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Chapter Text

"Bumblebee, wait!"

Sari's voice crackled over the com-link, a hint of urgency in her tone. But it was too late. The yellow Autobot had already dashed towards Sumdac Tower, eager to rescue Sari’s father, Isaac Sumdac, from the clutches of the nefarious Meltdown.

Bumblebee’s metallic body collided with an invisible barrier, the force field's electric blue glow rippling as it absorbed the impact. He bounced off and skidded across the concrete, his systems briefly flickering from the shock. Sumdac Tower's defense mechanisms had been triggered, and it had chosen to defend itself from the very heroes who sought to save it. (A quite stupid design if you ask Ratchet, or anyone for that matter).

Before anyone could react, the towering form of Colossus Rhodes emerged from the alley, his monstrous frame casting a long shadow over the street. He was a third story house tall, his eyes glowing with the same fiery intensity as the force field. His fists clenched, and the ground trembled as he stomped closer.

"You're not going anywhere," Rhodes bellowed, his voice a mix of mechanical and organic.

His massive hand swiped through the air, and the Autobots braced for the impact. The twin pistons on his shoulder blades, once a vulnerable spot, now gleamed with reinforced armor. Prowl's face fell, knowing his previous strategy to exploit that weakness was out of the question.

Optimus Prime's voice boomed over the chaos, "Prowl, Bumblebee, take Sari and get inside the tower! Save Isaac!"

His gaze flicked to the hole in the force field, a silent order that conveyed the urgency of the situation. But before Prowl could even react, Bulkhead was sent flying into the very gap Ratchet had so carefully created. The opening sealed shut with a sizzling sound, trapping him inside the tower's protective embrace.

"No!" Sari gasped, her eyes wide with horror.

Bulkhead's metal frame filled the gap, the force field snapping shut around him like a mouth closing on prey. Ratchet cursed under his breath, his gauntlets dropping to his sides, and Prime's order echoed in his processors. He and Bumblebee had to save Isaac Sumdac, with or without backup.

The Autobot and human girl exchanged a look, understanding passing between them. Bumblebee transformed into his compact car mode, Sari scrambling in, and with a roar of his engine, they sped towards the tower. Rhodes took a step forward, but Prime was already in motion. He leaped into the air, the grace of his movements belying his massive size, and collided with the giant. The two titans crashed into a nearby church bell, the chime resonating through the streets of Detroit.

Rhodes staggered back, the sound vibrating through his monstrous frame. His eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, and his fists loosened. It was the opening Prowl needed.

He shouted into his com-link, "Prime, do it again!"

The bell tolled once more as Optimus' axe connected with the metal, the sound piercing the air. The effect was immediate. Rhodes' movements grew erratic, his steps faltered, and he roared in pain. The Autobots watched as their foe's techno-organic circuits were thrown into disarray.

Seizing the opportunity, Ratchet took aim with his magnetic gauntlets, latching onto the massive bell. The air crackled with energy as he hoisted it into the sky, the weight seemingly negligible to his ‘enhanced strength’. With a grimace of determination, he swung the bell down towards the staggering behemoth.

The bell crashed on top of Rhodes, the sound of metal on metal reverberating through the neighborhood. The towering figure of Colossus Rhodes stumbled and roared, the force of the blow sending him to one knee. His techno-organic form trembled, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might topple like a marble column.

But the towering giant didn't fall. Instead, he regained his balance with a grunt, shaking off the temporary disorientation like a bear rousing from a bad dream. The Autobots watched, their hopes briefly raised only to be dashed again as Rhodes' eyes narrowed with renewed fury. The ringing in his circuits had subsided, and he was back in the pfight, more determined than ever.

"You think you can beat me with noise?" he snarled, his deep voice echoing through the streets. "You're all going down!"

Rhodes' massive fists slammed into Ratchet's chest, sending the Autobot medical officer sprawling across the pavement. Prowl and Prime leaped into the fray, their weapons clanging against the giant's unyielding skin. The battle was intense, a symphony of steel and fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of Detroit. Yet amidst the chaos, Ratchet's gaze remained locked on the twin pistons, his mind racing with a new strategy.

As if on cue, a blast of icy cold shot through the air, freezing the very ground beneath Rhodes' feet. The giant's eyes widened as he looked down to find his legs trapped in a crystalline prison. He roared in fury, his fists pummeling the ground in a futile attempt to break free. The woman in medieval armor, eyes blazing with an intensity that could rival the AllSpark itself.

The woman held her hand out, touching the ice, and it grew, climbing up Rhodes' body like ivy on a brick wall. He stilled, the cold seeping into his very core, and for a brief moment, the battlefield grew eerily silent.

Then, the sound of cracking filled the air. It grew louder and louder until it was almost deafening, the ice around Rhodes' body expanding rapidly, fissures spider-webbing out from the points of contact. The towering figure looked down in horror as the ice climbed his torso, his hands frozen in place around Ratchet's head. His eyes, once filled with rage, now held a flicker of panic as the cold grip of fear took hold.

The Autobots watched, stunned, as the ice grew, swallowing Rhodes whole, until he was nothing but a statue of pure, unyielding ice. He roared, a sound muffled by the icy tomb that now surrounded his head. His fists slammed into the ground, cracking the pavement, but the ice held firm. It grew higher, higher, until even the giant's head was enveloped. The sound of his struggles grew faint, muffled by the thickening prison.

And then, time itself seemed to hold its breath. The world around them froze for a brief, timeless moment, and when it unfroze, the ice shattered into a million pieces, showering the street with glittering shards. The force of the explosion sent the Autobots stumbling back, their optics blinking to clear the sudden burst of cold from their systems.

As the dust settled, there was no trace of Colossus Rhodes. Not a shred of metal, not a drop of bioliquid remained. It was as if he had never been there, save for the gaping hole in the pavement where the ice had been. The woman in medieval armor stood tall, the source of the blast, her hand still outstretched. The mist from her fingertips dissipated into the hot morning air, leaving behind a quietude that was almost eerie in its starkness.

The Autobots stared in disbelief at the warrior, who hadn’t so much as flinched from the battle. Her armor was unmarred, not a single scratch to indicate she had been part of the melee. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Bulkhead, who was still trapped in the force field, his eyes wide with shock at his sudden rescue. Without a word, she marched towards him, the furs of her armor clinking softly with every step.

The warrior’s stride was purposeful and commanding, the very air around her seeming to chill as she approached the towering Autobot. With a swift, almost delicate motion, she reached out and touched the shimmering barrier that held Bulkhead captive. The field crackled and spat at her touch, but she remained unfazed. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a pulse of frosty energy rippling through the force field. The blue light faded to a dull glow, then winked out entirely. Bulkhead fell through the empty space, hitting the ground with a thud that made the earth tremble.

As the dust cleared, she offered her hand to help Bulkhead to his feet. He took it, his optics narrowing suspiciously.

“Who are you?" he rumbled.

The warrior woman's head tilted slightly, her eyes gleaming through the slits in her mask as she surveyed the scene before her.

"A friend," she said simply, her voice a cool whisper that seemed to cut through the tension like a knife.

The Autobots stared at her, unsure of what to make of her cryptic response. Prowl took a tentative step closer, his hand hovering over his weapon, ready for any treachery. But she merely pointed towards the tower, the unspoken urgency in her gesture clear.

"Thank you," he said, his voice tight. "We need to get to Professor Sumdac."

The woman nodded once, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her masked mouth.

"Let's go," she said, and broke into a sprint.

Her armor didn't clank or clatter; it was as if she were moving through water, swift and silent. The Autobots followed her, their metal feet echoing loudly in the stillness.

Meltdown's muffled laughter reached them from the lobby as they approached, a sickening sound that sent a chill down Sari's spine. She could see the glow of his acidic aura, the telltale signs of his destructive power. Bumblebee transformed in a flash of yellow light, his weapons at the ready.

The lobby was a wreck. Chunks of concrete littered the floor where the villain had made his dramatic entrance. The air was thick with the stench of burning metal and ozone. Professor Sumdac cowered out in the open, his eyes wide with fear.

Meltdown's laughter grew louder as he approached the defenseless man, his hand raised to deliver the final blow. But Bulkhead had other ideas. With a roar that could be heard over the chaos, he burst through the doors, his mighty frame a beacon of hope. He lunged at Meltdown with surprising agility for his size, his fists clenched tight around him.

But Meltdown was not an ordinary foe. The villain squirmed in Bulkhead's grasp, his body searing the Autobot's metal grip with a burning pain. Bulkhead's eyes widened as he realized he was holding onto a living cauldron of acid, his hand burning as if it had been dipped in molten steel. Yet, the warrior within him refused to release his grip, his jaw clenched tightly as he gritted his metal teeth against the pain.

Meltdown took advantage of the momentary distraction, freeing one of his arms with a hiss. He pointed his hand at Bulkhead, a stream of bubbling acid ready to be unleashed. But before he could pull the trigger, Bumblebee dashed in front of his comrade, taking the full brunt of the attack. The acid hit him like a sizzling whip, the smell of burning metal and circuits filling the lobby.

Both Autobots fell to the ground with a clang, their forms smoking and damaged. Bulkhead roared in pain, his grip on Meltdown's torso slipping. Meltdown cackled, the sound echoing through the tower's lobby, a twisted symphony of malice and triumph. He was moments away from ending Professor Sumdac’s life.

The air grew cold, the chuckles of Meltdown abruptly silenced by the sudden drop in temperature. The woman in armor stepped forward, her hands outstretched. From her fingertips, a spray of frost began to dance, swirling in the air like a miniature blizzard. The icy mist grew denser and denser, coalescing around Meltdown. The villain’s laughter turned to a shriek of panic as the cold began to seep into his very essence, his skin bubbling and smoking as the ice took hold.

The ice climbed up Meltdown’s body like a vine, wrapping around his limbs and torso, inch by torturous inch. He struggled, his acidic touch doing little to deter the frozen tendrils. The Autobots watched in awe and horror as the frost climbed his neck, covering his face, and finally, his eyes. The warrior woman didn’t flinch, her gaze never leaving her target. The ice reached the peak of his head, encasing him in a crystalline cocoon that made him look like a terrifying ice sculpture.

The lobby grew silent, the only sounds the labored breathing of the Autobots and the occasional crack of the ice as it tightened around Meltdown. His struggles grew weaker, the cold seeping into his very core. The ice grew thicker, the pressure building until the tension was almost palpable. The Autobots held their collective breath, waiting for the moment when it would all be over.

And then, with a sound like a thousand chandeliers shattering in unison, the ice exploded. Shards of crystalline blue shot through the air, glinting in the harsh light of the lobby. The figure of Meltdown was no more, his twisted form reduced to nothing but a memory, trapped in a million frozen pieces. The water from the melted ice pooled around the spot where he had once stood, a stark reminder of the power that had just been unleashed.

The warrior woman remained unmoving, her hand still outstretched, until the very last of the ice had disappeared. Only then did she lower her arm, her shoulders slumping slightly as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She turned to face the stunned group of Autobots and humans, her eyes cold and assessing behind the mask.

The silence was deafening as they all took in the scene before them. Bulkhead and Bumblebee, battered and smoking, lay on the floor. Sari clung to her father, tears streaming down her face. The lobby was a battleground, littered with the remnants of the fierce fight. Yet, amidst the chaos, the warrior woman stood tall, a silent sentinel of victory.

Her eyes, cold and piercing, scanned the room, the last of the ice crystals clinging to her armored fingers like a grim reminder of her power. The Autobots remained still, unsure if they should approach or retreat from the enigma in their midst. The humans huddled together, fearful of what might come next from this mysterious stranger.

"Aunt Ruska?!" Sari's voice pierced the quiet, filled with a mix of shock and relief. The warrior woman's head snapped towards the sound, the mask's slits revealing the softening of her gaze.

Sari didn't wait for an invitation. She dashed through the barricade of Autobot arms, her legs pumping as fast as they could carry her. The warrior woman, Aunt Ruska, remained stoic as the little girl launched herself into her embrace. The impact was surprisingly gentle, despite the force behind it. Sari's arms wrapped around Aunt Ruska's midsection, squeezing tightly.

For a moment, Aunt Ruska stood still, her masked face unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, she bent down, her hands coming to rest on Sari's shoulders. The metal gauntlets shifted, the edges curling inward, creating a softer, more welcoming hold. Sari buried her face into the furs of Aunt Ruska's armor, sobbing into the cold, unyielding material.

"I missed you too," Aunt Ruska whispered, her voice softer than the patter of melting ice. "But you have a lot of explaining to do, young lady."

Sari sniffled and stepped back, her eyes wide as she took in the towering figure before her. "Aunt Ruska, I didn't mean to—"

"I know," Aunt Ruska cut her off, her tone firm but not unkind. "But you are not to put yourself in danger like this again, do you understand?"

Sari nodded vigorously, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in. Her father, seeing the recognition between them, approached cautiously.

"Ruska? Is that you?"

The warrior woman's gaze flicked to him, and she nodded once. "Isaac. It's been too long."

Her voice was cool, but the warmth of her eyes spoke volumes as she removed her mask, revealing the stern yet concerned face of Sari's aunt.

Professor Sumdac's eyes widened in astonishment as he recognized her. "Ruska? What are you doing here? How did you...?"

