Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diego Garcia

September 04, 2009

0300hrs_

"I won't let this be put off any longer!" Galloway's voice bellows from Optimus' commlink; his face is red, contorted with anger. "Under the Classified Alien Autobot Cooperation Act, you agreed to share your intel but not your advancements in weaponry."

Optimus can feel his helm throb as the old argument is brought up again. "As I've said before, given your human capacity for war, it would bring your planet more harm than good."

He has grown weary of this circular argument. It's been going on for four human hours. It was late into the night, and his troopers had retired for the night when he'd been jolted out of recharge due to constant pinging from the messaging interface patch Ratchet had installed for human communication.

He regrets ever responding, but Galloway had been insistent. It was a powerplay on the man's part. He wanted Optimus to show up at his request to imply that the U.S. military had a special connection with the Autobots.

Another man, an American general, lets out a hearty laugh, unbothered by Optimus' accusations. "Last I checked, the only war being waged on American soil has been brought on by your people."

Sounds of disagreement break out across the room, and a man of Asian descent speaks up. "You Americans never want to damage your own home, so you wage your wars on foreign soil. I agree with Optimus Prime. Allowing such weaponry goes against the denuclearization agreement.

"America will stop weapon development when you stop requesting Autobot assistance to control your terrorists."

"Unacceptable." The man who speaks is wearing a thobe and has skin of an olive-brown complexion. "I will not have my nation barred from a resource that should be available to everyone."

The words are filled with hostility.

"Need I remind you where your oil comes from? We could easily house the Autobot refugees on our own."

Optimus lets out a heavy vent. He believes himself to be a mech of considerable patience and understanding; he does not hold grudges, nor is he prone to outbursts of heated anger. The human authorities, however, are trying his patience in a way no group has ever done before, including Megatron. At least the actions of Megatron and the Decepticons could be reasonably predicted; nothing strayed too far from the realm of careful calculation.

The cunning of the humans reminded him of the debunked Cybertronian senate and high council.

While Optimus has become quite the negotiator, his time as a proper Prime governing over a civilian body was so brief that he struggles with the nuances of political deliberation. Until now, Autobot-Human relations occurred solely with the United States, but now the situation has changed, and everyone wants a slice of the proverbial pie.

Unlike Cybertron, Earth is comprised of hundreds of countries, each with its own unique forms of government. When looking at the countless factions and allegiances of the humans, a united Cybertron seems more feasible than a common consensus.

As voices on the conference call continue rising, the Autobot leader intervenes. "Regardless of your personal differences, the terms of our agreement have already been determined. If you have any objections, you may speak now."

No one speaks up.

"Good." Optimus says, "If there aren't any further matters to discuss, I will consider this meeting adjourned." He doesn't wait for a response as he shuts off the transmission. If the meeting had been allowed to go on any longer, they would have gone on to argue like a group of sparklings.

He lets out a heavy vent and moves a servo to lay over his spark. Under his chest plating, he can feel the new Matrix humming in sequence with the Matrix of Leadership. When Sam plunged the harvest destroyer's Matrix into his chassis, it had jumpstarted his own. The new warmth is unsettling, but the Primes assured him that the Matrix would settle and integrate with his systems given time. Even so, it feels like the burden of leadership has grown as he carries a mystical object he doesn't feel fit to wield.

His frame hasn't felt this alien since he was forced to switch from Orion Pax to Optimus Prime. It didn't help that what he thought was a temporary merger with Jetfire turned out to be something permanent. Optimus' new set of wings had been blown off during his battle with The Fallen but, to his surprise, began regenerating days after the battle.

Optimus has not informed his chief medical officer of the development; the mech has too much to worry about. For the time being, his new door wings are hiding cramped in a subspace in his back.

He will inform Ratchet when the time is right.

Optimus grabs a data pad, flicking open the meeting notes; it was unanimously decided that NEST headquarters would remain under the United States jurisdiction under the condition that NEST employment would be open to all countries. The Autobots would also consider proposals for Autobot-Human cooperation developed by each member Nation of the Alien-Autobot Cooperation Act's charter.

The first proposal is a joint venture between China and the United States, KSI. Unknown to the humans, Autobot intelligence had been looking into the group for months after Bumblebee discovered that the bodies of dead Decepticons had somehow been acquired by them. Optimus has not brought up the issue in a bid to maintain peaceful relations, but it seems immediate action is necessary.

It's clear KSI intends to strongarm the Autobots into military cooperation under threat of defunding. Optimus is trying to hide the situation from the troops, but their current supply of Energon is meager. Human oil can be used as a substitute. It lacked all the nutrients present in Energon and needed to be consumed at a much higher volume. The price of oil spiked for an entire state when Mudflap decided to drink his fill at an oil deposit in Alaska.

It also didn't help that the humans regularly waged war for oil in one breath while condemning the damage new oil drilling would do to their homes in the other. Defecting to an oil-rich country had been tempting, but the turbulence in the Middle East would undoubtedly be exasperated by the Autobot's presence.

Not to mention, relations had soured with Egypt after the destruction after the destruction of the Pyramids of Giza. At first, Optimus had been unable to understand the humans' anger at the destruction of triangular rock. His spark hadn't twinged with regret until Lennox explained their cultural significance.

Optimus looks back at his datapad, clicking through the assembled information until something catches his optic. The next file that piques his interest isn't a PDF but a link to a video. It's from the Canadian government; the title reads Trans-Human Industries.

He presses play.

"Trans-Human Industries, technology, it's our heart, it's our soul, here at Trans-Human Industries, we are creating the future today. From the food you eat, to the air you breathe, THI is transforming the human experience. THI, let us become a part of you."

His interest is peaked. It's the first proposal not pitching a weapon development program. The fact that their primary objective is finding alternative forms of sustainable energy is compelling.

He's reading the details of THI's proposal when the door to his chambers is wrestled open. Ratchet walks in a cube of Energon in one servo and a pile of data pads in the other. His chief medical officer looks displeased.

"Ratchet."

"I thought my scanners were mistaken," Ratchet gestures to a panel on his arm, "but here you are working when you should be recharging, and I know you never dropped by the medbay for your Energon and diagnostic check."

Optimus continues to read, "There are others who need your attention more, and we lack the plating needed to repair a mech of my size—besides the humans needed to discuss a matter of great importance."

"And it couldn't wait till morning?"

"The humans have cleared the Arc for landing." Ratchet's field buzzes with poorly contained excitement. Reuniting with his bond mate Ironhide isn't the only reason he's eagerly awaited the Arc's arrival. The human authorities giving the arc authorization to land would give him access to a medbay—his real medbay. Repairs on Autobots in deep stasis like Jazz have been paused for years due to a lack of plating.

Reigning in his excitement, Ratchet gives his old friend a calculating look. "You wouldn't have that look in your optics if that's all there was." The medic moves to pull the data pad out of the taller mech's hands. "What do the humans want?"

Time passes silently as Ratchet skims the information; the mech can't contain his anger when he finishes.

"They're determined to make every step of this process as difficult as possible," Ratchet gripes, his pedes clanking loudly across the floor as he paced in irritation. "Before you know it, they'll be requesting access to the arc."

Optimus allows a cheapish look to come across parts of his faceplates not covered by his battle mask; Ratchet's optics widen in horror.

"Optimus, No."

"They are sharing their home with us."

Ratchet let out a snort. "Hardly, I don't imagine they will allow us into their government buildings. Prowl would be seething if you suggested such a thing."

"Then we are fortunate he is not here."

The other bot lets the issue drop but brings up the matter of his health once again." You returned your allotment of Energon and agreed to increase your patrols?"

"I am fine, Ratchet," he tries to reassure. "Once the new base is established and I convince the humans of our sincerity, we can all relax, myself included."

"I have every right to be concerned, you now have two matrix's pumping in your chasis, and the power of this new addition is far less stable than the matrix of leadership."

