saw that now more clearly than ever.

Flatline arrived, and Megatron stood. Flatline pulled over a small set of cable adaptors, and a set of small tools, alongside a thick cloth to settle the newspark on.

“Megatron, if I might install the code you need for the bond to form first?”

Megatron nodded, offering the medical port in his arm. Flatline plugged in, transferred a file to a particular subsection of his processor, and then quickly retreated once the installation was complete. Smooth, quick, and professional. All the reasons that had seen him soar to his high position in the Decepticons.

“Open the file, and the code will become active. But now, I need to take the newspark.”

Megatron handed him over. The newling blinked his optics online at the movement, a discontented trill as Flatline took him over to the cloth. Megatron opened the file and felt the new code settle into his system. It seemed to have no noticeable effect at first, other than perhaps a small wave of anxiety as he watched the medic open up the tiny access port on his son’s frame. Little unhappy sounds turned into distressed sobs as the medic plugged in through the set of adaptors for such a small frame. 

Sobs that swelled in volume and pitch as Flatline disconnected and resealed the newspark’s plating. Flatline lifted the newspark gently.

“The patch is removed. He needs the sparkbond now, to keep his own spark stable.” Flatline extended the newspark, and Megatron took him back with ease, bringing the mechling back to his chassis.

For a moment, Megatron just looked down as the newspark sobbed helplessly against him, uncertain what to do as their field retracted. But then, with a shaky breath, the little one’s field expanded, teeking his.

And suddenly, the world spun.

Scared-hurt-upset sensations spilled into his spark, and Megatron adjusted the newling. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly in tune with the newspark’s needs, which begged, no, demanded, attention.

“It’s alright, little one. I’m here, I’m here.”

The newspark screamed, even as Megatron pushed back comfort and safety from his own spark and field. He was aware of Flatline gathering his tools, and spoke.

“Is he supposed to be in this much distress?!”

“It’s normal,” Flatline hummed. “He’s experiencing the spark equivalent of being dunked in cold solvent. He should settle soon. Just let him know you’re here for him.”

Megatron snarled something rude at his medic, which he heard being brushed off as ‘new sire bravado’ before Flatline vanished. The newspark was still screaming, and Megatron reached out along the new bond on his spark, pushing every bit of comfort and love that he could down it.

Slowly, the painful sensations faded as the newspark’s crying dropped in volume. Megatron looked down at the tiny blue optics cycling at him rapidly. 

And then, after a few seconds, a wordless push. Comfort-warmth-closeness? It felt like a question, and Megatron pulled the little one closer. A sudden feeling of warmth-safety-relief was his reward, as a few final whimpers rattled out of the tiny vocalizer.

“Yes, I’m here for you.” He stared at the tiny newspark, and murmured the newspark name he’d settled on. “I always will be, Match.”

Match buzzed softly, still somewhat tense, but Megatron merely rumbled his engine, and the little one was soon relaxing. On his way back towards recharge, perhaps? Nearby, Soundwave spoke softly.

“Newspark: Match?”

“Yes,” Megatron smiled. “He’ll be the burning match that keeps my inner fire lit, to make the word better for him and all those who will come after him. To make every battle and terror we’ve faced worth it in the end. To remind me to fight for him.” He stroked the edge of Match’s small helm. “He’ll surely discard the name in time like most newsparks do, but for now? I cannot imagine a more perfect one.”

Soundwave nodded. “Match: A good newspark name. Soundwave: Will leave the two of you in peace for now, to continue with the final preparations.”

Soundwave’s departure in the last of the pre-dawn light let Megatron look out over Iacon from this vantage point once more. Staring towards the faint glow on the horizon as it crept upwards, onto yet another new day for Cybertron, with his son in his arms as he set a hand on the railing.

Would history remember, when all this was gone, the pain the Primes had caused? Would they speak of him as a liberator, or a destroyer? Would the sunrise still be as beautiful then as it was now?

A sudden sneeze from Match had him glancing down, as the newspark stared up at him with wide optics.

“Would you like to see a sunrise, Match?”

He adjusted the newspark in his arms, and together, they looked out over the ruins of Iacon. In the distance, shuttles were being prepared for departure. Soldiers loaded up as the light of their sun crept across the city. Megatron watched, and as the first few rays reached them, Match squealed in delight.

Did he see the beauty of this new dawn as clearly as Megatron did? 

Perhaps not. After all, it was hard to watch a sunrise when he could look at his son instead.

He was distracted from his musings by a comm.

::Megatron, we’ve removed anything of use from the Basilica. All of Iacon has been looked through. What are your orders?::

Ah, Strika seemed to be ready. And as Megatron looked back out over the dawn light on Iacon, and then down at his newspark, he realized he was too.

::Prepare for our return to Darkmount. I will remain here to enjoy the sunrise just a little longer, and then make my own departure for Polyhex.::

::And after we’ve removed everything and everyone from Iacon?::

::Then we will ready the airforce, and obliterate Iacon from the face of Cybertron.::

In the arms of his creator, he was warm-safe, as the light fell across him and he felt his tiny frame grow even warmer. He was aware of distant pretty colors in the big thing above, made by a bright glowing thing, and the security of being held by his creator’s frame.

Pain-scared-hurt had faded now. Someone was there with him, in his spark, making him feel big and strong. The creator he hadn’t known he’d had. He babbled excitedly as he reached for big-grey-creator’s face as he was lifted up.

“It was a beautiful sunrise, Match. Just for you, to show you how special you are.” Big-grey-creator hummed, and he reached out towards creator’s nose. “Yes, that’s right. This is all for you. Even though I didn’t know it then, all of it has been for you.”

Laughter-joy-peace filled his spark, not his, but he giggled as his tiny hands made contact with warm faceplates. Happy-safe-home filled him. 

He was brought back down to the security of being held, and reveled in it. Yet, he saw something nearby. The purple mech with the strange dangling things. She looked distorted, and her optics seemed sad.

He paused, and then chirped at her. She sighed, smiling at him with that echoing, overlapping voice.

“Oh little one, I had not foreseen this as your fate. But I see now. It is the only way. Our only hope, perhaps, for true peace. Someone who will walk both paths, if the world spins just right.”

He could feel a faint sense of loss and grief wash over him, and chirped in alarm. His sire glanced towards him, and then where his optics had gone. The purple mech sighed.

“I hope, in time, you and I will meet again. Goodbye, little Match. May the flames you light, in time, lead you home.”

She faded, and he tried to understand where she’d gone. He called and chirped, and big-grey-creator adjusted him.

“Shhh. It’s alright, Match. Everything will be okay.” Reassurance was pulsed towards him, until his fussing faded away. “Now, let’s go home.”

Big-grey-creator turned, and he looked at the big thing above, all lit up now. The warmth and light a comfort, as they stepped inside into darkness.

Yet, even in the darkness, he still felt safe and warm.