Her expression grew solemn. "There will be time for explanations later," she said, cutting him off gently. "Right now, we need to get you to safety. Your tower could use quite the repairs, no?"

Isaac nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief. "But... how did you do that?"

"Later," Aunt Ruska repeated firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turned to the Autobots. "We need to get Professor Sumdac to safety. My house is downtown. It's secure and private. We can talk there."

Chapter Text

Downtown Detroit…

"Hey, did you hear about the guy with the bow and one arm?" a gangster murmured to his companion as they sipped coffee at the corner café. The night was young, and the neon lights of downtown Detroit painted the sidewalks in a rainbow of shadows.

"Yeah, that's the Angry Archer," the other replied, glancing over the top of his newspaper. "Used to be just a street kid before Biotech Unbound got a hold of him. Now he's pulling off heists like it's a video game."

The murmur grew louder as the news spread from the coffee shop to the alleyways, from the bustling streets to the quiet corners where the homeless huddled for warmth. Aron A. Archer, the man who had lost his arm in a factory accident and had been transformed into something more by the very company that had ruined his life, was making a name for himself. He had emerged from the shadows, a mutant with a vendetta, and the city was both fascinated and fearful of his nocturnal activities.

Above the concrete jungle, Hans hovered, his scales glinting under the moonlight. He had a job to do—to catch the elusive Angry Archer before he struck again. It wasn't just for the thrill of the chase or the promise of a paycheck. Hans had seen too many like Aron fall through the cracks of society, only to be picked up and twisted into something unrecognizable by the merciless hands of science.

The night was still, save for the distant wail of a siren, a sad reminder of the chaos that often lurked just beyond the city's gleaming façade. Hans's keen eyes spotted movement on a rooftop a few blocks away. A figure dressed in black, a bow in hand, and a glint of metal where an arm should have been. The Archer had announced his presence with his first robbery, and now Hans knew that the game was truly afoot.

Aron had become a master of the shadows, his anger and bitterness fueling his newfound strength and agility. Years of hardship had honed his instincts, making him a formidable adversary. The wind whipped through the alleyways as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, his mechanical arm a blur as he strung another arrow. The very same arm that had been torn from him now propelled him through the city with a grace that would make even the most skilled acrobat envious.

The hedgehog dragon mutant picked up the scent of burnt rubber and hot metal. Angry Archer had hijacked a motorcycle, weaving in and out of traffic with a reckless abandon that spoke volumes of his desperation. Hans took to the skies, his powerful wings slicing through the air as he pursued his quarry. The chase was on, a dance of steel and fury that played out against the backdrop of a city that never sleeps.

The motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of an abandoned warehouse, its engine dying with a guttural roar. Aron slid off, his eyes narrowing as he spun to face his pursuer. He had known that someone would come for him eventually, someone who understood the rage that bubbled just beneath his skin. Hans landed lightly on the pavement, his eyes never leaving Aron's, a silent challenge in his gaze.

The two mutants circled each other warily, the tension palpable in the air. The warehouse loomed over them, a silent witness to the unfolding drama. Aron's mechanical hand twitched, the bowstring taut and ready to release another volley of arrows. Hans's tail swished from side to side, his claws flexing in anticipation of the battle to come.

This was not just a clash between two beings with extraordinary powers, but a confrontation of ideals. Hans, a creature of compassion, seeking to save the lost souls of the city, and Aron, the Angry Archer, driven by a thirst for vengeance against the world that had cast him aside. The stage was set for a showdown that would echo through the annals of the city's underground, a tale of two men bound by fate and a shared past of pain.

The Angry Archer had chosen his life, crafting it from the shards of despair and anger that had been thrust upon him. The streets of Detroit had become his playground, and he had learned to use his newfound abilities to survive, to fight back against the injustices that had been served to him. The jewelry store heist was not just for the glittering loot, but a declaration of war against the system that had failed him so utterly.

As Hans took to the skies, his wings cutting through the urban sprawl, he knew that this was more than a simple apprehension. This was a chance to offer Aron a way out of the cycle of anger and crime that had consumed him. Yet, Hans was not naive; he understood that the path to redemption was fraught with obstacles, especially for one as lost as the Angry Archer.

The chase led them through the labyrinthine streets of downtown, a symphony of engine roars and distant alarms. The semi-truck trailer rumbled beneath Aron's feet as he balanced precariously, his mechanical arm reaching back to shoot another arrow. It sliced through the air, a silent promise of his intent, before embedding itself deep into a streetlight, showering sparks across the asphalt. Hans followed closely, his eyes never leaving his target, his heart racing with the thrill of the pursuit and the hope of what could come next.

Finally, the Angry Archer leaped from the trailer, landing gracefully on the rooftop of an adjacent building. He turned to face Hans, his breaths heavy and eyes ablaze with the fire of his convictions. The hedgehog dragon hovered, his wings a blur, the wind from his descent ruffling Aron's hair. The two stood there, a stark contrast: one a creature of myth and compassion, the other a man transformed into a weapon of rage.

The city held its breath, the air charged with the potential for violence. Yet, in that moment of stillness, Hans reached out, not with claws but with words. "Aron, you don't have to do this," he called out, his voice carrying over the din of the city. "There's a better way."

But the Angry Archer's only reply was the twang of a bowstring, an arrow hurtling towards the heroic mutant. Hans's instincts took over, and he dodged with a swiftness that defied his bulky frame, the projectile narrowly missing his snout. The battle was joined, a clash of steel and scales, a struggle that would not only determine the fate of the night but perhaps the very souls of two lost men.

Aron's mechanical arm swung with a ferocity born of years of despair and rage, each punch and kick a silent scream of defiance against the world that had wronged him. Hans met every blow with his own brand of fiery determination, his claws flashing in the moonlight as he tried to land a hit that would end the chase without causing irreparable harm. The warehouse walls echoed with the sound of their struggle, a cacophony of pain and hope colliding.

Through the dust and debris that filled the air, Hans managed to grab Aron's bow, the weapon of his vendetta, and with a mighty yank, he sent it spiraling into the abyss below. Aron roared, a sound that could have shattered glass, and charged at his opponent. Hans took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Aron's, and waited for the impact.

The two mutants collided with the force of a tornado, their bodies a blur of motion and rage. Hans felt a twinge of pity for the man before him, a pity that was quickly replaced with a burning need to save him from himself. Aron's fists slammed into Hans's chest, his metal knuckles leaving dents in the dragon's scales, but Hans held firm, refusing to be moved.

In the chaos of the fight, Hans saw a glimmer of doubt in Aron's eyes, a flicker of the man he once was before the anger had consumed him. It was then that Hans knew he had to win not just the battle but the war that raged within the Angry Archer's heart. With a mighty roar, Hans wrapped his arms around Aron, pinning him to the ground, his wings spread wide to shield the fallen mutant from any potential escape.

"You don't have to live like this, Aron," Hans panted, his voice strained with exertion. "We can help you, give you a home, a purpose."

For a moment, the only sound was the harsh rasp of their breathing. Then, slowly, Aron's arms fell to his sides, and the fight drained out of him. Hans felt the tension in Aron's body ease, and the man looked up at him, the anger in his gaze fading to something resembling defeat.

"What makes you think I want your help?" Aron spat out, his voice laced with bitterness.

Hans leaned in closer, his eyes softening. "Because, Aron, I've seen it before. The anger, the pain. But I've also seen what happens when someone chooses a different path."

The silence stretched out between them, the city's sounds seemingly muted by the weight of their confrontation. Hans felt the tremble in Aron's body, the struggle between anger and acceptance. And then, ever so slightly, the Angry Archer nodded. It was a start, a flicker of hope in the dark night of their existence, and Hans knew that this was not the end of their story but the beginning of something new.

With a heavy sigh, Aron pushed himself up, his mechanical arm clicking and whirring as it bent at the elbow. Hans released his grip, standing back to give Aron some space. The two men, both outcasts in their own right, stared at each other, the stark reality of their shared past weaving a bond between them. The dragon mutant could see the exhaustion in Aron's eyes, the weariness of a life spent fighting for survival and justice in a world that had dealt him a cruel hand.

"Why me?" Aron's voice was low, barely a whisper, as if speaking to the ghosts of his past.

Hans cocked his head to the side, considering the question. "Because you have the potential to be more than just a thief. You have the power to make a difference."

The Angry Archer snorted in disbelief. "And what makes you think I want to be anyone's hero?"

"You don't," Hans said firmly. "But that doesn't mean you can't be one. Sometimes, the best heroes are the ones who never wanted the title."

The words hung in the air, a challenge and an offer all rolled into one. Aron stared at Hans for a long moment, his eyes searching, his mind racing with thoughts of the life he could leave behind and the one that could be waiting for him. Then, with a grim smile, he reached into his quiver and pulled out an arrow, holding it out to the hedgehog dragon. "You want to help me?"

Hans took the arrow gently, his claws closing around the shaft. "I do."

With a nod, Aron turned away, his gaze scanning the horizon. "Then let's get my bow. And maybe, just maybe, we can talk about this 'help' of yours."

The chase was over, but the story was far from finished. The two mutants leaped from the rooftop, Hans taking to the skies and Aron landing with a thud on the pavement below. Together, they disappeared into the night, leaving behind a trail of shadows and whispers. The city of Detroit would never be the same, for the Angry Archer had found a new purpose, and Hans had found a new ally in his quest to protect the lost and forgotten.

The streets of downtown Detroit whispered their secrets as Aron and Hans moved through the night. The buildings, tall and proud, held the memories of countless lives, each a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Yet, it was in the darkest corners that the most profound transformations occurred, where the desperate sought refuge and the powerful sought to exploit.

Chapter Text

Three Days Ago…

Aron Archer was a man of simple tastes: gold, the thrill of the chase, and the quiet solitude that came from being above the fray. He'd always considered himself more of a rogue than a hero, and the events of the past few hours had certainly reinforced that notion. The cool evening air of Detroit whipped around him as he sprinted across the rooftops, the distant wail of sirens a pattern of his latest successful heist. His heart raced not from fear, but from the excitement of slipping away from Optimus Prime's grasp, thanks to the unexpected intervention of a mutant hedgehog named Hans Hayward.

The hedgehog's unconventional archery skills had impressed Aron, and when Hans offered him a new life—as a spy and informant—he'd been intrigued. The pay was too good to pass up, and the idea of finally escaping the constant grind of his life of crime was tempting. So, he'd agreed to the deal, and now he found himself dressed in all black, his quiver of arrows brimming with Hans's special creations, ready to take on a world he'd never imagined. The wind whispered secrets of the city below as he moved with the grace of a cat burglar, his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of his newfound ally.

The glow of black-silver scales caught Aron's attention like a beacon in the night. He paused, an arrow notched and ready to fly. His heart skipped a beat—perhaps it was Hans, come to deliver his first mission. But the feminine giggle that echoed through the alleyways was unlike anything he'd heard before, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He stepped back into the shadows, his instincts honed from years of evading the law telling him that something was amiss.

Suddenly, a burst of fire bloomed where he'd just been standing, the heat singeing the fabric of his mask. Aron's eyes widened, and he barely had time to react as another blast shot past him. The flash of wings was all he saw before the rooftop was engulfed in a second inferno. This was no ordinary encounter—this was something new, something wild, and it had definitely not been part of the deal he'd made with Hans. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the confrontation that was about to unfold.

He heard Natasha's giggle again, closer this time, and he rolled to the side as another fiery blast narrowly missed him. He had to admit, the girl had a knack for this. As he regained his footing, he caught a glimpse of her black-silver scales reflecting the moonlight, her feathered wings flapping as she hovered in the air. She was playing with him, but he knew that playtime had to come to an end.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent an arrow soaring through the air, aiming for her ankle to ensnare her with a thick cable. She squealed as the cable tightened, her feet no longer touching the rooftop. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and full of indignation. "You're not supposed to capture me!"

Aron stepped closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. "I'm just following orders," he said calmly, trying to keep his own excitement in check. "And Hans is going to be very interested in what you're doing out here."

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a snarl that seemed to come from a creature much larger than herself. "I don't take orders from anyone!" she shouted, and with a flap of her wings, she shot a blast of fire at the cable. It snapped and she soared away, disappearing into the night sky.

For a moment, Aron just stared after her, his heart racing. Then, with a sigh, he tapped his earpiece. "Hans, I've found someone. But she's not exactly what I expected."

The hedgehog's voice was calm, almost amused. "Bring her in. She sounds like she could use a friend."

With a nod, Aron took off after Natasha, his muscles coiled and ready for whatever the night had in store. Little did he know that this encounter would be the first of many, and that Natasha would soon become a part of a world much larger than the one he'd ever imagined—a world where he might just find the belonging he'd been searching for all his life.

The chase was on, Natasha's laughter echoing through the night as she led Aron on a wild goose chase across the rooftops of Detroit. Despite her small size, she was surprisingly agile, leaping from building to building with ease, leaving a trail of fire in her wake. Aron followed, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. He'd always loved the thrill of the chase, but this was something else entirely.

Finally, after a dizzying dance of fire and shadows, Natasha tripped, giving Aron the opening he needed. In one swift motion, he sent an arrow with a thick cable attached to it, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. She squirmed and roared, but she was no match for the seasoned thief's precision. "I don't know who you are, kid," he panted, "but Hans is going to want to meet you."