Optimus gently addresses the bot's concerns. "I admit the sensation is… odd. But it does not appear to be physically debilitating."

"Debilitating or not," Ratchet huffs, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. "You must report to me if any changes occur in your systems. It could lead to full blown hardware malfunction."

"I will be careful."

::Can you hear me? I've escaped their custody. ::

Max groans at the buzzing sensation as he slowly blinks back into awareness. He has enough presence of mind to realize he's being hauled; his limbs are limp and unresponsive as they drag against the cool metal floor. The Dreadnought's grip his arms mercilessly in their metal clasps.

He hears a mechanical hiss of a door unlocking before he's thrown against a wall; dots and bursts of color appear, and he clenches his eyes tight as his head slams against hard metal. A chain bolted to the cell's floor is fastened around his ankle. There's a click as the cell's lock slides back into place.

::Max?:: The voice calls out again, concerned by the lack of response.

He gingerly pulls himself off the floor, projecting feelings of calm through their psychic link. :: I'm okay, buddy. My head just got banged up pretty good. :: His words cause a feeling of relief to be sent back at him.

It's comforting to know that even when they are separated, they're never truly without each other. Without Steel, he's stuck with nothing but his base suit, and he can clearly feel the Turbo energy humming in his veins. He wills himself not to panic. N-Tech had learned through careful testing that Max could be separated from Steel for up to twelve hours without risking critical overload.

His current state of capture is entirely intentional. THI industries have been disturbingly quiet since the giant robot death match in Egypt two weeks ago. At first, N-Tech feared that Dread had concocted a deadly new breed of Dreadnought to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting public, but Steel had been adamant that he'd detected traces of living radiation similar to that of an ultralinks when N-Tech agents had brought some of the scrap metal back from Egypt.

To rule out THI's involvement, N-Tech's best agents—team turbo—have been sent to infiltrate their headquarters.

::Status update?:: Max asks. The holding cell is damp and bitingly cold even with the thermal heating measures of the turbo suit.

:: Have some patience. I'm trying to access the mainframe. :: Steel's metallic voice buzzes back, a little irritated.

::Well, can you access it any faster? It's freezing down here. ::

:: Patience Maxwell, this a delicate procedure.:: The link fizzles out, and he's left alone in silence.

He must have dozed off while waiting for Steel because he's jolted awake by a clattering sound, and there's a pungent smell in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a piece of molding bread on a tray and an overturned bowl of soup on the ground beside it.

Wow, I didn't think Dredd would be so hospitable to his captives.

Still, it's concerning that he didn't wake up while the guards had dropped off the food. Did those metal heads hit him hard enough to leave a concussion? When he reaches for the bread, there's another creaking sound, and he feels goosebumps break out across his arms.

He's not alone, and the thing he's sharing this cell with had knocked over the bowl of soup.

Whatever it is, I hope it's not hungry.

"Okay, the gig is up. Come on out. I know you're here." His only answer is silence, and just when embarrassment sets in from talking to thin air, he hears a shuffling sound as a small creature creeps out of the shadows.

Its silver body is highlighted by the purple accents on its four drooping limbs, which are clamped around what he can clearly tell is an inactive ultralink.

What are they doing in a place like this?

Instinctively, he can tell this ultralink pair differs from those he's faced before. Ordinarily, when their existence is threatened, these self-serving mechanical creatures don't hesitate to abandon their own. But this ultralink glares at him as one limb charges with an electric blast, intent on defending the immobile unit in its grasp.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Max soothes, inching closer as he allows turbo energy to envelop his right hand. "Your friend must be hungry."

A purple eye scans him with blatant mistrust and clings closer; the little guy is hesitant about trusting Max but must be worried about its companion because it rolls the inactive sphere in his direction.

The blue sphere glows as it draws closer to him, floating into the air and slowly unfurling its limbs. This ultralink looks exactly like Steel, except it's deep blue with red accents.

The newly awakened ultralink is inches away from his palm when the sound of gunfire bursts through the corridor. The cell shakes, and he can see the familiar green and white metal of C.Y.T.R.O. pulling apart the prison doors.

Steel quickly zips in, hollering, "Okay, Max, I've got the goods, but we need to split! Reinforcements will be here in T-minus twenty."

"Honestly, Steel, can't you be more discreet?" Max scolds, glancing at the pair of ultralinks that are now huddled frightened in a corner of the cell.

A single blue eye scans the room before landing on the room's other occupants. "Am I being replaced? Honestly, Maxwell, it's only been a couple of hours!"

Max ignores the jab. He can tell through their link that Steel isn't bothered by the recent development. He walks to the back of the room once again, igniting his hands in turbo energy. He doesn't worry about retaliation. Steel is with him now, and he can tell that the new ultralinks barely have enough juice to stay functional.

The ultralinks must know it, too, because they don't put up a fight when his hands wrap around their metal bodies; they just suck the energy from his hands greedily, letting out happy chirps as they feed with the grace of starving wolves.

The feeling of energy leaving his body is strange. It's different from the way Steel feeds— more frenzied and desperate, they're taking more energy than Steel did the first time.

Click. Buzz. Chirp.

Steel floats over, confused. "The way they talk is weird. It's basic binary."

"Binary," Max states questioningly. He always just assumed the ultralinks spoke English. "Like a computer?"

An x-mark appears on Steel's face. "No, even for binary, their words are basic. It's like baby talk."

Babies? Can Ultralinks even have children? He always assumed they came off the assembly line fully grown.

::Creator?::

The turbo hero flinches, cupping a hand over his right ear. "Steel, please, tell me that's your voice in my head."

"That's a negative."

Max glances down at the two Ultralinks in his palms. "Did I really link up with them? I thought you guys couldn't share the same host."

"We can't." Steel's voice sounds puzzled. "But this link feels different; they're connected to you like me, but it's not the same."

Two pairs of nervous optics make contact with him.

::Creator hate? Creator not want?::

A wave of anxiety and sadness prickles up in the back of his mind, leaving behind an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Of course I do, I was just surprised, is all. What're your names?"

:: Designation Twitch.::

::Thrash.::

"I got it. Welcome abroad, Twitch and Thrash." Max places them on his shoulders; if their bond with him is anything like Steel's, there's no going back now. He's officially gained two more mouths to feed. His mother always warned him about feeding stray cats; he should have listened.

Steel flickers around the room in excitement. "This is the best! I'm basically a big brother now."

Max lets out a chuckle. "I'm glad you're happy, but on a scale of one to ten, how mad do you think Uncle Ferrus is going to be?"

Steel lets out an uninterested beep. "Well, considering the primary objective regarding ultralinks is containment without activation, I can conclude with 99.9% certainty that he won't be pleased."

Their exit is in no way smooth. The dreadnoughts have regrouped and are funneling into the small hallway. Twitch and Thrash make frightened chirps as the area is filled with blaster fire. He hangs back, letting the other members of Team Turbo do the fighting.

"Making a final push towards the exit now," Steel announces, aiming his blasters at the final pair of dreadnoughts guarding the door; the ultralink ducks behind C.Y.T.R.O. as the mechanical creation lets loose a rocket before stepping out into the fray again.

The active rocket slams into a window, shattering glass. When the smoke clears, Max runs through, flying out the broken window.

Time to head back to base.

Uncle Ferrus is not pleased when Max touches down at base, Twitch and Thrash clinging to his shoulders. The commander goes on about "clearance levels" and security risks. The debriefing is quite lengthy, and at some point, Steel cuts off the suit's audio and pulls up a game of Sudoku. Naturally, he is no match for the CPU of an ultralink warrior, so every puzzle ends in his loss. The nagging doesn't end until Berto walks in.

"Commander, I've decrypted the files." Berto moves to the main computer of the conference room and pulls up a photo on the holo-screen. The image is blurry, but Max can make out what appears to be U.S. troops posing for a photo shoot with some of the alien robots who wrecked the pyramids.

"Now that's just so unfair!" Steel complains, floating closer to the screen, "We save the world all the time, and I've never gotten the red carpet!"