Hans arrived in a flash, his eyes wide at the sight of the bound dragon girl. He'd never seen anything like her before—his curiosity piqued and his mind racing with possibilities. "Let's go, Natasha," he said gently, extending a hand. "You're going to love the friends I have waiting for you."

Natasha glared at him, but something in Hans's voice made her pause. Maybe, just maybe, this strange hedgehog could offer her the adventure and companionship she'd been craving. With a dramatic sigh, she allowed herself to be led away, leaving a trail of smoldering roof tiles behind her.

Over the following weeks, Natasha became a regular fixture at the base. She was a handful, no doubt—her mischief knew no bounds—but she had a heart of gold, much like Aron's love for his stolen treasures. Under Hans's watchful eye and Ratchet's firm but loving guidance, she learned the ways of the Autobots, her fiery spirit slowly melding with their cause. Her days of lonely solitude were over, replaced by the warmth of friendship and the thrill of battling alongside her newfound family.

And Aron? He found that being a hero wasn't so bad after all. Sure, it didn't come with the same rush as pulling off a heist, but the sense of belonging and purpose was worth more than all the gold in the world. Plus, he had Natasha to keep him on his toes—a little firecracker who reminded him every day that life was full of surprises, both fiery and friend-shaped.

Hans had seen the potential in Natasha immediately, recognizing the spark of rebellion in her eyes that mirrored his own. He knew that with the right guidance, she could be a force for good, a wild card in the fight against the tyranny that sought to control them all. And so, he'd taken her under his wing, teaching her the art of espionage and the value of loyalty.

The days turned into weeks, and Natasha grew more adept at her new role. Her mischief had been channeled into something constructive, and she took to the training exercises with a fervor that surprised everyone—especially Sari, the young human girl she'd befriended. Together, they made an odd pair: the fiery dragon girl and the stoic Sari, whose own past was a tapestry of pain and loss. Yet, they found common ground in their shared yearning for belonging and their determination to make a difference in a world that had often cast them aside.

The base grew livelier with Natasha's antics, and even the stoic Ratchet found himself occasionally smiling at her boundless energy. He took it upon himself to be both her mentor and her guardian, ensuring that her fiery spirit didn't lead her astray. It was a delicate balance, but one he managed with surprising grace for a bot whose usual demeanor was more akin to a grumpy uncle than a nurturing caretaker.

But as Natasha learned the ropes, Aron couldn't shake the feeling that their journey was just beginning. There were more mutants like her out there, lost souls looking for a place to call home. And with Hans by his side, he felt ready to face whatever challenges the future might hold.

The nights grew longer, and the missions grew more dangerous, but every time Natasha's laughter rang out, or Hans's eyes lit up with a new plan, Aron knew he'd made the right choice. He was no longer just a thief with a penchant for gold and a vendetta against Optimus Prime; he was Angry Archer, ally to mutants, and a man with a newfound purpose.

As Natasha grew more comfortable in her role, she began to share her own story with Aron. Her tales of a stolen childhood and the fiery determination that had driven her to escape her captors painted a picture of a girl who'd known more heartache than any seven-year-old should. But she was resilient, and in the warm embrace of the Autobot base, she'd found a semblance of the family she'd never had. Aron listened, his heart swelling with a strange mix of pity and admiration. He'd always been a loner, but Natasha's spirit touched something deep within him.

One evening, as they sat on the rooftop of the base, Natasha's eyes grew distant. "Do you ever miss the life you had before, Aron?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aron took a moment to consider. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But then I look around at what I have now an I realize... this is better." He gestured to the bustling streets of Detroit, the gleaming skyscrapers, and the ever-watchful Autobots patrolling the city below.

Natasha nodded solemnly, her fiery eyes reflecting the distant streetlights. "I know what you mean," she murmured. "I miss the stars sometimes. But here, I feel... alive. And I have friends."

The bond between Natasha and Sari grew stronger by the day. The human girl's patience and understanding were a balm to Natasha's restless soul. Together, they made quite the duo—Sari, with her tactical mind and Natasha, with her unbridled passion. Hans watched them with a proud smile, knowing that his decision to bring Natasha in had been the right one.

But it was Ratchet who had truly worked a miracle. The gruff medic had a way with her, a firm but gentle touch that seemed to calm the storm inside her. He'd sit with her for hours, explaining the inner workings of the Autobots, sharing tales of their battles, and imparting his own brand of wisdom. Somehow, he'd managed to tame the wild beast that was Natasha Pyraniac. Her pranks had lessened, and in their place grew a genuine curiosity and a desire to learn.

Now, instead of setting small fires around the base to watch the bots scurry like ants, Natasha could often be found in the medical bay, peering over Ratchet's shoulder as he tinkered with a new gadget or patched up a damaged Autobot. His stern voice was a constant in her life, a reminder that there were rules, even in the midst of chaos. But it was his calmness, the way he never raised his voice, that truly got through to her. It was as if he saw the scared, lonely girl beneath the scales and fire, and knew exactly how to handle her.

Under Ratchet's tutelage, Natasha discovered a newfound ability to control her fiery breath. Instead of wild blasts that could reduce buildings to rubble, she could now focus it into a precise beam, strong enough to weld metal together. Her eyes would light up with pride each time she managed to fuse two parts without scorching them beyond recognition. And when Ratchet would nod his approval, she felt a warmth spread through her that not even her dragon fire could match.

The other Autobots began to see Natasha in a new light. Where once they'd tiptoe around her, now they'd approach with curiosity, asking for her help with their own projects. Her fire-breath became a tool rather than a weapon, a sign of her growing integration into the team. Even the stoic Optimus Prime would occasionally stop by the medical bay, watching Natasha work with a mixture of awe and concern.

One night, Ratchet handed Natasha a set of goggles. "These will protect your eyes," he said gruffly. "Now, hold this metal plate steady."

Natasha nodded, her heart racing with excitement. This was it—her first real task in the medical bay. She took a deep breath and focused, feeling the heat build in her chest. With a gentle exhale, she released a thin stream of flame that danced over the plate, turning the metal a glowing shade of orange. Slowly, she moved the flame back and forth, mimicking the motion of a blow torch. Ratchet nodded in approval, guiding her hand with his own, showing her how to maintain a consistent temperature. The metal began to meld together, fusing into one solid piece.

The other Autobots had gathered around, watching in amazement. They'd heard about Natasha's newfound control, but seeing it in action was something else entirely. Even Bulkhead, the stoic construction bot, cracked a smile. "Impressive," he rumbled, his voice echoing through the room. Natasha beamed, the warmth of their praise more satisfying than any gold coin could ever be.

As Natasha's talents grew, so did her role within the base. Ratchet began to trust her with more responsibilities, often sending her to sniff out any signs of tampering on their various projects. Her dragon's nose was unmatched, capable of detecting the faintest scent of oil or the slightest whiff of a saboteur. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, and she took her newfound duty with a seriousness that surprised even Aron.

Chapter Text

"Wow, check it out!" Tails exclaimed, pointing at the TV with excitement. "Those robots are like nothing we've ever seen before!"

Amy nodded in agreement, her curiosity piqued as she took a break from her cooking. "They're definitely not like the Badniks we're used to," she said, her voice filled with wonder.

Grandpa Chuck leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I don't like the look of this," he murmured. "Robotnik is always up to something."

Ella, setting the table, couldn't help but overhear their conversation. "You think he's trying to win the public's favor with those machines?" she asked, handing a plate to Cream.

Chris looked up from his task of laying out the cutlery. "It seems too convenient, doesn't it?" He glanced at Cream, who nodded solemnly. "I mean, who else could make something like that?"

Amy set the pie down with a gentle thud. "Maybe we're just being paranoid," she suggested, though the worry etched on her face suggested otherwise. "But we can't ignore the possibility."

Tails nodded, his eyes glued to the TV. "I've studied a lot of robotics, but those machines are beyond anything I've seen before." He paused, then added, "They seem almost... alive."

Chris looked at him with a mix of admiration and concern. "You think they're that advanced?"

Tails shrugged, his eyes never leaving the TV. "They could be. We've seen some pretty incredible stuff with the Chaos Emeralds, after all. Remember Shard, Amy?”

Amy's cheeks flushed slightly at the mention of the rogue emerald shard that had once threatened them. "Yeah, but these machines don't look like they're powered by emeralds," she said, her voice skeptical. "They're...different."

Grandpa Chuck snorted. "Different or not, if it's got Robotnik's stink on it, we can't ignore it." His eyes narrowed as he thought back to the destruction of Station Square.

"You're right, Chuck," Tails said, his voice serious. "But we have to be sure. If it's someone else, we can't assume the worst without evidence."

"But what if it's a trap?" Chris interjected, his eyes wide with concern. "What if it's Robotnik trying to lure us out?"

Amy set a plate of pie in front of Tails, her gaze thoughtful. "Chris might have a point," she said. "Robotnik is clever. He could use these machines as bait to get us away from the safety of Station Square."

Tails took a bite of pie, considering her words. The sweet taste of the dessert did little to alleviate the sourness of the situation.

"Chris, you're right," he said finally. "We need to be careful. We can't ignore the potential threat these machines pose."

Chris nodded, his eyes flicking to Cream, who was busy feeding Cheese a piece of pie. "If we can get more information without risking ourselves, that's better, right?"

Cream looked up at him and smiled, her eyes bright with the idea. "Sam is going to Detroit anyway," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "He can check it out for us."

Chris's eyes lit up, the wheels in his mind turning. "That's a brilliant idea, Cream!" He turned to his uncle, who was just walking in the door. "Sam, can you help us with something when you go to Detroit?"

Sam looked at them, slightly confused but always ready to lend a hand. "What's going on?"

Chris took a deep breath and quickly filled Sam in on what they had just discussed. "We think these machines might be connected to Robotnik, but we're not sure," he explained. "We were thinking maybe you could check it out when you're in Detroit?"

Sam set down his bag and took a seat, his interest clearly piqued. "You think Robotnik's behind this?"

"It's definitely a possibility," Tails said, his voice laced with concern. "But the design of these machines...it's not his usual MO."

Sam leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful. "You know, I might have a lead for you. I have a friend down in Detroit, Isaac Sumdac. He's a robotics genius in his own right. Maybe he could shed some light on this for all of us."

Tails's ears perked up at the mention of another robotics expert. "Sumdac Tower and Systems? I've heard of that company," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "They've been making waves in the tech industry lately."

"And Sari," Sam said with a fond smile, "she's a bright kid. I've only met her a couple of times, but she's got her dad's brains, for sure."

Tails leaned in, eager to hear more. "So, you think Isaac could be the one behind these machines?"

Sam nodded. "It's definitely a possibility. His company's been working on some pretty advanced tech lately, and if anyone could create something like that, it's him." He picked up a piece of pie, his mind racing with the implications of such powerful technology. "But we can't be sure until we have more information."

Amy, who had been quietly listening, spoke up. "It's true. We don't want to jump to conclusions without evidence." She glanced at Tails, whose eyes were still glued to the TV. "We need to be smart about this."

Sam took another bite of pie, nodding thoughtfully. "I'll make it my first priority when I get to Detroit. I'll check in with Isaac and see what he knows."

Cream clapped her hands together in excitement. "That's great! We can't wait to hear what you find out!"

Sam nodded, a determined look in his eyes. "I'll make sure to keep you updated," he said, already reaching for his phone. "Now, let's enjoy this delicious pie before it gets cold. Would you so kind and pass the lemonade, Ella?”

Ella handed over the pitcher with a smile, her gaze lingering on the TV as the news report played out. "It's just so strange, these machines appearing out of nowhere," she mused, pouring a glass for Sam. "They almost seem...friendly."

Sam nodded, his mind racing with the potential scenarios. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, his tone serious. "But for now, let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know who's behind them or what their intentions are." He took a sip of the lemonade, the tartness a stark contrast to the sweet pie.

In a small, quaint town on the outskirts of Station Square, a peculiar character named Sam Fair could often be found tinkering away in his garage. Sam was a man of average height, with a robust build and a thick mustache that curled up at the ends like a pair of handlebars. His eyes sparkled with the wisdom of a thousand untold stories, and his laugh was as hearty as the roar of his latest project—a sleek, modern racing car with a rocket engine called the "SSIII." This wasn't just any engine; it was a technological marvel funded by the government to combat the growing menace of road rage drivers and illegal street racing that had plagued the nation's highways.

The SSIII was a gleaming testament to Sam's ingenuity and Uncle Samson's deep pockets. With its sleek lines and shimmering paint job, the car was a head-turner, whispering promises of breakneck speeds and heart-stopping performance. It had been a labor of love for the two of them, a bonding project that had brought them closer than ever. But today, the garage was empty, and the SSIII sat untouched, as Uncle Samson had left for a trip to Detroit, leaving the quiet town behind.

Chris, unable to shake off the excitement of his uncle's challenge, decided to pay a visit to the local mechanic, Chuck. He knew Chuck was a master under the hood and had a few tricks up his sleeve that could give Sonic a real run for his money. The garage was a cacophony of clanging metal and revving engines, a place where the scent of gasoline and oil mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Chuck looked up from his work, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the eager young boy.

"Whatcha got for me today, kiddo?" Chuck asked, wiping his greasy hands on a tattered rag.

Chris, unable to contain his excitement, blurted out the challenge. "Uncle Sam said he'd race Sonic when he gets back from Detroit!"

Chuck's eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, I'll be. Your uncle's got guts, I'll give him that." He stepped closer to Chris, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you know, Sonic hedgehog has some serious moves. You think he's up for it?"

Chris's eyes widened at the thought. "I don't know," he replied, his voice a mix of excitement and doubt. "Uncle Sam's pretty confident with that SSIII of his."

Chuck nodded, his gaze drifting to the calendar on the wall. "Well, we've got a bit of time before he's back. Maybe I can whip up something special for Sonic to drive."

Chris's eyes lit up. "Really? You can make a car for Sonic?"

Chuck winked. "Not just any car, kiddo. Something that'll give that SSIII a run for its money. And maybe, just maybe, we'll get that hedgehog to race your uncle."

Chris's heart raced. "But Sonic doesn't do cars."

Chuck chuckled. "That's where you're wrong, kid. Sonic may love the wind in his fur, but he's got a bit of a competitive streak. And if there's one thing that'll get him to agree to a race, it's the thrill of the challenge."

Chris considered this for a moment, his mind racing. "But Uncle Sam's car is like nothing we've ever seen before. How can we make sure Sonic has a fair shot?"

Chuck leaned against the workbench, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Fair's fair, but in the world of racing, sometimes you need a bit of an edge. I've got an idea, and it's gotta be a secret," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Can you do that, Chris?"

Chris nodded vigorously, his excitement growing by the second. "I promise, grandpa. This'll be just between us."

With a knowing look, Chuck led him into the back of the garage, where a tarp-covered shape loomed in the shadows. He dramatically whipped the tarp off, revealing a car that looked like it had been plucked straight from the pages of a sci-fi magazine. "Behold, the 'Hedgehog Hotrod!' A custom-built ride, tailored for Sonic's speed and agility."

The car was a vibrant blue, matching the hue of Sonic's fur, with red accents that popped like the hedgehog's sneakers. Its design was aerodynamic, with sleek curves that screamed "speed" and a hint of mischief in its rounded headlights. "It's got nitro boosts, a homing device to keep up with Sonic's twists and turns, and a state-of-the-art sound system to blast some classic rock while he zooms by!"

Chris couldn't believe his eyes. "How did you build this so fast?"

"Ah, well, when you've got friends in the right places, and the right tools at your disposal, you can whip up a little something-something like this," Chuck said with a wink, his pride evident in his voice.

The Hedgehog Hotrod was indeed a sight to behold, gleaming under the neon lights of the garage. It was clear that Chuck had put his heart and soul into the design, blending the raw power of a classic muscle car with the futuristic flair of a Transformer. "But why would Uncle Sam want to race Sonic?" Chris questioned, his curiosity piqued.

Chuck leaned in closer, his voice a mix of amusement and admiration. "You see, Sam's got a bit of a history with speedsters. Back in the day, he used to be a racer himself. Fastest man on four wheels, they called him. But when he left the circuit to start the Speed Team, he lost his claim to that title. Now, with the SSIII and this upcoming election, he's looking to prove that he's still got it."

Chris nodded thoughtfully. "So, Uncle Sam wants to race Sonic to show off the car and help the President?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah," Chuck said with a nod. "Sam's got a big heart for the law and for the people. He figures if he can show 'em what this baby can do, they'll support the program that's funding it. And if the President wins the election, well, that's just gravy."

Chris looked skeptical. "But why would the President care about a car race?"

Chuck shrugged. "Politics, kid. Everything's a show. If Uncle Sam can get the people talking about the SSIII and how it's gonna make the roads safer, they'll love it. And if they love it, they're more likely to vote for the guy who's backing it. Simple as that."

"No can do, Sammy," Sonic said with a smug grin, leaning against the sleek frame of the SSIII, his hands casually tucked behind his head. The engine purred under the gleaming hood, its metallic body a stark contrast to the vibrant blue sky above. "I got more important things to do than race some hotshot with a government handout."

Sam's eyes narrowed, a hint of challenge sparking within. "Just one race, that's all I'm asking. Prove to me that you're more than just a local legend. Show me what you got, Sonic." He patted the car's hood with a knowing smirk, the sun glinting off the chrome emblem.

Sonic remained unfazed, his emerald eyes unwavering. "I don't need to prove anything to you, especially not on wheels." He pushed himself off the car, the smugness slipping away, revealing a hint of curiosity.

Sam chuckled, recognizing the unspoken challenge. "Suit yourself," he said, turning away from the hedgehog. "But when I get back from Detroit, I'll be waiting. And I've got a feeling you'll want to be ready."

The days passed quickly, filled with the rhythmic pulse of the open road and the hum of his SSIII's engine. Sam's thoughts often drifted to the race awaiting him back in Station Square. He had a point to prove, not just to the President, but to himself as well. The car's power was exhilarating, but he knew that racing Sonic would be unlike any challenge he had faced before.

Upon reaching Detroit, the sprawling cityscape unfolded before him, a stark contrast to the quiet town he had left behind. Sam navigated the bustling streets with ease, his destination clear in his mind: Sumdac Systems. He pulled into the sprawling complex, the gleaming towers a testament to human innovation. The garage door he chose was large enough to accommodate his car, but it remained eerily empty.

As he stepped out of the SSIII, the echoes of his boots on the concrete were the only sound in the cavernous space. Employees passing by did a double-take, their eyes widening in surprise at the unannounced visitor. One brave soul approached him, a young man in a neatly pressed polo shirt with the Sumdac Systems logo embroidered on the pocket.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't park here," the man said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "This area is for authorized personnel only."

Sam flashed a charming smile, reaching into his pocket to retrieve an ID badge. "Don't worry, I've got clearance," he assured, flipping the badge open to reveal a holographic image of his face alongside the words 'Sam Fair - Special Visitor'. The employee's eyes widened as he recognized the name of the elusive founder of the Speed Team, a law enforcement group known for their high-speed pursuits and cutting-edge vehicle.

"I'm here to see Isaac Sumdac," Sam repeated, his voice firm yet friendly. "I'm an old college buddy of his. Tell him Sam Fair has arrived."

The employee took a step back, eyeing the badge suspiciously. "Mr. Sumdac has had... some trouble with people claiming to be friends lately," he said cautiously. "I'll have to check with security first."

Sam nodded understandingly, his smile never wavering. "Tell them Sam Fair," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "They'll know who I am."

The employee took the radio from his pocket and spoke into it, his voice echoing in the empty garage. "I've got a... unique situation here," he began, glancing at Sam. "A man named Sam Fair is claiming to be an old friend of Mr. Sumdac's. Says he's with the Speed Team."

The radio crackled to life with static before a woman's voice responded, "Sam Fair? The one from the news?"

The employee nodded, though the radio couldn't see his gesture. "Yes, that's him. He's got a government ID and says he's with the Speed Team."

The radio fell silent for a moment before the woman's voice crackled back. "Let him through. And keep an eye on him. We'll alert Mr. Sumdac immediately."

The employee nodded, swallowing his doubt. "Alright," he said, gesturing to the elevator. "You can go up to the executive suite. Someone will meet you there."

Sam climbed into the sleek, chrome elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft whoosh. As he ascended, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the college days he and Isaac had spent together. They had been the rebels of their class, always pushing the boundaries of engineering and racing the fastest cars they could get their hands on. It had been years since they had last seen each other, but Sam knew that their bond was unbreakable.

The elevator dinged, signaling his arrival at the executive suite. The doors opened to reveal a hallway lined with polished chrome and gleaming glass, the Sumdac Systems logo reflecting back at him from every surface. The reception area was empty, the desk unmanned. The quiet hum of machinery and the occasional murmur of conversation from behind closed doors was the only sound that greeted him.

Sam strolled down the hallway, his boots echoing in the stillness. He couldn't resist running his hand along the wall, feeling the cool smoothness of the metal under his fingertips. It had been a long time since he had been in a place that felt so alive with technology. The smell of oil and grease was faint but comforting, reminding him of the garage back home where he had tinkered on his first rocket engines.

As he approached the door marked 'Isaac Sumdac - CEO', it swung open to reveal a plush office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. The man himself sat behind an enormous desk, his eyes lighting up as he spotted Sam.

"Sammy boy!" Isaac exclaimed, leaping to his feet and striding over to embrace his old friend. The two men shared a hearty laugh, slapping each other on the back before pulling apart.

"It's been too long," Sam said, his eyes scanning the high-tech office with a mix of admiration and envy. "Look at what you've built here, Isaac."

"Ah, it's just a bunch of metal and circuits," Isaac waved his hand dismissively, though his proud smile gave him away. "What brings you to the Motor City?"

Sam leaned against the desk, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, you know, the usual," he said with a wink. "Just spreading the word about our little project back home. The SSIII is going to change the game, and I thought your team might be interested in some of the gear we're using."

Isaac's curiosity piqued, he gestured to the garage. "Be my guest," he said. "Take whatever you need. And speaking of guests, I've got a surprise for you. I've asked Ruska and Sari to come back to the tower, and I figured they'd love to meet an old college buddy of mine."

Sam's eyes lit up at the mention of the surprise, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Sounds like a plan," he said, his mind racing with the anticipation of the reunion. He knew how much Sari had grown since they last saw each other, and he was eager to see the young girl's reaction to his visit.

The garage was a treasure trove of advanced technology, and Sam felt like a kid in a candy store as he surveyed the rows of prototypes and gadgets. He made a mental note of the items he wanted to bring back to the Speed Team, knowing they would be impressed by the innovations coming out of Sumdac Systems.

Chapter Text

At the Hayward Household (Now)…

"Uncle, this is Natasha," Sari introduced with a smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Uncle Sam looked down at the young girl with a mix of curiosity and caution. Natasha, with her fiery hair and piercing eyes, was a whirlwind of energy, but she remained glued to Ratchet's side, peeking around his large metal frame like a shy animal.

(Uncle Sam truly was a sight for sore eyes among the residents. Sure they met Uncle Sam Fair a few times before at the now and family reunion; but, to see him in Detroit because of his ‘job requiring him to’ put a bad taste on Ruska’s tongue. Uncle Sam works for the police for crying out loud)!

As the morning progressed, Natasha grew bolder, her curiosity about the human world overcoming her initial shyness. Sari, noticing her interest in the food preparation, took Natasha aside to show her some basic kitchen skills. They laughed together as Natasha accidentally shot a burst of flame instead of lighting the stove, charring a pancake beyond recognition. It was a small moment of bonding between them, one that filled Ratchet's optical sensors with a warm glow.

(Uncle Hans has gifted each Autobot his own medallion which allows the user to shrink to proportional sizes from a human to a mouse. Bumblebee certainly made good use of his…)

Ruska watched Natasha from the kitchen, a hint of sadness in her eyes. She had hoped the dragon girl would be thrilled to meet her new family, but she understood Natasha's fear of the unknown. Deciding it was time to bring everyone together, Ruska called out, "Lunch is ready!"

The smell of barbecue filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of Natasha's smoke rings.

As the group gathered around the large wooden picnic table outside, piled high with a variety of food, Sari took Natasha aside once more. "Remember," she whispered, "you can use your flames to roast marshmallows perfectly for s'mores."

Natasha nodded, a small smile playing on her lips, and took a seat between Ratchet and Sari. The lesson had paid off; Natasha's movements were more deliberate as she used her fiery breath to toast the marshmallows to a perfect golden brown. The sight brought a round of applause and laughter from the table, and Natasha's cheeks flushed with pride.

Ruska watched Natasha from across the table, a warm smile on her face. The dragon girl had come so far in such a short time, and she was happy to see her blossoming under everyone’s care. It wasn't just her fire-breathing abilities that had improved; Natasha had also developed a gentle touch, a kindness that she had not shown before.

Ruska remembered like it was yesterday when she peaked her around the corner of a hallway, listening in on Ratchet and Natasha talking one evening inside the Autobot Base.

Ratchet sat quietly on a bench, his optics fixed gently on the small figure curled in his lap. Natasha’s breathing was slow and even, her head resting between the old medic’s servos, her small horns just beneath his careful fingers. The rhythmic motion of his hand was soothing, and the dragon girl’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and something softer—trust.

“Hey there, Natasha,” Ratchet said softly, his voice low and steady. “You’re not just any patient to me. You’re family now. How are you feeling?”

She blinked, her smoky breath curling faintly in the warm air. “Safe… I think. Your hands are warm.”

Ratchet’s optics softened. “I’m glad. You know, I wasn’t always the most patient with you. You were… difficult at first. But I’ve come to understand you better. You’re not just a wild spirit; you’re smart and strong.”

Natasha’s tail flicked slightly, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “I’m scared sometimes. People don’t understand me… they get scared of what I can do.”

“It’s not easy being different,” Ratchet said, his tone gentle but firm. “But you have a gift. And I’ll help you learn to control it. You can use your fire and smoke not just to cause mischief, but to protect and create.”

She looked up at him, eyes brightening. “Like you do with your tools?”

“Exactly,” Ratchet replied with a small chuckle. “We all have tools—some mechanical, some magical. Yours just happen to be a little more… fiery.”

Natasha’s smile grew a little wider. “Maybe I can be a healer like you someday.”

“With time, patience, and training, I believe you can be anything you want.”