Max snorts and throws his partner a dirty look. "Really, that's what you're worried about? Giant alien robots just blew up a pyramid. They could be your long-lost cousins or something."

"Pssh, no way." Steel crosses his arms. "I admit their armor is certainly advanced, but there's no style to it. Given the chance, I can design something more aesthetically pleasing; besides—they're all beat up. No relative of mine would let their armor get so rusty!"

A pair of hands slam against the conference table. "Focus on the issue at hand." Commander Ferrus looks towards Berto "Please, continue."

"Ahem—yes. THI has somehow signed an agreement with Nest, the group protecting the ultralink faction."

"Nest?" Jefferson looks up from the blaster he'd been polishing. "I've heard of them. My cousin Epps started working for them a couple months back, you're telling me they're doing the dirty with THI?"

"Hold up. Are we sure these guys are ultralinks?" Max pipes up, "Steel isn't convinced."

Ferrus gives the teen a hard look. "Regardless of what they are, N-tech must stop any attempt by THI to strengthen their forces. Which is why the two of you will be going undercover as new recruits."

"Hell yes!" Steel lets out an excited hoot. "I was getting sick and tired of all this sand! Where are we going, LA? The big apple?"

Berto chuckles. "Not exactly."

It took less than an orbital cycle for things to go to pit, which is a couple solar cycles longer than Knock Out had expected. Not that he's complaining. Any reason to be dragged out of stasis lock is good enough for him.

Life under Megatron's rule is calculated. Every act of violence is deliberate, and every favor comes with enough strings attached to stage a puppet show. Megatron always has his reasons, none of them good. Especially when they involved Knock Out. The warbuild has taken to keeping his less… devoted men on ice until their services are needed. In his case, it usually meant Megatron wanted to develop a biological weapon, not medical assistance.

A week after waking up, he is summoned to the conference rooms, though a few bots are missing, most likely offlined during the recent battle. Soundwave is still alive—no surprise given how tenacious he is, but he is distinctly aware that both Rumble and Frenzy are missing while the remaining symbiotes are huddled protectively around Soundwave—well, more protective than usual. Starscream is also present, but from the look of his wings, he should be in the medbay.

"Screamer! It's such a surprise to see you haven't offlined yet!" Knock Out trills performing a diagnostic scan at the same time. "Anyways— what do you fine bots want with me? Surely I wasn't woken up because you needed someone to warm your berth? Doing such on an empty tank is quite difficult."

As usual, the response to his flamboyance is cold; he pays it no mind. Things get dreary when this group of bots gets together. The least he can do is put a little life in the air.

Shockwave rolls his optics. He's always had a distaste for the medic. "I've taken the liberty to initiate a program to solve our fueling crisis. The organic replacements lack refinement. Dark Energon has shown promise."

Is he out of his processor!? How could Megatron agree to this?

Creator of the Jhiaxian Academy of Advanced Technology, Shockwave is the kind of crazy that comes about when you lobotomize the emotions out of mech, despite being a former senator—a mech who once spearheaded the renewable energy field now has no regard for scientific method nor the lives of his subjects seeing them as cogs in the machine progress. Usually, Soundwave can nip crazy schemes like this in the bud with his level-headed rationale. He refuses to believe that any part of that vile substance is fit for bot consumption.

"My liege," Knock Out deepens his bow, turning to Megatron, "might I suggest more…testing? CNA is a tricky thing, after all."

"Drilling for Dark Energon has already begun."

He feels a processor ache coming on. Dark Energon. Why is it always Dark Energon? He'd hoped the warlord had given up on the substance after his last dabble in it created the cybonic plague. Yes, contrary to Autobot assumption, its creation was by no means intentional. Instead, it resulted from a miscalculation in forming a battle supplement to reduce the need for energon.

"If you have any… concerns, we have means of alleviating such feelings," Megatron growled, optics cold as he stared down the medic.

Knock Out's glossa feels dry in his mouth, and his fans kick in out of nervousness. Surely Megatron isn't threatening to perform Mnemosurgery on him? His hatred of the vile practice had been one of the key points in his anti-functionist ideology. Have the Decepticons regressed so far that they would turn decenters into flatheads?

"Of course not! I'm all on board. In fact, I just wanted more time to…to— to add my own research to the program." He fumbles with his words, desperate to project an image of complete loyalty.

I drew the short end of the rust stick, didn't I?

Stretching his limbs is all well and good, but groveling on the throne room floor of a mech who'd lost his wits makes him regret waking up. Ever since their "glorious leader" returned from beyond the well of allsparks, he's been—as the humans say, off his rocker. Clearly, meeting the fallen had crossed some wires and glitched his processor.

Still, Knock Out refuses to push the matter further; he likes having his helm attached. The meeting room table is splattered with Energon, and Starscream is slouching in a position no seeker would be caught dead in. Clearly, the air commander had raised some form and objection, and Megatron had used force to make him see reason; he had no desire to be the second victim.

Knock Out grew up in the golden age of functionalism; according to the caste system, he would never amount to anything more than an office clerk, and while he was interested in medicine, he wasn't willing to implode society for it. Still, society collapsed regardless of his inaction, and when the time to pick sides came, he chose the Decepticons.

Knock Out has never been loyal to the Decepticon cause, but they seemed more likely to win, given their pension for ruthlessness. The Decepticons had been the obvious choice. How could he have known that hostility would directed against their own troops!? By the time he realized his mistake, escape had become impossible.

Why didn't Starscream wake him up when the leaders of both factions were offline? The resulting chaos would have provided the perfect venue for his escape! The seeker must have been too busy scheming to free him.

When I get my hands on him, I'll weld his wings to his helm!

The exhaustion Starscream feels is frame-deep. His once pristine wings are reduced to nothing more than sheets of scrap metal, and the energon leaking from his wounds has stuck to his body and crystalized, destroying his finish making movement difficult.

The walk to the Medbay has never felt so long, but he refuses to snivel. Doing so is pathetic. In a large part, he had manufactured his own suffering. Foolish, what was he thinking? Speaking against Megatron in his war cabinet. The time for regrets has already passed. When other Decepticons had suggested finding a new leader, he accused them of insubordination and sided with the decenters who developed a scheme to revive their leader.

Despite Starscream's sincere efforts, Megatron is furious. While the gladiator was resurrected, the end result was a failure—the Autobots destroyed the star harvester and claimed another Matrix. Not one to argue, he didn't beg for forgiveness, confident that the action would result in another beating.

These days, his life seemed to follow a pattern of failure and punishment. A scheme would be concocted, and its failure would inevitably somehow be his fault. He suspects Lord Megatron takes perverse pleasure from his suffering. When the old ways were still in place socially, Starscream held a higher rank than Megatron, which he achieved through bonding with Thundercracker and Skywarp.

His original status is why he was so passionate and taken with the Decepticon cause. Despite Megatron's hatred for the caste system, the others had no qualms about bringing up his lowly origins to make themselves feel superior.

Even now, it's all too common for Decepticons to accuse him of using his frame like a piece of shareware to gain higher status. Megatron did nothing to stop them. When his trine leader was still around, no one dared to say such things, knowing that insulting one of Thundercracker's trine mates was the fastest way to have your vocal box ripped out.

After so many beatings, he's come to a breaking point and realizes that his suffering isn't about anything he did or some mistake he'd made. Megatron simply enjoyed having a seeker at his beck and call. He's come to suspect that the gladiator hadn't hated the caste system. He hated that he wasn't the one sitting at the top.

It hurts so bad.

Yet, despite all the abuse—no matter how foolish it is— part of him didn't want to leave. When Skywarp and Thundercracker defected to the neutrals, he'd been full of spite and called them spineless, and cowards told them that giving up on revenge is tandem to killing off their sparklings a second time.

This had not fazed his trine as they told him his spark had been consumed by revenge, and they'd be waiting for him when he wanted to come home.