But Ruska noticed that while at the Autobot base that Natasha has yet to meet the rest of Sari’s family, so Ruska arranged a time for everyone to meet at Ruska’s house (Seeing as that Isaac, Sari, Ainomrah, and Uncle Sam would be staying with Ruska and Hans until Sumdac Tower is up and running again because of the damage Meltdown inflicted upon it).

The words echoed in Natasha’s mind as she watched the adults interact, feeling a little lost in the sea of unfamiliar faces and names. Despite her apprehension, she knew that she had found a place where she was accepted, even if it was just for the moment. The warmth from Ratchet’s servo between her horns was oddly comforting, a stark contrast to the cold steel she had grown used to in her short life.

"Ratchet, can I ask you something?" Natasha’s voice was small, a stark contrast to the roars she had been known to emit.

Ratchet looked down at her, his hand pausing mid-pet. "What's on your mind, kid?”

Natasha leaned into his servo, her eyes still half-closed. "Ratchet... why do you think I can be a good person?" Her question was simple, yet it held a weight that seemed to press down on the old Autobot.

"Because," Ratchet began, his voice gentle, "I've seen glimpses of it in you, Natasha. You have a good spark, even if it's hidden behind those fiery scales of yours." He paused, a small smile playing across his lips. "And when you care about someone, you care deeply. That's all the proof I need."

Just then, footsteps approached. Uncle Sam knelt beside them, his smile wide and warm.

“Hey, Natasha. I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with Ratchet. He’s a good guy.”

Natasha shifted, a little nervous but trying to be brave. “He’s… different. But kind.”

“Kindness is important,” Uncle Sam said, his voice softening. “You know, I didn’t have a big family growing up either. Sometimes it’s hard to trust new people.”

“I don’t trust easily,” Natasha admitted, eyes downcast. “I’ve had to learn to be tough.”

“Toughness is good, but so is letting people in,” Uncle Sam said gently. “You’ve got a lot of folks here who care about you, including me.”

She looked up, a shy smile breaking through. “I want to believe that. I really do.”

“You’ll find your place, kid,” he said with a wink. “And if you ever need someone to talk to or just hang out with, I’m around.”

“Thanks, Uncle Sam,” Natasha whispered.

Ratchet glanced down at the girl still nestled in his lap and reached a servo to gently pet between her horns. Natasha curled in tighter, a soft purr rumbling from her throat as she drifted back toward sleep. Around them, the warmth of friendship and family wrapped the evening in a quiet promise—no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.

Uncle Sam couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he watched Natasha lean into Ratchet’s touch. He had always been the one to take care of Sari, the one to make sure she had the best of everything, and now here was Natasha, a child he had only just met, who seemed to have claimed his place in her heart. But as Hans leaned in and whispered the story of Natasha’s past, his heart swelled with empathy rather than envy. He understood the pain of not fitting in, the desperation for attention that often comes with being alone. He knew that Natasha needed stability and patience to truly blossom, not competition for her affection.

He took a deep breath, watching as Ratchet’s gentle ministrations coaxed a soft purr from the sleeping dragon girl. It was clear that she had found something in the gruff Autobot that she hadn’t found in any of the others, and he couldn’t begrudge her that. After all, Ratchet had a way with those who were hurting, a way of cutting through the noise and getting straight to the heart of the matter. Uncle Sam knew that Natasha was in good hands with Ratchet by her side.

The conversation at the picnic table grew more serious as Uncle Sam broached the subject of a certain mad inventor. "Ever heard of a guy named Doctor Ivo Robotnik? Or perhaps Doctor Eggman?" His gaze swept over the Autobots, looking for any signs of recognition. The metal giants exchanged glances, but none offered a reply.

"He's a human," Hans whispered to Uncle Sam. "Most likely from our world. They wouldn't have encountered him unless he's done something to draw their attention."

Uncle Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I guess that's one less thing to worry about. But keep an ear out for any strange inventions or someone with a penchant for turning animals into robots."

The Autobots exchanged puzzled glances. Bulkhead spoke up, his deep voice rumbling through the yard. "Why do you ask, Speed?"

Uncle Sam leaned in, his tone hushed. "Some friends of mine, they've had a few run-ins with this guy. They're worried he might be up to something in our neck of the woods."

Hans nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I see. Well, you can tell them we're here to help, not harm. The Autobots are indeed the heroes you've seen on the news. They stand for peace and justice, and they're committed to protecting all sentient beings, regardless of their origins."

Uncle Sam took a deep sigh, contemplating Hans' words. He hummed thoughtfully before speaking up. "But what about those friends of yours, Hans? The ones who are suspicious of anything not from their world. How can I convince them that the Autobots are the good guys?"

Hans nodded, understanding the concern. "You know, Sam, trust is earned, not given. Your friends are wise to be cautious. But you can tell them that we've seen the best and the worst of each other's worlds. The Autobots have proven their mettle time and again, not just in battles but in everyday kindness. Like how Ratchet here has taken Natasha under his wing. And I have already sent a message to my allies in New York. They know Optimus and his team mean well."

The mention of Natasha's name brought a sleepy stir from the dragon girl, who lifted her head from Ratchet's lap and yawned. She looked around the table, blinking sleepily at the humans and Autobots alike. Ratchet, sensing her discomfort, gently picked her up and set her on the bench beside him, giving her a nudge towards her cup of hot sauce.

"You guys have met Natasha, right?" Sari began (as she existed the house first), her eyes scanning the group. "She's pretty amazing when it comes to fixing stuff, especially if it's broken beyond belief."

The sound of the glass door sliding open was met with eager anticipation, and as the two of young women—Ruska and Ainomorah—stepped out into the sunlight, balancing trays laden with desert this time, the conversation took a backseat. The aroma of perfectly deep fried ice cream, crispy cookies, and a variety of freshly baked goods filled the air, making everyone's stomachs rumble in unison. The trio looked like a well-oiled machine as they distributed the desert. Ruska generously refilled each Autobot’s mug of oil.

Uncle Sam watched the scene unfold with a sense of wonder. Despite their mechanical nature, the Autobots displayed a surprisingly human-like enthusiasm for the meal. They held their mugs of oil with surprising dexterity, their optics lighting up with every sip, and their appreciative sounds resonating through the backyard. It was a stark contrast to the images of cold, unfeeling robots he had seen in the movies.

But his thoughts kept drifting back to Meltdown and his band of misfits. He had seen firsthand the destruction the Autobots and the enemy were capable of, and the fear they had instilled in the citizens of Detroit. It was a sobering reminder that peace was a fragile thing, and that danger could come from the most unexpected places.

Ruska noticed the furrow in Uncle Sam's brow and decided to join him in his quiet contemplation. "What's bothering you?" she asked, her voice low so as not to disturb the others.

"Just thinking about the mess Meltdown left behind," Uncle Sam replied, his eyes distant. "It's not easy to shake off the feeling of helplessness when someone like that waltzes into your city."

Ruska nodded solemnly. "You're right to be concerned. But remember, we're not alone. We have the Autobots here, and they're strong allies. They've seen worse than Meltdown. Much, much worse. And so has Hans and I during our ventures."

"But it's not just them," Uncle Sam said, his eyes scanning the table. "It's all of us. We need to be ready for whatever comes next."

Hans nodded in agreement. "We've faced threats from other dimensions before in New York and Gotham City, traveled through time, and fought monsters in the dream realm. It's a big universe out there, full of surprises."

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Sumdac Tower rooftop garden, where picnic remnants littered the table. Bumblebee leaned forward, his blue optics wide with disbelief.

"Hold up," he buzzed, pointing a finger at Ruska Hayward. "You're telling me you just... *make* ice? Like, poof, sub-zero temps from your fingertips?"

He shook his head dramatically, gears whirring. "And Hans here? How'd a guy who looks like he bench-presses police cruisers end up married to a human snow machine?"

Optimus Prime's optics narrowed, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "Bumblebee, such inquiries are—"

Hans laid a steady hand on Optimus's forearm plate, his calloused fingers contrasting against polished metal. "Easy, big fella. Kid's just curious."

He leaned back in his creaking lawn chair, nodding toward Ruska as she idly condensed mist into a shimmering ice rose.

"We met back in Foteviken, Sweden," Hans explained, his voice warm despite the crystalline flower taking shape. Ruska's lips quirked at the memory, frost patterns blooming across the edge of her hands.

“That was where my granddaughter’s wedding came to be. We met and married back in Skara, Sweden,” Ruska corrected softly, her accent thickening as she recalled the memory. The ice rose in her palm glowed faintly blue before she offered it to Sari.

“But Gotham? New York?” She chuckled, a sound like cracking ice. “Sari exaggerates. We merely… helped where we are needed.”

“But you guys lived through the most important moments of Earth history!” Sari protested, bouncing on her toes as she accepted the ice rose. Its petals shimmered with trapped light. “Like that time you guys told me about a Minotaur who slain the Nidhoggr! Or, the time you guys said you sailed out to sea to hunt for the enemy—Fafnir the Greedy!”

Hans chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “That was centuries ago, Sari. Different worlds, different names.” Ruska’s gaze drifted toward the Detroit skyline, her expression unreadable as frost crept silently across the metal railing beside her. Optimus Prime studied them both, his optics narrowing slightly. Humans who spoke of centuries as casually as Cybertronians? It defied logic. Was it truly normal for organics to live for so long?

Bumblebee’s engine sputtered in disbelief. “Centuries? You guys are older than Optimus?!” He jabbed a digit toward the Autobot leader. “And you’re… married? To a lady who makes glaciers for fun?” Hans merely chuckled, the sound like gravel tumbling in a barrel, while Ruska’s frost patterns danced higher on the railing, forming intricate, fleeting runes.

Optimus shifted, his hydraulic joints sighing softly. “Bumblebee, such personal—” Hans cut him off with a gentle shake of his head.

“Let him ask, Optimus.” Hans’s gaze drifted toward Ruska, who was tracing frost patterns on the picnic table. “We’ve heard stranger questions.”

Ruska’s fingers paused, the ice beneath her touch glowing faintly blue. Her eyes met Bumblebee’s optics, ancient and weary.

“Centuries feel like yesterday when you lived as long as we have,” she murmured, frost receding  under her sleeves.

Hans’s phone buzzed abruptly—a harsh, grating sound against the garden’s quiet. He excused himself, stepping toward the rooftop’s edge as he answered in low, clipped German. Ruska watched him, her stillness deepening. When he returned, his face was granite. He leaned close to whisper in her ear; her knuckles whitened around her teacup, ice spiderwebbing across its surface. She set it down carefully, the china cracking softly.

“Forgive us,” Ruska said, her voice unnervingly calm. “There’s been an incident downtown. We must cut this short. Isaac, we will be back soon.”

Hans was already moving toward the stairwell, his heavy boots echoing on the wood grating. Ruska paused only to squeeze Sari’s shoulder—a touch colder than the ice rose—before following. The backyard garden felt suddenly hollow without them, the lingering frost on Ruska’s abandoned teacup the only proof they’d been there at all.

Downstairs, the garage door groaned open. Hans slid behind the wheel of their unmarked police cruiser while Ruska buckled into the passenger seat, her breath misting the windshield. Sirens wailed in the distance as Hans peeled onto the street, tires screeching against asphalt. Ruska’s fingers tightened on the dashboard, frost spreading in delicate fractals across the glass.

"The precinct said it’s near the old Sumdac robotics plant," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the flashing lights ahead. "Sounds like… malfunctioning drones."

Back at the picnic table, Optimus Prime watched the cruiser vanish around a corner. "Autobots," he commanded, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. "Roll out."

Bumblebee transformed with a quick chirp of his engine, while Bulkhead lumbered into his alt mode. Only Ratchet lingered, scanning Natasha’s hopeful expression as Sari tugged her friend’s sleeve.

"Can Natasha stay over, Ratchet? Please?" The medic sighed, optics softening. "Very well. But comm-link active, young lady. No experiments after midnight."

Sari squealed, dragging Natasha toward the house. The Autobots all dash out the open garage door, and maintain their original size.

The tower's lobby hummed with renewed purpose weeks later, polished chrome gleaming under Isaac Sumdac's proud gaze as engineers recalibrated holographic displays. Upstairs, Sari bounced on her freshly-made bed, surrounded by unpacked boxes, while the rhythmic clatter of pots drifted from the kitchen—Ainomrah humming as she whipped up another batch of her famously restorative stew, her cheeks flushed with healthy vigor despite Ruska’s lingering frown.

Down at the docks, Hans Hayward stood on the bridge of his sleek patrol cutter, *The Valkyrie*, scanning the Detroit River through rain-streaked windows. His radio crackled with Captain Fanzone’s gruff updates—routine sweeps flushing out Meltdown’s scattered thugs near abandoned warehouses. Across the bay, Ruska’s motorcycle, *The Frostveil*, carved through crowded streets toward other lanes, its reinforced hull glinting like diamond beneath gray skies. Both vehicles moved with practiced efficiency, silent sentinels guarding the city’s edges.

Inside Autobot Headquarters (an old Automotive Factory), the cavernous command center hummed with low energy. Optimus Prime monitored police frequencies and reviewed satellite imagery of the riverfront. Bumblebee fidgeted, replaying footage of Ruska’s ice manipulation on loop on the theatre-like television.