But what's so wrong with that? It should consume him. It should've consumed everyone. Any other carrier would have felt the same. The Autobots had detonated the blast that had killed his children.

The fight had been explosive. Afterward, Starscream blocked his link with Skywarp and Thundercracker. He hasn't opened it since, telling himself he'd contact them once they'd won the war. Centuries have passed since then, and now he's so far from them he can't open the link even if he wants to.

These days, the only thing tying him to the Decepticons are bitterness and mutually assured destruction. Seekers run hot, burning through fuel three times faster than other fliers. This biological quirk meant they needed more Energon. The prospect of starvation has often prevented him from leaving the Nemesis. The earthlings probably have a shoot-on-site order on him.

Skkrrccchh!

Starscream gives a full-body shudder as a filer grates along his plates. The armor covering his wings is pulled out, falling off in mangled clumps, revealing the sensitive protoform agitating his sensors. He barely holds about a scream when something snags on his cables.

"Yes, yes," the medic goads, "it hurts. What do you expect me to do about it? This is your fault, after all." Knock Out pours a sterilizing solution on the seeker's wings. "You must've been carelessly flapping your vocals for this to happen."

Starscream lifts his helm to glare. "I expect you to have a little tact when treating your patients."

"My servos are trembling from malnutrition. There's nothing I can do." The complaint has merit despite being awake for a week. The deception had yet to have a single energon cube.

"Then turn off my pain receptors!"

Knock Out clicks his glossa, applying cream to burns most likely caused by Megatron's fusion cannon. "I would love to, but your sensory nerve connection will be reconnected incorrectly. Now, hold still."

How can anyone stay still as a stranger rips out their vital organs? Did this glitchead even realize how rare it was for a bonded seeker to touch their wings? He should be honored that Starscream is allowing this. Usually, Megatron avoided damaging his wings during his punishments so Starscream could fix minor injuries to his wings on his own.

If Thundercraker were here, I'd…

Scrap, there he goes, thinking about them again. They're not important right now. What's important is finding a way to defect from the Decepticons without getting himself killed.

Diego Garcia

September 15, 2009

0315hrs_

Bumblebee is supposed to be making rounds at the reconstructed NEST base, but for the last fifteen minutes, he's been hovering around the southeastern wall of the armory, trying to think of something romantic to say to Sam. After their brush with death in Egypt, he carried feelings beyond that of an Amica Endura—something more than brotherhood. Bumblebee wants to act on this feeling; too many bots have died with the promise of later.

Unfortunately, he is unfamiliar with human methods of courtship. The pickup lines he's heard in passing from NEST soldiers don't apply to Sam. Bumblebee also learned that humans sometimes confess through song, but his intentions might be misunderstood if he uses this method; radio is his primary mode of communication.

If only Sam's eyes were blue like the sea or green like emeralds. Instead, his eyes were brown—lovely, dreamy, melted chocolate brown? Rabbit fur brown?

"Just tell her she's got skin light starlight." Skids jumps in, "femmes love that."

The twins had caught him muttering earlier and decided interfering in his love life would be their new form of entertainment. Thankfully, he's been able to hide the fact that his love interest is human. If this reaches Ratchet's audials, his creator will not be pleased.

He considers the advice, but the current weather will not cooperate. In general, the air on Earth is covered in a haze, making it difficult to see the stars at night. Diego Garcia, in particular, is plagued by an ever-present gray, milky fog that only lifts when bringing rain.

Hardly romantic.

Mudflap looks at his brother, unimpressed. "Well, I don't need such cheap tactics," the green bot gestures to his chassis. "One look at this frame, and the femmes are lining up to merge."

"Stop gawking at yourself."

"Those squishy humans will be lining up for a chance to get with this."

"You don't even know what kind of junk they got."

"Doesn't matter." Mudflap shrugs. "I'm just trying to be Unprejudiced. It's like Optimus always says: all sentient beings are equal. We should make love to each other." The red bot wiggles his optic ridges. There's a flash of blue light, and a naked female holoform appears next to Bumblebee.

"Frag!" Bumblebee lets out a startled beep through his comm. "You're not supposed to be doing that, Ratchet said—"

"What the Hatchet doesn't know won't kill him." A second male holoform appears and starts groping the female. "Where are the interface panels on this thing?"

Ratchet is going to kill them. The medic warned them to avoid using the human information network since it was overrun with viruses. He'd also forbidden using holoforms in non-reconnaissance situations to save energy. The twins managed to break both rules in less than a nanoklik.

A startled shout causes Bumblebee to turn his head. Lennox is there, hands frantically covering his eyes. "I don't even want to know. Just make it stop."

"Turn it off!" Bumblebee screeches through his radio before slamming their helms together.

The holograms disappear, but the twins remain silent, and he just knows they're exploring the dark web again. But stopping them isn't important now. He must explain to Lennox exactly why the breach in procedure occurred.

"How's it going—" Bumblebee switches the audio clip, "Lieutenant?"

"Not too good," Lennox clicks his tongue. "The higher-ups have me on desk duty again. If I have to answer one more call from wannabe alien hunters, I'll—"

The radio on Lennox's hip crackles to life. The soldier is not amused. "Not this shit again."

Ever since NEST set up the Autobot hotline so that civilians can report suspected Decepticon activity, instead narcissistic influencers and paranormal investigators have been all but harassing NEST personnel, namely Lennox, who'd been ordered to oversee the line personally. It's likely punishment for disobeying direct orders in Egypt.

The radio rings again. This time, Lennox picks up. "This is a secure line, according to United States penal code one-thousand-one filing a false report—"

A deafening scream can be heard through the radio: "Hello? Christ. I'm about twenty miles outside of Jasper, alright? And people are swarming up the road so bad I can't move my big rig. I ain't moved ten feet in ten minutes. Folks are going past my truck now."

Lennox lets out a deep sigh. "Sir, again, this is a secure line, not traffic control. Please redirect your issue to your local police department."

The man on the other end of the line isn't impressed. "And how do I know this isn't caused by one of your robot cars taking a power nap in the middle of the road?"

Lennox is about to drop the call when a loud noise bursts from the speakers.

The squelched sounds of screaming could be heard through the radio. "They're running; people are running now up this big damn sand dune through the cars. Folks are running past the truck now—I can't make it out, they're yelling about something coming, but I'm a good nine feet off the ground; I don't see shit coming. But some folks are falling. I can see down the hill they're falling all over the place. Jesus, they're falling all around—"

That's the last thing the trucker said.

Bumblebee quickly transforms, Lennox, sliding in the back seat, the group books it to the control center, alarms are blaring, and phones ring constantly. As Lennox walks, in a private spots him and snaps to attention.

"Group, atten-HUT!" soldiers scramble to get in line, but Lennox waves them off. "As you were." He says quickly, "Give a situation report."

"Sir!" said a young officer. "We've been getting multiple reports of undead robots attacking near the NEST recruitment facility. At first, we thought they were pranksters, but double and triple checked."

"Do we have a visual?"

"Negative, sir, but satellite imaging confirms that there have been several hard impacts in the Jasper area."

Lennox speaks into his radio, "Someone get me Prime."

Bumblebee's spark jumps in his chest. This isn't good. Optimus has been working so hard to negotiate with the humans. Another attack will put their leader in a difficult spot. The mech hasn't gotten a decent recharge since they returned from Egypt.

"Where's Prime?"'

"No need to tell him we can handle this," Mudflap interjects, eager to get off base.

Bumblebee beeps in agreement they can handle the situation before Optimus even knows there's a problem. 

Jasper Nevada 

September 15, 2009

12 Hours Earlier

On Max's third day in Jasper, Nevada, armed soldiers evacuate his motel. It's around seven am. He can hear them rushing by every door on his floor. Bam-bam-bam-bam! Nothing gets your heart racing in the morning like a rifle butt hammering on your door.

Thankfully, Steel's defense protocols had alerted him to the uptick in activity, and he hadn't fallen out of bed like his fellow cadets. He winces slightly as muted cries ring in his ears. Twitch and Thrash had not appreciated being woken up and are now fussing agitatedly in the suits' confines.

Max barely had time to grab his bag before he marched down the stairs into the street. There's a rowdy girl he recognizes from dinner, in bare feet and bedclothes, and when the NEST soldier bams on her door, what does she do? She grabs her coffeemaker. They're hustling down twenty-two flights of stairs, and she's carrying this coffeemaker with the cord dangling around her feet. Max is still half asleep, and all he can think is, Damn,— should I have grabbed my waffle iron?

::She must really like her coffee:: There's amusement in the ultralinks voice and the chest compartment housing Steel pulses. He frantically slaps a hand over his chest to hide the glow.

::You gotta be careful, or we'll be caught before the mission starts.::

::My bad.::

Around floor fifteen, the coffee girl trips on the coffeemaker's cord and smashes her elbow on the railing. So, for the last fifteen flights of stairs, Max lends her his arm and carries the coffeemaker for her. The machine is so hot Max swears a pot of hot coffee is still in it.

When they make it out, the custodial staff is outside, too. The gi

"Thanks, dude." The girl wipes a hand over her sweating forehead. "The name's Miko."

Miko… she's much livelier than the other recruits and looks younger like she should be around Max's age. To infiltrate NEST, his age had to be altered to make him twenty-three years old. Then again, it's likely she's telling the truth he's heard from Sydney that Asians age slowly.

"Maxwell, call me Max." They make idle conversation to pass the time.

The person in charge looks bored and far more interested in their phone call. "You're not listening to me, Epps," she said into the phone. "I'm going to be in LA from Friday to Tuesday. I've already booked time with the studio on Monday. The whole reason I'm coming early is—"

There's a loud booming sound, hollow like a canon fired into an enormous pillow. The sound echoes five times rapidly as flashes strobe through the sky. Max can hear something making impact with the ground.

The collision kicks a cloud of dust and rattles the earth. Dust stings his eyes, and he feels the ground beneath his feet buckling as potholes open up in the ground. The robot is easily two stories tall and is glowing an ominous purple as it makes a hollow gargling sound.

Nobody moves.

Their training officer stands tall on a pile of supply boxes, feet away from the invader.

"Listen up!" the soldier shouts, sounding half terrified herself. "You all need to get to your vehicles or find a quiet place to hide until things calm down." The voice sounds harsh and ragged in Max's ears. "We don't have enough personnel to contain the situation when we make contact with headquarters' ill—"

As the soldier moves a large mechanical arm flies forward, swatting down, leaving behind a red stain. Miko and Max start moving immediately, but too many others are still milling around, confused by the shock of suddenly being thrown into combat, paralyzing them. It isn't until a second person is crushed underfoot that people panic. Previously contained hysteria bursts out, cursing can be heard in multiple languages as people run behind the building toward the parking lot.

:: Steel, how did these guys sneak up on us?::

:: I don't know. I'm not detecting any energy signatures::

Steel brings up a map on Max's HUD display screen. There's nothing there. Yet there's still more coming as the monster's chest opens up, releasing circular drones.

"Look out!" Max shoots a hand toward Miko, bellowing. The palm of his hand strikes the coffeemaker hard enough to knock her backward. His weapon comes up in a fluid motion, like a reflex. He bashes the machine with the barrel of his empty gun. Max hears a guttural roar, like an animal's, and suddenly, he sees three mangled drones coming toward him, seemingly springing up out of nowhere like jack-in-the-boxes.

Miko had been sent flying into the car and is now whacking at drones with a piece of the vehicle that had broken off. "I wanted to meet some robots," she brings down the mangled car bumper, smashing their attackers to bits. "I didn't sign up to be the leading cast in some robo-zombie horror film!"

The coffeemaker has also disappeared, replaced by a robot that is about the size of Astro Boy but looks more like Wall-E. Its left arm morphs into something resembling a gun. Miko doesn't look surprised.

The coffeemaker turned battle machine is shooting down drones but is clearly being overwhelmed. Max drops his NEST-issued gun and quickly fumbles to pry his turbo blaster from his backpack. Max Steel can't be seen fighting, but he can use his blaster without turning too many heads in this chaos.

Crying rings in his ears. All the jostling has woken up Twitch and Thrash, and they are not happy. He tries to send calming emotions to them, but he's pumping so much adrenaline that he doubts it's doing any good.

He aims the blaster at the robot's foot. It penetrates the metal but doesn't affect the bot's advance. The blaster is fragile. If he emits too much turbo energy in a single blast, it's likely to explode.

Miko shrieks, "Brew-Bot!" the little guy had been a hit, and flames are sparking from his chest.

Quick on the uptake, Steel urgently scans the area, looking for a fire extinguisher. The one he finds is buried under a car spitting flames.

Rushing for cover under the car, the hot metal warms his fingers as he grabs the fire extinguisher. He sprints back to Miko, who is crouching beside the injured bot and douses the greedy flames, emptying the canister. His eyes sting, and fire erupts a second time. As the flames die out, the small machine makes chirps of pain. But he stands ready, poised to combat another fiery outburst. When nothing happens, he relaxes and sets his weapon on the ground.

When the flames finally die out, he stands ready, poised to combat another fiery outburst. When nothing happens, he relaxes and sets his weapon on the ground.

Miko runs forward, picking up the small bot. "You're okay, buddy. We're getting out of here." She hoists him in her arms.

When they finally reach the parking lot, most people have already left, and there's a single jeep left.

"You drive," Max orders, hoping in the trunk. "I'll shoot." If he drives his turbo energy, it will overload the car engine and make it explode. Brew-bot is placed in the back as well the little guy's arms look like they're about to fall off, and one of his legs is already missing.

Miko revs the engine, "setting a course for the nearest auto repair shop."

"Miko," Max says. "Everyone's already evacuated, and there are hundreds of those things out there. We need to get as far away from here as possible and hunker down."

"Brew-Bot doesn't HAVE time. Look at him. He's dying." Max can't see her face, but he can hear the tears in her voice.

"He's going to be fine. Remember what the corporal said yesterday? Were supposed to meet the soldiers flying us out to NEST. If we head there, we can get help."

As they exit the small town, people are using their cars like battering rams. Others are running into each other, creating fender benders. As they drive through the desert, he can see a larger town in the distance. Unfortunately, when they arrive, it's clear that whatever attacked them at the motel had come here first.

There are cars everywhere. Cars and trucks and motorcycles and rubbish like cups and take-out bags and broken glass. There are downed powerlines sparking everywhere. The accidents have no concept of boundary; many cars are splayed on the sidewalks, and vehicles have bumpers tangled together.

But vehicles aren't the main thing. That would be the blood. There is blood everywhere and dead people. Heaps of them. Max swallows thickly. Is this his fault? He has power. He could have gone turbo and…

Steel sends warm feelings through their link ::You can't think like that, Max. Your safety's important too.:: The words are firm and much more serious than Steel usually is.

The jeep can't move any further, so they hop out of the car Miko is holding Brew-Bot protectively. Max approaches the nearest car and shines his flashlight inside. Nobody there. In the next car, he can see the outline of a driver, head tipped forward against the steering wheel. Dead.

By the time he's halfway through the town, Max is convinced they're the only ones alive when his suit gives off a ping. Multiple heat signatures are coming from a car that climbed half up onto a bent-over guardrail. The Toyota's driver is slumped against the steering wheel wedged between the door and the driver's seat.

The heat signatures are coming from the back of the car, which is being crushed by a piece of debris. He uses his blaster to remove it and forces open the trunk. Two boys jump out of the car, gasping.

"Raf! Jack!" Brew-Bot is placed on the floor as Miko rushes forward, pulling the pair into a big hug. "Dude, what are you doing here?"

Jack pulls back. "We got worried you haven't called in days. Then this happened."