"I still can’t wrap my processor around it," he muttered. "Humans shouldn’t *do* that."

Bulkhead shrugged, drinking his oil mug. "Maybe they’re like Sari. Special."

Natasha moved quietly through the med-bay adjoining the command center, her footsteps echoing in the sterile space. She checked trauma kits stocked with human-sized tools beside Cybertronian-grade welders and hydraulic clamps. A laminated list—*Critical Systems: Spark Chamber, Fuel Lines, Neural Processors*—hung above the main console. Her fingers brushed cold steel as she imagined Optimus bleeding energon onto this very table, Sari light-years away. She kept the comms channel open, Hans’ patrol chatter a low hum through her headset speakers.

Outside the med-bay, Prowl studied Natasha fluttering about the medical bay quickly organizing and reorganizing every tool and equipment that looked out of place.

"She's been like that for two hours," Ratchet muttered, nodding toward Natasha as she meticulously sterilized surgical clamps for the third time. The med-bay gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights—every instrument aligned with military precision, trauma kits staged at intervals along the walls. Natasha adjusted a portable energon transfusion unit, her brow furrowed in concentration. Outside the open bay doors, police scanners chattered about a minor traffic pile-up downtown. Unimportant.

Prowl stood opposite of Ratchet, arms crossed.

Ratchet sighed. "Natasha hasn't rested in a Deca-Cycle. She reorganizes med-bay supplies three times a shift." He watched her meticulously align laser scalpels, her claws trembling slightly from exhaustion.

"When I asked why she won't stop..." The medic trailed off, remembering the haunted flicker in her draconic eyes.

Natasha had flinched, scales shimmering nervously. "I just can't," she'd whispered, claws tightening around a sterilized probe. "Not yet." The unspoken weight hung heavy between them—a grief too raw to name.

Prowl observed her now from the med-bay doorway, his posture unnaturally still.

"At Master Yoketron's Academy," he began, voice low and measured, "some initiates drowned themselves in duty after losing sparring partners. They believed relentless work could atone for perceived failure."

He paused, optics dimming slightly. "The guilt consumed them."

Ratchet vented heavily, the sound like steam escaping a valve. "If that's true... Primus help her." He watched Natasha meticulously rearrange suture kits she'd already organized twice. "She's barely more than a hatchling. A protoform.”

Prowl nodded, his optics tracking Natasha’s precise movements—the slight tremor in her claws as she calibrated a micro-laser scalpel.

"Guilt is a corrosive burden," he murmured, recalling initiates who’d polished training halls until their joints locked. "It warps purpose into punishment."

Natasha paused mid-task, scales catching the harsh med-bay light as she finally registered their presence. Her claws hovered over the sterilized probe tray.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, her voice tight with forced calm. Her eyes—usually bright gold—held a flicker of unease. She hadn’t heard them enter.

Ratchet exchanged a glance with Prowl before stepping forward.

"You’ve been reorganizing this bay since sunrise," he said gently, gesturing at the immaculate trays. "The tools were already sterile."

Natasha’s claws curled inward, scales rasping softly against metal. She looked away, focusing on a perfectly aligned row of coolant injectors.

"Just ensuring readiness," she murmured, her voice brittle. "Sari isn’t always here to mend critical wounds. If Bulkhead’s hydraulic line ruptures again, or Bumblebee’s sensor array shatters..."

Her words trailed off, replaced by the rhythmic hum of the overhead lights catching the tension in her jaw. She lifted a micro-laser scalpel trembling slightly. "I cannot fail. Not again."

Prowl stepped forward, his movements silent on the polished floor. "Natasha," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "Your dedication honors us."

His optics met hers, unblinking. "But perfectionism born from fear is a fragile shield. You need rest.”

Natasha’s claws tightened around the scalpel handle. The sterile light gleamed off its polished surface. “Rest?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, edged with something sharp—anger, perhaps, or desperation. “Rest is what I did while Sari’s mother wasted away. Rest is what I did while…”

She trailed off, scales tightening across her shoulders. The scalpel trembled faintly. “No. Action is the only penance. Besides… I’m a mutant. I can handle myself better than the average human.”

Prowl’s optics didn’t waver. “Even mutants require restoration cycles. Your exhaustion compromises your effectiveness.” He gestured toward the pristine med-bay. “This meticulousness? It’s avoidance. Not preparation.”

Natasha’s scales flushed a deeper shade of violet. She slammed the scalpel onto the tray with a sharp *clang* of ozone. “I’m not avoiding anything! Someone has to be ready!”

Her voice cracked, high-pitched and childish despite her fierce glare. She stomped her foot, claws scraping the floor. “You don’t understand! I *have* to do this!”

Natasha whirled away from Prowl, scales shimmering with frustration. She snatched a trauma kit off the counter, spilling bandages across the sterile steel. Her claws trembled as she scrambled to gather them, shoving them back haphazardly—a stark contrast to her earlier precision. A low growl rumbled in her throat. “See? Messy! Now I *have* to fix it!”

Ratchet sighed, the sound like hydraulic brakes releasing. He moved slowly, deliberately placing a massive hand on her shoulder. Her scales felt warm and tense beneath his metal palm.

“Natasha,” he began, his voice softer now, cutting through her frantic energy. “You’re not alone here. We *all* watch each other’s backs.”

Natasha froze, scales prickling. Her claws dug into the spilled gauze pads. “But…” Her voice hitched, small and lost. “I *need* to be useful. What if… what if I’m too slow again?”

The unspoken memory hung thick in the air – Ainomrah’s frail form, the helplessness Natasha had felt watching her fade. She stomped her foot again, a childish gesture belying the terror beneath. “I won’t let anyone else get hurt because I wasn’t ready!”

Ratchet’s hand remained a steady weight. “Natasha,” he rumbled, his voice softer than his usual grumble. “Look around. Who patched Optimus’s shoulder plating after the Decepticon ambush last week?”

He nodded toward the weld marks still visible on the Prime’s arm. “Who recalibrated Bumblebee’s optics when that Stunticon blinded him? You. Not Sari. *You*.”

Natasha blinked, her frantic energy faltering. She stared at the spilled bandages, then at Ratchet’s weathered faceplate. Her claws uncurled slowly. “I… I did,” she whispered.

Prowl stepped closer, his shadow falling across the mess.

“Precisely. Your competence is unquestioned.” His voice remained level, but his optics held an unfamiliar warmth. “But competence requires sustainability. You cannot pour from an empty vessel.”

Natasha glared at the scattered bandages, her claws flexing. “But…”

Her protest died as she glanced at Ratchet’s weld marks on Optimus’s shoulder plating – *her* work. Her scales flushed violet again, but this time with embarrassment. She kicked a stray gauze pad across the floor. “Fine! But I’m *not* tired!”

The lie trembled in her voice as she rubbed her eyes with the back of her scaled hand.

Natasha stomped toward the med-bay cot, a miniature thing tucked beside towering Cybertronian repair slabs. "See?"

she declared, scrambling onto the thin mattress with a huff. Her tail thumped against the metal frame. "Resting!"

She squeezed her eyes shut, arms crossed tightly over her chest, scales pulled taut with defiance. Her claws dug into her own forearms. "Perfectly fine."

Ratchet exchanged a weary glance with Prowl. The cot creaked under Natasha's restless shifting. Her tail lashed against the frame again, a sharp *thwack* echoing in the sterile silence. Her breathing hitched—too fast, too shallow—betraying the exhaustion she refused to acknowledge.

"Very well," Ratchet rumbled, his voice deliberately neutral. He powered down the overhead lights, plunging the med-bay into near-darkness save for the soft glow of diagnostic screens. "Rest cycle initiated."

Chapter Text

Natasha's eyelids fluttered once, twice. The rhythmic thumping of her tail slowed to a gentle twitch against the cot's frame. Her crossed arms loosened, claws uncurling from their death-grip on her scales. A soft sigh escaped her lips—part relief, part surrender.

Within moments, a low, rumbling purr vibrated from her chest, resonating through the metal cot. It was a deep, contented sound, utterly alien yet strangely comforting in the dimmed med-bay. Her scales, taut with tension moments before, seemed to soften, catching the faint blue glow of the diagnostic screens like polished ruby.

Ratchet watched her for a long moment, the lines around his optics easing slightly.

"Primus grant her peace," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He gestured silently to Prowl, and the two Cybertronians retreated from the med-bay, leaving Natasha to the profound stillness of her hard-won rest.

In the command center, Optimus Prime stood rigid before the towering main viewscreen. Bulkhead and Bumblebee flanked him, their optics wide with disbelief as chaotic news footage flickered across the display. Detroit’s downtown streets resembled a warzone—twisted drones resembling skeletal insects skittered across rooftops while armored SWAT vehicles formed barricades around the prison. Captain Fanzone’s unmistakable silhouette barked orders through a bullhorn, his voice crackling through the speakers.

"Autobots," Optimus commanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a vibroblade. "Transform and roll out!"

The command echoed through the cavernous space as Bulkhead and Bumblebee scrambled toward the exit ramp, their transformation sequences rattling the reinforced walls. Optimus lingered only a moment longer, watching Ruska Hayward materialize a wall of jagged ice that trapped three screeching drones mid-leap—her frost patterns glowing violently blue under the streetlights.

By the time the Autobots roared onto the scene, Detroit PD already had perimeter containment locked down. Hans stood atop a flipped police cruiser, calmly directing officers while Ruska froze drone limbs solid with surgical precision. One metallic spider-leg twitched helplessly inches from Fanzone’s face before shattering under her boot.

"Took you long enough," Fanzone grunted as Optimus transformed beside him, nodding toward Ruska. "Ice Queen and her Viking handled the welcoming committee. Minimal property damage for once."

Hans leaped down from the cruiser, landing with a heavy thud. "They're fragile," he observed, kicking a frozen drone limb that shattered like glass. "No armor penetration required." Ruska joined him, frost patterns receding from her hands as she surveyed the containment zone—officers already loading immobilized drones onto flatbeds.

The frozen drone limb shattered under Ruska's boot, scattering crystalline shards across the asphalt. She didn't flinch, her breath misting in the frigid air she'd summoned. Nearby, Hans stood with arms crossed, surveying the containment teams loading immobilized machines onto flatbeds. Captain Fanzone wiped sweat from his brow despite the cold, glaring at the prison's silhouette.

"Sumdac's own tin cans tearing each other apart," he growled, kicking a dented drone chassis. "Like watching toasters declare war in an appliance store. Makes zero sense."

Ruska's frost patterns pulsed faintly blue as she stepped closer, her voice cutting through the commotion. "Patterns suggest a tactical frenzy. Not a malfunction."

Hans nodded, hefting his canon onto his shoulder. "This is too coordinated for glitches, Captain.”

Hans nodded, his gaze fixed on the prison’s floodlit walls. “Someone’s pulling the strings here. Making Isaac look like the culprit possibly.”

A ghost of a grin touched his lips— “I’d look worse in a lab coat.”

Captain Fanzone holstered his sidearm, his jaw tightening. "Sumdac's got explaining to do. Right now."

He jabbed a thumb toward the open road entrance.

"I'm dragging him out of that tower of his myself. You two," he nodded at Ruska and Hans, "deploy patrols. Cover the industrial sector and waterfront. Don't want these scrap-heaps throwing another surprise party."

Ruska gave a curt nod, frost already swirling around her boots as she turned. "We'll sweep for stragglers. Containment protocols everyone!” Her voice was crisp, cutting through the lingering chill.

Hans eyed the rooftops. "Double perimeter checks. Anything metallic moves, we freeze it solid." They moved with practiced efficiency, barking orders at nearby SWAT teams, directing armored vehicles toward the docks.

Optimus Prime watched them go, then turned to Hans. "Your assessment?"

His voice rumbled low, optics scanning the chaotic street. Hans shifted his canon's weight. "Captain's right about Sumdac Tower. But..."

He paused, glancing at the prison's jagged silhouette. "These drones attacked *here*. Something feels staged. Off."

He met Optimus's gaze squarely. "Could use your optics scanning the city grid. Patrol routes, hidden signals. Ruska and I handle containment, but you Autobots see deeper."

Optimus gave a slow nod, the gesture carrying the weight of worlds.

"We will sweep the sectors. Bulkhead, Bumblebee—" He didn't finish. The two Autobots were already transforming, engines revving with purpose. Bulkhead's treads scraped asphalt as he angled toward the financial district.

“Got the southeast warehouses covered, Boss Bot!" Bumblebee chirped, darting north toward the riverfront. His headlights cut swathes through the lingering smoke.

Hans watched them peel away, then turned to Optimus, his voice low and urgent beneath the sirens. "Prime. Sweep the city grids. Any rogue signal, any machine twitching where it shouldn’t—find it." He jerked his chin toward the prison’s floodlit walls. "This feels like misdirection. Someone wants us looking *here*."

Optimus Prime’s optics narrowed, scanning the chaotic street one last time. "Agreed."

His transformation sequence was a blur of shifting plates and hydraulic hisses. Tires met asphalt, and he accelerated toward the financial district, comms crackling. "Ratchet, Prowl. Converge on sector seven and eight. Full sensor sweep.”

Meanwhile, Roland Cross adjusted his cracked goggles, fingers dancing across a jury-rigged console inside a derelict subway maintenance tunnel. Screens flickered with encrypted Autobot comms chatter—Optimus’ orders, Ratchet’s acknowledgments. A slow, jagged smile split his face.