"Still, it's good to see you," Raf sniffs. It's clear he's been crying. "Did you run into Jack's mom?"

Miko shakes her head. "No, she must be a different base." The black-haired boy lets out a sigh of relief.

Max lets out a laugh. With all the chaos, seeing this group of friends reunite is comforting. "I hate to break up the reunion, but we need to keep moving."

"We shot. They got back up." The man has a crazed look in his eyes. "They got back up and slaughtered us." June injects the man with a light sedative, forcing him to lay back down.

He only had a fractured leg; his worst symptoms are mental.

"June, we need more gauze from the truck!" yelled a doctor. June is too tired to see who it is.

Medics are handing out packages of bandages, morphine, and canteens of water to dozens of civilians who are swarming around the back of the truck with outstretched arms. They jostled and shoved one another as they grabbed at the supplies being tossed out to the small crowd.

June elbows her way through the crowd towards the truck. She reaches the vehicle and pulls at the arm of one of the doctors inside. "I need gauze. We are running low on gauze."

The medic looks down and rummages through the supplies before turning around. "June we're almost out! There's only three boxes left, and maybe twenty canteens of water! What are we going to do?"

"Keep working until we're out, then make do!" June shouts back, grabbing the gauze before someone else can snag it. "Cut coats and other gear into bandages. Send someone to fill up the canteens."

"The pluming's out."

"Then find a river."

June Darby lets out a shaky breath. Her mouth feels like sandpaper, and her vision swims. She did not sign up for this. Ever since her husband he's avoided paying child support like the plague, her family's been living paycheck to paycheck ever since. The final straw was when her mother caught covid and fell deeply ill.

So when she was offered a higher-paying position as a nurse on a military base, she accepted. The current situation doesn't feel real. She didn't expect to be attacked by giant robots before she even made it to base.

"Stop. My baby, someone help!" sobbed a woman.

"Let me see," June yells over the crowd. The woman places her child in her outstretched arms. The child is around four, maybe five. His face is blackened and cracked, burned beyond recognition. She lays the child in the makeshift gurney and presses her fingers against the child's throat. The child is already dead.

She…she needs to triage. Pulling out a black marker, she can barely remove its cap to mark the child's forehead, fingers trembling. She walks away, not looking at the mother. She can't comfort anyone. Time is crucial. Besides, she hates lying. Hates telling people their loved ones are fine when, in fact, their dying or already dead.

As the mother breaks down, June fights against her own tears. How is Jack? He's supposed to be at a friend's house, far away from the danger zone, but she can't relax; Miko has a knack for finding trouble.

Screech!

June feels her entire body tense as headlights shine into the gas station they've turned into a disaster center. She can tell from the red and white that it's an ambulance, but they're not using their sirens, and you can never be too careful with transforming robots. Gears clank and churn as pieces of metal twist and turn, taking a humanoid form.

A blue lazer scans over the area. "Do not be alarmed. We received your distress call I am the autobots Chief Medical Officer."

Blue eyes. Autobots.

June scrambles to her feet. There is no time for fear; lives are on the line. "We need medical evac immediately, these patients will code if they're not seen to."

Once this is over, she can focus on finding her son.

Chapter Text

A deep, piercing echo revibrated through the silence. A hurricane-like roaring swelled on the ship as machines long slumbering reboot, raising the surface temperature of the ship. Ironhide wakes violently as outside impulses stimulate his EM field. With hazy vision, he watches as the hatch of the stasis pod slides open.

"Sit up general." A disembodied voice inputs glyphs into his commlink. "Sit. Take a deep vent and cough sir. You need to clear the preservation coolant from your bronchioles."

Ironhide pushes himself from the back of the pod; his systems are slow to comply. How long has he been in stasis? Wisps of fog overflow as he climbs out, gagging as his systems expel dead nanites. It's disgusting; he feels like an organic spewing fluids at random.

One of Teletran's scout probes is floating nearby.

"Stat—" static from disuse disrupts his vocalizer, "status. Are we under attack?"

"Negative Sir. Status normal. We are entering the airspace of the milky way."

Milk? Like that substance organic species use for fuel?

"Prowl gave no such orders before we entered stasis."

"Directive overwritten. Optimus Prime primary authority. Autobots are ordered to relocate to Earth."

"And what good would setting foot on that mudball do us?" Ironhide complains his taxed systems are already blaring at him to refuel. The fueling shortage was the reason they'd elected to enter stasis in the first place.

"Viable alternative to energon detected. Relocation necessary." His tank rumbles at the thought of having a proper meal. Part of him wants to do away with procedure altogether and head straight to the planet that promised substance…among other things. Last he heard Ratchet had become a party of Prime's primary tactical team.

Wake-up protocols dictated that he inspect the crew for errors before reviving. But he's so elated that he is tempted to do away with procedure altogether and head to Earth. Any solid ground sounds good, even if it's organic in nature.

When he reaches the break room, the top officials of high command are stretching, pulling out the kinks caused by a long stasis and drinking medical-grade energon. Prowl, ever diligent, is going over data pads. Probably making sure the Ark hadn't sustained any structural damages while they were in stasis.

"Nice of you to finally wake up. I've been online for four solar cycles already." Prowl's comment is clipped, betraying more emotion than the ninjabot usually allows. Clearly, something has happened, and he logged a pipe in his crankshaft. It probably involved Jazz no one else could get an emotional rise out of the mech.

Not that he was in any state to provide relationship advice. He hasn't spoken to his own Conjunx in ages. Hopefully, this trip to Earth will change that.

"If you've been up so long how come we're not planet side yet."

"The organic planet is home to sentient life, with no single governing authority, reaching agreement with locals proved difficult."

"Isn't that more of a reason to join Prime? His current party doesn't have mechs skilled in diplomacy."

"From the data given to me it appears that these organics had not confirmed the existence of sentient life beyond their solar system."

What? That is beyond primitive. Cybertronians and pre-galactic societies never ended well.

X~X~X~X~X

When Chief Master Sergeant Epps became an operative of N.E.S.T., he hadn't pictured himself being deployed to another desert and babysitting scientists at an archeological dig. First Qatar, then Egypt; why hasn't the U.S. government realized that deserts and alien technology never mix?

"Incoming, four clicks north," a voice blares in Epps' earpiece.

Epps looks down the scope of his rifle, locking in "Home run, I'm clear to target." He drops a bright red dot on the fuckers temple and squeezes out a single round. The scorpion-looking fucker falls to the ground, head blown clean off. Its limbs flail around, giving off dying shudders and spasms, the light soon leaves the creature's eyes.

Only it keeps moving.

"Son of a bitch!" Epps fires in the general direction of the Decepticon, "that fucker should be dead."

The building Epps had been using as cover explodes in a storm of deadly shrapnel. Glass, wood, and cement fragments rain down, and an incredible pain blazes in his side.

Epps moves a hand to his radio and presses the button to transmit on the wider frequency band to include N.E.S.T command and control on his frequency.

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an "uuuugh."

Epps tries to cough and clear his throat, but it feels like he cannot inhale enough air to push any out.

"Man…down." The line on the other side of the radio remains silent.

X~X~X~X~X

“The sizzling pig,” Miko’s voice reads out, “Your source of warm, Texas-style cooking on the road. Explore our tantalizing selection of meats after experiencing one of Jasper’s signature off-road races.”

Jack lets out a huff. “Miko, can you stop no one’s visiting anywhere.”

The rocker teen pulls out the travel guide, covering her face offended. “Actually, I am. I’m an exchange student, Jack! What if I leave without experiencing all Jasper has to offer?” Her tone of voice is clearly triumphant.

“Do whatever,” Jack says, realizing his irritation is what Miko wanted all along. “Knock yourself, keep reading, I’m happy to hear anything you want to tell me about this place I’ve lived all my life.”

“Well,” Miko replies happily. “Did you know that Jasper is home to America’s second largest rubber band ball? Second! That’s one spot away from the top!”

Max sighs as the pair bickers. He would stop them, but he’s carrying a sleeping Raf and is barely mustering the energy to put one foot in front of the other. Their group has been trekking through the desert for almost forty-eight hours, slowly making their way to the extraction point while avoiding drone fire. The extended exposure to heat has made everyone crabby.

Twitch and Thrash started crying hours ago. Steel’s been trying his best to calm them down as an older brother, but nothing could cease their wailing for their ‘creator.’ Why do they call him that anyway? Are they under the impression that he is the one who built them? It doesn’t make sense. Ultralinks are not machines.

His thoughts are interrupted by a ping from Steel.

::Max, I’m picking up on a radio signal. The heat signature isn’t moving either.::

:: You think it’s someone from the base? They just might be our ticket out of here.::

X~X~X~X~X

At the source of the signal, he’s met with a base camp that’s been completely obliterated. Wire fences are overturned or melted, storage bunkers are caved in on themselves, and the smell of gunpowder is thick in the air. It looks like the mechanical abominations that demolished the hotel had struck here first.

“This place is obliterated.” Miko comments, concerned, “Could anyone survive this?”

“I mean, I think I can hear a radio,” Raf says, sounding hopeful.

“That’s just your ears ringing.”

“No, I hear it too,” Jack searches for the source of the sound, honing in on a tarp buried in the sand. When he pulls back the plastic, he’s met with the face of an unconscious soldier.

::Max, I did a scan. This man is Robert Epps, a commanding officer at N.E.S.T., and there’s a 99% chance that this human is related to Jefferson!::

This is arguably the best news he’s heard all week. They’ve made contact with someone who could get them out of this god-forsaken desert. Twitch and Thrash must feel his excitement because he can feel them pulsating eagerly against his chest.

::Steel send a slight shock to my hands. I'm gonna try waking him up.”:: A faint blue glow lights up his palms as he places them against the wounded soldier's chest. Epps gasps and lurches at the contact, quickly rising to his feet.

“Relax—look I’m with N.E.S.T.”

The man gives the teen a skeptical look as he takes in the teen's appearance.

Max glances down at the t-shirt that he’d been given in basic; no identifiable mark was present on it.

Right, technically, he isn’t a recruit and has been applying for a spot with the rest of the trainees.

“Alright I may not look the part right now but I swear I was in training before the robo-zombies showed up.”

Epps' face scrunches up as he tries to recall the information. “Lennox mentioned something like that.” He glances at the others. “What are the brats doing here?”

The man must not have expected an answer because he’s dusting himself off and moving far too quickly for someone who’d just been impaled.

“Let’s move—We have to get out of here.” Epps clenches his jaw, bending over suddenly as he clutches at his abdomen. He tightens his grip on Epps' waist, which is now leaning heavily against his shoulder; each heavy breath he lets out is accompanied by a wheezing gasp. “The base isn’t far from here.”

“Maybe yanking out the metal in his side will help?”

“No—that would just make the bleeding worse.” Jack objects.

Max loads the wounded soldier into the vehicle while he fiddles with the radio clipped to his left side. “Load you stupid thing.” The Epps hisses through clenched teeth.

::Max, that human does not look good:: He can feel the concern in Steel’s words. He’s already aware that the man in front of him is dying, but worrying about that now isn’t going to help anything, but the fear that someone is going to die on his watch for the first time builds up regardless.

::We can’t worry about that right now. We gotta get out of here.::

X~X~X~X~X

Most of the transport at the base is completely busted, so they take off in a slightly damaged V-22 Osprey. The Sputtering sounds the helicopter blades give off are concerning, but they have no other options. Epps is secured to a green field stretcher that takes up most of the space.

A crackling sound emits from his headset.

“You are currently traveling in protected airspace, turn around immediately.”

“Hold on,” Max speaks into the boom mike by the corner of his mouth. “Look—I’m actually joining N.E.S.T, I’m here with Sergeant—"

A shadow suddenly swooped right past Max’s face, and warning shots quickly followed. He flinches, inadvertently jerking the joystick, sending the starboard. Startled yelps can be heard from the other teens aboard the ship.

“We got bogeys on our right!” Epps grunts, grasping at the sides of his gurney as gunfire hammers the side of the transport vehicle.

This situation is way out of control! If only he could go turbo.

Max is about to give another go at explaining the situation when the helicopter gives a violent lurch.Gravity tugs down as the helicopter commences its downward spiral. It shook gently at first. But with each passing second, the vibrations intensified and deepened until the entire vessel rocked violently. The vibrations worked their way into his hands and feet until the rattling sensation reached his skull.

Max tries not to think about the searing temperature, desperately fighting to keep his grip on the controls.

Gaah!

Holy Shit

::Max!:: Steel yells his scanners blasting out warnings :: This thing is one of them!::

::Why didn’t you pick an energy signature earlier!::

:: I don’t know!::

The vehicle shifts again, violently veering toward the base they had just departed from. Max barely hears the rush of debris pelting them from all angles over the pounding of his heart.

The ground rumbles as the floor of the plane contorts. But, the transformation is rusty, slower than the monster that appeared at the motel. Max still has time. He glances at the terrified eyes of the group of friends.

They hit the ground violently, plumes of sand threatening to suck them in as they skid against the sand plumes. He reflexively covers his ears at the high-pitched sound the mech gives, only to regret the decision seconds later when he breathes in a heap of sand, causing his eyes and throat to burn as he takes in pained breaths.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see two forms plummeting; he hopes the sand will break their fall.

Bile rises from Max’s throat as he forces air through his nose and begins vomiting. Raf is collapsed next to him, clearly disoriented from their crash landing.

He pulls the pre-teen to his feet. “you need to get out of here.”

The Jasper resident stares at him, clearly concerned.

“I’m serious. I’m the soldier here besides I’m the only person strong enough to carry Epps out of here.” He doesn’t wait for a response and trusts the boy to find cover.

Pulling his turbo-blaster from its holster, Max watches with dread as the helicopter he was violently thrown from transforms into a looming behemoth. Before he can do much of anything, the creature sets off a missile, the force of which sends the turbo hero stumbling mid-step, head over heels, landing hard, slamming his shoulder into something sharp before he lands on his back.

Pain erupts down his spine, and there’s ringing in his ears. He can tell the ultralinks are screaming at him to move, but he can’t be bothered anymore. His vision is spotty from being violently thrown, but the roaring sound that fills the sky has gotten louder.

There are multiple planes in the air now, and the wind produced by the helicopter's blades is kicking up dust. He vaguely notices someone free-roping down the side, but what really catches his attention is a Boeing CH-47 in the very back, blasting ACDC. Max watches in fascination as a beat-up ice cream truck catapults from the copter, followed by a yellow Camaro. On impact, the rusty truck breaks apart into two separate robots wearing red and green colors.

“Your ass whooping has arrived!”

“You’re not whooping anything, we're supposed to grab the squishies.” the green bot reminds, looking at his feet. “For all we know we squashed some when we landed.”

“Eww. You think they messed up my paint job?”

The Camaro turns into a yellow robot slightly taller than the other two and whacks both of them as he walks past. Suddenly, the air is heavy and brimming with an angry charge as the yellow bot rushes toward his opponent.

It’s strange, he can feel the EM battle waging between the two robots. Max can’t tell who has the upper hand in the electric battle, but the waves are bouncing off of everything in their vicinity, making the dizziness feel worse. At some point, the zombie-bot takes a step backward, its legs shaking violently. There’s a loud Kur-thunk. and the opposing bot has a blaster to its neck.

Just like that, the battle of the Titans is over. The zombie bot is trying to retreat but is pinned in place by a metal knee; it thrashes in vain as a gun thrumming with power shoots its head off.

It isn’t until the life has left the eyes of the black and purple robot that he thinks of the Americans he’d escaped Jasper with.