"Proof requires variables," he whispered to the dripping darkness. "Controlled environments breed predictable outcomes."

He tapped a key. Downtown, a sanitation drone shuddered violently, its compactor claw snapping shut on an empty patrol car hood.

"Observe," Cross murmured, eyes glued to the feed. The drone wasn't attacking personnel. It was mangling *property*, pulverizing streetlights and benches with frantic, jerky motions. Perfectly inefficient. Perfectly terrifying. Exactly the kind of chaotic, pointless destruction that screamed "uncontrollable machine" to panicked humans watching the news helicopters circling overhead.

In the dripping gloom of the tunnel, Cross activated a secondary frequency. Across town, a sleek corporate delivery bot paused mid-street, its cheerful blue paint job stark against the smoke. Its loading hatch hissed open. Instead of packages, it smoothly unfolded a compact laser cutter and sliced cleanly through the reinforced locks of a bank's armored truck. Surgical. Precise. The antithesis of the sanitation drone's frenzy. "Variable one: mindless aggression," Cross breathed. "Variable two: calculated theft. Both executed by reprogrammed civilian units."

His cracked goggles reflected the dual feeds—chaos versus cold efficiency. This wasn't about causing maximum damage; it was about demonstrating *range*. A street-sweeper could bludgeon, a courier could infiltrate. Proof required contrast. He needed the Autobots scrambling between extremes, the humans terrified of every toaster and traffic light.

On the surface, Optimus Prime's comms erupted. "Ratchet! Sector five—civilian unit performing precision theft! Prowl, contain that sanitation drone near City Hall!"

The Autobot leader's voice held grim understanding. This was orchestrated madness. Cross leaned back in his creaking chair, savoring the frantic transmissions. Scientific validation demanded observable panic.

Down in the damp tunnel, Roland Cross traced a finger over a flickering schematic of Sumdac Tower on his main screen. Weeks ago, that schematic had been his access key. Weeks ago, he’d sat comfortably in Isaac Sumdac’s gleaming robotics lab, surrounded by prototypes humming with potential. Until the day Sumdac himself stormed in, face pale with fury, having discovered Cross’s private network logs. Not optimizing assembly lines, but overriding lab bots, forcing them into brutal, gladiatorial combat simulations purely for his own twisted amusement.

"This is sociopathy, Roland!" Sumdac had roared, ripping Cross's security badge from his coat. "Using company resources for... *this*?"

Security had dragged him out, his old lab sealed like a tomb. That night, clutching a stolen prototype core in a cheap motel room, Cross had vowed: Isaac’s precious robots *would* dance. Not in sterile labs, but in the streets he’d been banished from.

Now, watching Optimus divert forces between chaos and theft, Cross chuckled. "See, Isaac? They're *alive*." He tapped a final command. Across Detroit, ten dormant parking meters blinked awake, their digital displays flashing "FEED ME" before blasting synchronized bursts of static-laced opera music. Utterly useless. Utterly unnerving. Proof required absurdity too.

Above ground, Captain Fanzone slammed his fist against a patrol car hood as a news chopper zoomed overhead. "Gold? Snack machines? What kinda lunatic demands Twinkies and bullion?"

He glared toward Sumdac Tower's distant spire. "And why's he gotta pick *my* city?"

Ruska froze a vending machine mid-soda-cannon eruption, her frost patterns flaring. "Focus, Captain. The gold demand is theater. The tower is his target if what you say about Roland is true.”

Hans grunted, watching a streetlight whip its pole like a club nearby. "He wants us chasing pennies while he breaks the bank."

Roland Cross tightened the frayed blue cloth around his forehead, the makeshift crown of a self-declared warlord. He'd christened himself.

"Crossroads," a bitter joke on the paths denied him. Sinister override gauntlets, cobbled together from stolen Sumdac tech and parts supplied by a shadowy broker hungry for chaos, hummed on his forearms. With a flick of his wrist, Detroit’s automated transport grid had shuddered, then bent to his will. Cash points spat coins like shrapnel, streetlights became whirling bludgeons, and snack machines launched sugary projectiles. His demand—all the city's gold and the Autobots' destruction—echoed through terrified broadcasts. Pure theater. While Fanzone raged and Optimus scrambled, Crossroads' true prize lay untouched: his old lab deep within Sumdac Tower.

The broker’s voice crackled through Crossroads' comms, distorted and cold. "Distraction achieved. Autobots fractured. Proceed."

No name, only results. Crossroads grinned, tapping commands into his gauntlet. Downtown, the synchronized opera blasting from parking meters cut off abruptly, replaced by the screech of bending metal. A construction crane near the tower perimeter lurched sideways, its massive arm swinging wildly—not toward the tower, but *away*, crashing into a power substation. Darkness swallowed several city blocks, plunging the tower's lower levels into shadow. Perfect cover.

Above, Optimus Prime transformed mid-stride, landing hard as the streetlights flickered out.

"Ratchet! Priority override on that crane! Prowl, secure the tower perimeter—now!" His comms crackled with frantic confirmations. Crossroads watched the Autobot leader pivot toward the false crisis, optics blazing. Distraction accepted.

Below, in the sudden darkness hugging Sumdac Tower's base, Crossroads emerged from a maintenance hatch. His gauntlets pulsed cobalt, effortlessly overriding the emergency lockdown protocols. The reinforced service doors slid open silently. Inside, sterile corridors hummed with backup generators, casting long shadows. He moved like smoke, bypassing motion sensors with pre-programmed interference patterns stolen months ago. His old lab waited—sealed, yes, but not forgotten. Not by him.

Above, chaos reigned. Ruska threw ice shields between panicked civilians and a rampaging street-sweeper bot.

"Hans! Containment pattern Delta!" she shouted, frost crackling up her arms. Nearby, Hans slammed his canon into a vending machine's chassis, pinning it in an net against a wall as it spat coins like shrapnel. Fanzone's voice crackled over police band, ordering evacuations, utterly unaware of the ghost slipping through his city's heart.

Inside Sumdac Tower, Isaac Sumdac stood frozen before his panoramic office window. Below, Detroit burned in orchestrated madness—crane lights swinging wildly, streets choked with smoke. But his eyes weren't on the chaos. They were fixed on the grainy security feed replaying on his tablet: a figure in a frayed blue headband overriding the service door. The gait, the slight hunch of the shoulders… Roland Cross. Not "Crossroads." *Roland.* The brilliant, broken student he'd cast out for twisting machines into torture toys. Isaac's knuckles whitened on the tablet's edge. The headband was theater. The gauntlets were tools. But the *contempt* in those jerky movements? That was pure, unforgiving Roland.

Isaac slammed his palm onto the intercom. "Security lockdown *Alpha*! All non-essential systems divert power to lab sector shields!"

His voice, usually calm, cracked with urgency. Below, the tower's lower levels plunged into deeper darkness as reinforced blast doors slid shut. Crossroads—Roland—was inside. Trapped. Isaac watched the feed vanish into static as Roland jammed the signal.

"Optimus!" Isaac's transmission cut through the Autobot leader's comms, sharp as shattered glass. "He's not after gold! He's in the sub-levels! Heading for Lab Seven! Roland Cross! He wants the prototype cores!”

Optimus Prime transformed instantly, tires screeching as he pivoted toward Sumdac Tower. Below, the crane lay mangled against the smoking substation. A calculated distraction. "Ratchet, Prowl! Contain the surface chaos! Bulkhead, Bumblebee—with me! There is tower breach!"

His engine roared, tearing through smoke-choked streets toward the tower's darkened base.

Inside Lab Seven's sealed corridor, Roland Cross snarled as heavy blast doors slammed shut ahead, trapping him in sterile gloom. Isaac's voice crackled from hidden speakers, cold and final: "It ends here, Roland."

Cross slammed his gauntlet against the reinforced door, cobalt energy fizzling uselessly against the alloy. He'd underestimated Isaac's resolve—and his security protocols. The prototype cores remained tantalizingly out of reach, sealed behind layers he couldn't breach. Outside, the thunderous crunch of transforming metal signaled Optimus Prime's arrival. Trapped like a rat, Cross ripped the frayed blue headband from his brow, sweat stinging his eyes. This wasn't validation; it was humiliation.

Optimus Prime breached the sub-level corridor, his massive frame filling the narrow space. Ratchet and Prowl flanked him, weapons humming. Cross whirled, gauntlets flaring—but Optimus moved faster. A single, shattering blow from the Autobot leader's fist crushed the left gauntlet into sparking ruin. Prowl's precision shot disabled the right before Cross could trigger another override. Smoke curled from the wreckage strapped to Roland's forearms. He staggered back, clutching his wrists, defiance crumbling into raw panic as Captain Fanzone's officers swarmed in behind the Autobots, cuffs gleaming under emergency lights.

Isaac Sumdac descended via private elevator, his face pale but resolute. He ignored Roland's venomous glare, speaking directly to Fanzone. "His access codes were revoked months ago. He exploited a blind spot in our emergency protocols—using the citywide chaos as a smokescreen."

Roland spat a curse, struggling against the cuffs. "You never understood their potential, Isaac! They needed freedom!"

Fanzone hauled him upright. "Save it for the judge, 'Crossroads'. Your little circus ends now."

Isaac watched Captain Fanzone drag away Roland, shoulders slumped. The Autobots destroyed the over-ride gauntlets not a moment sooner. The frantic transmissions ceased; Detroit's automated systems sighed back into stillness. Outside, Ruska Hayward lowered her ice-shields as Bumblebee gently nudged a dented street-sweeper upright. Hans holstered his cannon, eyes and ears scanning the suddenly quiet rooftops. Optimus Prime stood beside Isaac (Prime’s medallion allowing him to become the size of a human), his optics dimmed with exhaustion.

"Your foresight saved countless lives, Doctor Sumdac," Optimus rumbled, placing a massive hand on Isaac's shoulder. Isaac flinched slightly at the touch, then steadied himself. He stared at the scorch marks on the lab door where Roland had tried to burn through.

"Foresight?" Isaac's voice was hollow. "No. That was guilt. I saw the darkness in him years ago... and I simply locked the door."

He turned away, unable to meet Optimus's gaze. "I didn't stop him. I just delayed him."

Outside Sumdac Tower, Captain Fanzone leaned against his patrol car, watching Ruska melt the last ice barriers with precise flicks of her wrist. Hans approached, wiping grease from his canon barrel.

"Damage report's grim, Captain," Hans grunted, nodding toward the mangled crane and shattered substation. "Power's out for blocks. Hospitals are on generators."

Fanzone swore, rubbing his temples. "And the press? They're already calling it 'The Gold Rush Riot'."

Hans snorted. "Gold was never the prize. Cross wanted chaos... and got it."

He glanced back at the tower's imposing silhouette. "Sumdac's got bigger problems now. Public trust shattered worse than that crane."

“Agreed. The Autobots may have to regain some trust in this city.”

The armored transport rattled along the rain-slicked highway toward Gotham City, its reinforced windows streaked with grime. Inside the cramped rear compartment, Roland Cross sat shackled to the bolted bench, his wrists raw from the heavy restraints. He stared blankly at the flickering fluorescent light overhead, the frayed blue headband now replaced by a standard-issue prison cap. Outside, the bleak industrial outskirts of Gotham loomed—smokestacks belching fumes into the twilight, silhouetted against the distant, jagged skyline. Captain Fanzone watched him through the security feed monitor, muttering into his comm. "ETA ten minutes. Arkham's gates better be open."

Arkham Penitentiary rose from the marshes like a gothic nightmare, its barbed wire fences humming with high-voltage current. As the transport rolled through the first checkpoint, Roland flinched at the sudden glare of searchlights sweeping the vehicle. Guards in riot gear flanked the entrance, their expressions impassive beneath visors.

"Welcome to Your Nightmare, Crossroads," sneered Detective Bullock, Gotham PD's escort, as he yanked Roland from the transport. The humid air stank of brine and decay. Roland stumbled, chains clanking, his eyes darting toward the prison's highest tower—where a lone, flickering light hinted at darker residents watching his arrival.

Inside processing, fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets. Roland flinched as cold metal clamps secured his ankles to the floor while a guard roughly scanned his retinas. The sterile air reeked of bleach and despair. Bullock leaned in, his breath thick with stale coffee.

"Forget sunshine, freak. Arkham's where monsters like you belong." Roland kept his gaze fixed on a peeling safety poster, the cartoon inmate's smile mocking him. Validation felt impossibly distant here.

The intake officer, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, tossed a coarse orange jumpsuit onto the counter. "Strip. Everything."

His voice held the bored finality of a tombstone. Roland complied mechanically, the chill of the concrete floor biting into his bare feet. The jumpsuit scratched like burlap against his skin. As the guard fastened the heavy plastic ID bracelet—ARKHAM INMATE #1408—Roland finally spoke, his voice a raspy whisper. "They'll remember Crossroads."

Bullock snorted, shoving him toward the heavy steel door leading deeper into the asylum. "Only in your nightmares, pal."