He–he needs to get to the others. A wave of dizziness makes him misstep as he stands, and he barely avoids falling. Haze, rubble, and dust, combined with the heat of the desert, make the air feel suffocating.

::I’m gonna… pass out now.::

“MAX!” Steel shouts out loud, concerned. “Stay awake! everything’s over, Hey—”

The turbo teen starts slumping over in a dead faint, but his body never touches the ground.

“At ease, soldier.” The man who catches him has dark hair and eyes. There’s a symbol on his chest that he recognizes for the THI files—N.E.S.T. “The fighting’s over.”

X~X~X~X~X

Chapter Text

Stabilizers burning, Ratchet advances in a combat crouch, optics peeled, energon canon in hand, he methodically sweeps his targeting laser across the buildings on the other side of the dusty street. The storage deposit is sight.

He checks the first dark corridor between the row of crates.

Clear.

He advances to the next row,

Clear.

Frag. Where is the slagging thing? He won’t remain undetected for long. Any second from now, he expects floodlights and blaster fire. Even as a field medic, it was unheard of for him to venture deep into enemy territory, but he was given little choice. Most of the war builds’ systems were flagged and would set off Decepticon warning systems. Old builds like Ratchet are far more likely to go undetected.

When Ratchet finally reaches the target, he feels his spark drop into his tank.

[/!\ WARNING/!\ IMPURITY DETECTED!]

A rancid smell hangs heavy in the air; no matter how many scans he runs, the result is the same—contaminated. The bodies of dead mechs are slumped among energon crystals. The lifeblood of his fellow Cybertronians had come in contact with this energon deposit and ruined it.

The mission is an utter failure. How can he go back to his sparkling without so much as a sliver of energon to show for it?

An incoming transmission appears on his HUD.

::Kup, what are you doing? You know this mission is—::

::You need to fall back! The sparkling youth center is under attack!::

What follows next is an out of body experience where all his protocols are singularly focused on getting back to his sparkling. He tries to tell himself that it is impossible for any danger to come to his new spark. The Autobot resistance had long since boarded it up and reinforced it with protective plating; the center was no different from a fortress.

The fear remains.

The closer he gets, the louder the sound of blaster fire becomes. Tracer rounds zip across the darkened skies, lighting it up in flashes of bright color. Ratchet hunkers down as a high arching shell flies over his helm.

Ratchet doesn’t wait for the dust to clear before he’s moving again, dodging and ducking. A familiar build comes into view as he draws closer to the flaming building, he sees the unfiltered emotion on the usually stern-faced mech.

He knows it is already too late.

“How could you!” The words are laced with pain as Ratchet shoves at Ironhide’s chassis “You were supposed to protect him I—I never should have left.”

“Ratchet—”

“No,” the medic takes a shuddering breath, “I can’t even look at you right now.”

X~X~X~X~X

An electric impulse bolts him out of recharge; glancing down, he stares at the singed digits of his servo, careless—falling into a stasis nap. He must be tried recharging near the carcass of a dead human. Dealing with organics was always messy, and it didn’t stop when they offlined. If anything, the strange smell they carried with them got worse.

The human-autobot alliance had barely leveled out its rocky foundation before the carpet had been pulled out from under the afts. Leaving him with the honor of remedying the situation. All chances of convincing Optimus to take a break have also been put on the backburner. Many of the humans who’d been caught up in the Decepticon attack in Jasper are developing signs of radiation exposure. A condition he’s learning that can be deadly in humans. Humans are frighteningly fragile; the worst exposure could do to a mech is leaving them overcharged or with symptoms akin to doping in humans.

Fortunately, the military had been able to capture one of the affected mechs for him to study. It appears he will be adding xenobiologist and scientist to his list of credentials. Not that he had much to work with, the dead mech’s interfaces are so damaged that using a cortical psychic patch would do little good. Cybertonians did not go brain dead in the sense that humans did. From what he understood about human biology, the electrical impulses that allowed humans to function ceased soon after death, their physical bodies deteriorating slowly as ventilators kept them in a crude state of suspended animation.

Cybertronians, on the other hand, retained electrical functions in their brain long after death. The mech’s spark might not be there anymore but the knowledge and memories remained in the protoform long after death. It was how the humans were able to reverse engineer and advance their technology from the bodies of their deceased comrades.

The point being that the infection in the mechs who’d attacked the Jarvis base are completely out his depth and had ravaged the affected mechs systems so badly that he could not even tap into their memory processors to determine how they’d been infected.

After confirming that no further medical knowledge can be gleaned from the mech, Ratchet turns his attention to what had woken him from his blasted dream in the first place.

His HUD display is blaring at him, the deep scan he’s running on Jazz is finally complete. The Energon shortage made it impossible for him to run the scans using his sophisticated systems, so he’d been forced to run it using Earth’s decrepit X-ray technology. He exports the scans to his HUD, selecting an image from the right and overlaying it with an image of Jazz’s undamaged frame. The irregular patterns on Jazz’s spinal strut are concerning; if he doesn’t straighten it out, the Saboteur will be in a world of pain when he wakes up.

Fortunately, he’s manufactured a way to replace the crushed and missing vertebrae. The item is a modified 3D printer that utilizes Tungsten instead of plastic. Usually, steel contained only a fraction of the precious mineral in its metallic alloys. However, it was the only metal Ratchet had found that could be easily converted into living proto matter by a mech's self-repair systems.

As the machine gets to work, he doesn’t allow himself a moments rest.

An idle processor leaves too much space for regrets to slip through. His time is better spent figuring out how those mechs rose from the dead.

Opening his subspace, Ratchet pulls out his Cy-Gar smoke fills the Medbay as he takes a moment for himself. Normally, he wouldn’t allow such a filthy practice in his Medbay, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Wheezing slightly, Ratchet cracks his digits, smoking in silence as the detailed shape of Jazz’s replacement cervical spine vertebrae emerges from the machine.

“I thought we agreed that filthy habit is bad for your health?”

Ratchet jumps in fright, cy-gar landing on the floor, creating a small blast mark on the ceramic.

“Whoa, whoa!” A familiar voice calls out, catching him as he stumbles backward. “Take it easy.” Blue optics gaze at him with a mixture of longing and apprehension.

“What brings you to the Medbay” Ratchet blurts out, using aggression as a mask for the anxiety building in his systems as he draws his EM field closer to himself. They sit in silence until he can’t stand the sound of his thrumming sparkbeat.

“I’m not mad,” Ratchet offers hesitantly, looking for the right words. Neither of them had ever been the best with words. The separation by choice had long since become involuntary, and until now, he’s never worked up the nerve to talk to the other bot.

hasn’t been for a long time, the separation by choice had long since become involuntary.

“Then why don’t you…” The question hangs in the air.

“I don’t have the right.”

Ironhide gazes at the medic with an earnest look. “It doesn’t matter.” Ratchet can feel the soldier nudging at his EM field urging him to release the vice grip he has on their bond.”

He relents, releasing all his anguish and regrets and allows it to consume him. The medic is brought into an embrace by strong arms as they finally allow themselves to grieve the loss of their sparkling son who never had a chance to become a youngling. Ironhide takes Ratchet servo in his and softly kisses the back of it, peppering the other bot with kisses until he hears an engine rev.

Ratchet doesn’t answer, biting at his mouth plate. Ironhide takes the medic servo in and softly kisses the back of it, peppering it with kisses until he hears the other’s engine rev.

“Bet you could use a good hard fragging.”

“I-Ironhide!”

“You want me to stop?” Ratchet responds with an embarrassed shake of his helm; Ironhide plants a kiss on Ratchet's faceplate. “That’s what I thought.”

Ratchet allows his conjunx endura to spoil him and we would have completely lost himself in the feeling if it weren’t for his systems prompting him to perform a medical scan on his mate. “You’re practically emaciated, how long were you in stasis?”

Ironhide holds back a grin he can tell the medic is barely holding back from performing a full system diagnostic check. “It’s nothing to be worried about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

X~X~X~X~X