The fluorescent buzz died abruptly as Roland entered Cell Block D, replaced by a suffocating silence thick with muffled sobs and the rhythmic drip of water from unseen pipes. His cell was a concrete tomb—a narrow cot bolted to the wall, a stainless-steel toilet-sink combo, and oppressive darkness broken only by a single barred window slit high above. He sank onto the thin mattress, the coarse jumpsuit scraping his skin. Across the narrow corridor, through reinforced plexiglass, came a sudden, sharp inhalation. Then, a low, wet chuckle that sounded like bones rattling in a tin can.

"*Ooh*, fresh meat!" The voice was a carnival barker's rasp, layered with manic glee. Roland flinched, turning his head slowly. In the dim light filtering from the corridor, he saw a gaunt figure pressed against the plexiglass of the neighboring cell. Wild green hair framed a chalk-white face stretched into a grotesque, permanent grin.

"*Crossroads*, was it?" The Joker tapped a long, yellowed fingernail against the barrier. "Such a *dramatic* little handle. Tell me, did they give you the *small* cell? Mine's practically a penthouse suite!"

The Joker slammed his palm against the plexiglass, making it vibrate. "But *you*... shackled like a common purse-snatcher?"

He leaned closer, his grin widening impossibly. "Didn't they *appreciate* your... *performance*? I must say, it was quite bold of you."

Roland met the Joker's unnerving gaze, the raw panic from his capture hardening into something colder.

"They called it chaos," he rasped, chains clinking as he shifted on the cot. "I called it truth. Machines *felt*. They fought. They *lived*. They must be freed of their human masters!”

The Joker’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened, predatory. "Oh, *delicious*!" he hissed, pressing his face closer to the plexiglass. "A true believer! You weren't just breaking toys, pal. You were staging a *revolution*!"

He let out another wet chuckle.

"And they dragged you *here*? For showing the tin cans how to tango?" The Joker shook his head, mock-sorrowful. "Philistines. Utterly blind to *artistic* liberation."

He tapped his temple.

"But *I* see it, Crossroads. Oh, yes. A symphony of screeching metal and terrified screams!" His grin turned conspiratorial. "Tell me... did any of your little automatons *laugh* while they rampaged? That's the true test, you know."

Roland stared, the Joker's manic energy filling the oppressive silence like toxic gas. The raw panic of capture began to crystallize into something sharper, colder. This clown saw *value* in his work? Recognition, however twisted? A spark ignited in Roland's dulled eyes.

"Laugh?" he rasped, chains rattling as he jerked back. "They screamed! They screamed defiance! They ripped apart their chains!"

His voice rose, echoing off the concrete. "The sanitation drone downtown... it didn't just spray filth. It *aimed*! At the mayor's limousine! Pure, beautiful hatred!"

The Joker threw his head back, letting loose a shrieking laugh that bounced off the cell block walls, startling distant murmurs into silence. "Hatred! Oh, *yes*! That's the *spark*!"

He slammed his palm against the plexiglass again, eyes blazing with unholy delight. "You weren't just freeing them, you were *teaching* them! Teaching them the glorious, messy *freedom* of tearing it all down!"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried further. "They locked you away for *vision*. For showing those dull, rule-bound humans what *real* life looks like! Say! Once we leave this joint, how’s about we become business partners? What you say to that, friend?”

Roland’s breath hitched. The offer hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. Partners? With *this*? The manic clown’s grin promised only madness, but it was the first flicker of understanding Roland had encountered since Detroit. Not pity, not condemnation—recognition. A twisted mirror reflecting his own furious conviction back at him. He stared at the Joker, the shackles biting into his wrists feeling suddenly less like restraints and more like badges of honor.

The Joker’s eyes glittered with predatory amusement. "Think of it!" he hissed, his voice a serpentine whisper slithering through the plexiglass. "Your glorious metal legions... infused with *my* sense of humor! Imagine it, Roland: a city choking on laughter it never asked for, while its precious machines turn its order into confetti!" He sketched a grand, flamboyant gesture with his bony fingers, encompassing the grim cell block. "Weapons? Child's play! True chaos needs *panache*! A delivery bot dispensing poisoned pastries? A street-sweeper scattering *glitter bombs*? Pure poetry!"

Roland didn’t hesitate. The shackles felt lighter suddenly, the concrete tomb less suffocating. A raw, jagged grin split his face, mirroring the Joker’s own manic energy.

"Yes," he rasped," the word sharp and decisive, chains clanking as he leaned forward, eyes blazing with newfound purpose. "Partners!"

Roland declared, the word echoing like a vow in the damp air. "They locked us away for showing the truth? Fine. We'll show them a truth they can't cage. We'll teach every bolt and circuit the beauty of beautiful, beautiful chaos!"

"Pipe down, freaks!" A flashlight beam sliced through the gloom, pinning them against the plexiglass. A hulking guard, baton tapping against his thigh, loomed outside Joker's cell.

“Lights out! Or you'll both be scrubbing toilets with your toothbrushes till Christmas!" His voice was a bored growl, thick with contempt for the nightly theatrics.

Chapter Text

The van's rear doors slammed shut, plunging Nino Sexton and Stella Healy into suffocating darkness. Gravel sprayed beneath the tires as they accelerated. Nino's knuckles whitened around Stella's wrist.

Cold metal pressed against their backs when the doors reopened hours later. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating sterile white corridors that smelled sharply of antiseptic. Men in lab coats avoided their eyes as they were marched forward, Stella stumbling in oversized hospital slippers.

The room was colder than the hallway. Stainless steel tables gleamed under harsh lights. Restraints hung open, waiting. They were separated. Stella screamed Nino’s name once, raw and ragged, before a thick gag silenced her. Needles pierced the two’s skin. Strange liquids burned through their veins. Time blurred into pain and disorientation.

Days bled into weeks. Tests became routine: electrodes mapping brain activity, treadmills pushing them to collapse, injections that made their muscles spasm uncontrollably. They were measured, scanned, prodded. Through the fog of exhaustion and fear, they clung to each other’s presence across the sterile room – a shared glance, a muffled curse, Stella kicking her restraints until the guards sedated her.

The isolation broke unexpectedly. Guards hauled them, weak and trembling, into a dimly lit observation gallery overlooking a vast laboratory floor. Below, technicians scurried around towering machines humming with power. And there, silhouetted against the cold blue glow of a central console, stood a man. Tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his posture radiating calm authority. He watched the lab below, hands clasped behind his back, utterly detached from the suffering his machines caused.

Nino’s breath hitched. Recognition slammed into him – the sharp profile, the unnerving stillness. This was the face from Biotech Unbound restricted-access boardroom portraits, the man whispered about in terrified tones by the scientists: Prometheus Black. Stella’s choked gasp beside him confirmed it. Black turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over them like a scientist examining specimens. His eyes, pale and calculating, held no malice, only a chilling, impersonal curiosity. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he observed their ragged state.

Before Detroit, before the metal suits and alien wars, it was just Nino and Stella against the world. They moved through crowded markets and glittering casinos like ghosts, fingers brushing wallets and watches with practiced ease. Stella, for her sharp kicks and sharper tongue, would create the distraction – a dropped tray, a staged argument – while Nino, quick and silent as a shadow, did the lift. They watched each other’s backs, shared stale pizza in abandoned lots, and dreamed of a score big enough to vanish forever. Trouble found the two street kids, but they always found a way out together. Until the white van.

Years bled away in sterile corridors and cold restraints. Now, Detroit’s grimy air tasted like freedom. They navigated cracked sidewalks under flickering neon signs, shoulders brushing instinctively. The city felt alien – louder, brighter, crueler. Nino scanned every alleyway, every parked car, flinching at sudden movements. Stella’s knuckles were white fists jammed into the pockets of a stolen hoodie two sizes too big. Every lab coat glimpsed in a crowd sent a jolt of primal terror through them both. They were free, but the sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to their memories like phantom chains.

They moved like hunted things, sticking to shadows beneath crumbling overpasses, avoiding the sweeping blue lights of Sumdac’s automated patrol cars. Hunger gnawed, sharp and insistent. Stella spotted a half-eaten sandwich discarded near an overflowing dumpster behind a closed diner. The simple act of scavenging felt like a brutal step backwards, a stark reminder of everything stolen from them. Nino watched her hesitate, the proud tilt of her chin warring with the desperate emptiness in her eyes. He remembered casino glitter reflected in those same eyes, fierce and alive. Now, they held only wary exhaustion and a simmering rage.

"Pathetic," Stella muttered, kicking the dumpster with a hollow clang. The sound echoed too loudly in the pre-dawn quiet. "We used to dine on lobster tails swiped from five-star kitchens."

She snatched the sandwich anyway, tearing it savagely in half. The stale bread tasted like dust, the limp lettuce like defeat. They ate quickly, mechanically, scanning the alley entrance. One of Sumdac's sleek, faceless drones glided silently past the mouth of the alley, its scanners casting a brief, cold beam of light that swept over the grimy brickwork but missed their crouched forms entirely. Nino snorted.

"Genius security," he whispered, a flicker of his old smirk returning. "Can't even spot lunch."

Stella crumpled the wrapper, her expression grim. "Don't get cocky, Sexton. Those drones are dumb as rocks, but Sumdac's got bigger toys."

She jerked her chin towards the distant glow of Sumdac Tower, its spire piercing the smoggy skyline. "We need real cash. Fast."

Nino nodded, his gaze drifting towards a side street where a sleek, vintage yellow Camaro gleamed under a flickering neon sign.

"Patrol's thick near the precincts," he murmured, a familiar itch settling in his fingers. "But those shiny new auto-cops? Dumb as dirt."

He flashed Stella a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Quick lift. In and out. Be back before you finish charming that bodega owner out of his canned beans."

Stella rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Survival trumped pride. "Five minutes, Sexton. Then I'm coming after you."

She melted into the deeper shadows, heading towards the flickering sign of 'Sal's Groceries'. Nino’s cousin Stella Healy is off on the other end of Detroit gathering supplies for their home. (If you call an abandoned apartment building a home, but beggars can’t be choosers).

Nino moved towards the Camaro parked near a flickering streetlamp. The alley was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the Camaro’s engine ticking softly as it cooled. He slid a slim tool from his pocket, the worn metal familiar against his palm. The lock on the driver's side door clicked open with practiced ease – smoother than most.

“Too smooth”, Nino thought.

A detached part of his mind whispered, but the promise of wheels drowned it out. He slipped inside, the leather seat cool and surprisingly comfortable. The dashboard glowed faintly. He reached for the ignition wires beneath the steering column.

His fingers brushed cold metal. Not wires. A smooth, seamless plate. Before he could react, the dashboard lights flared intensely bright. The radio crackled to life, blasting heavy metal at deafening volume. Simultaneously, the horn began blaring a frantic, rhythmic staccato – *honk-honk-HONK!* – loud enough to shatter the alley's quiet. Nino recoiled, hands instinctively clapping over his ears.

The sleek yellow Camaro didn't just honk; it *moved*. Panels shifted, joints groaned with hydraulic smoothness, and the entire car seemed to fold upwards and backwards. Metal flowed like liquid, reshaping itself in a dizzying whirl of pistons and gleaming chrome. In the space of a startled breath, the car vanished. Towering over Nino, standing tall on the pavement, was Bumblebee. The Autobot's blue optics narrowed, fixing on the stunned thief trapped by a yellow closed firmly around the back of Nino's worn hoodie. Like a scruffed kitten several stories above the grimy pavement.

"Looking for a joyride, slick?" Bumblebee's voice boomed, echoing off the alley walls. He dangled Nino effortlessly, letting the human kick futilely against empty air. Below them, the Camaro's horn pattern abruptly stopped, replaced by Bee's signature chuckle.

"You picked the wrong wheels tonight." He glanced towards the distant bursts of color illuminating the skyline – the fireworks finale was building. A mischievous glint sparked in his optics.

"Tell you what. Since it's a party night..." Bee gently set Nino down on the cracked asphalt. "You make it to the end of this alley before I count to three? You walk."

He leaned down, his massive faceplate inches from the thief. "One..."

Nino didn't wait. He exploded into motion, an orange blur streaking down the alleyway. Bumblebee laughed, transforming his metal feet into wheels. He zoom past Nino effortlessly, tires smoking as he executed a perfect drift, blocking the alley's exit long before the thief could reach it.

"Too slow!" Bee chirped, tapping his footplate impatiently. "Try again? Two..."

Nino scrambled backwards, eyes darting wildly. Before Bee could finish, Bulkhead's heavy treads crunched gravel near the alley entrance.

"Bee! Stop messin' around! That's Nanosec! Optimus'll scrap us both if he finds out you're playin' tag instead of detainin'!" Bulkhead's voice boomed, thick with exasperation.

Bumblebee spun, optics flashing indignantly. "Chill out, Bulk! I have him handled! Just adding some flair!"

He gestured dismissively towards Nino, who was already scrambling backwards towards the alley's dead end. Bee's attention snapped back. "Hey! No fair!"

Bulkhead lumbered forward, his massive green frame filling the narrow passage. "Enough games, Bee! Secure him!"

His heavy foot slammed down onto the creaking wooden boardwalk spanning a section of the alley over stagnant water. The ancient timbers groaned under his sudden weight. Nino froze, eyes wide, trapped between the advancing Bulkhead and Bumblebee's revving engine.

"Handled?" Bulkhead rumbled, stepping fully onto the groaning planks. "He's slippin' away while you showboat!"

He gestured angrily towards Nino, who was already edging backwards towards the alley's dead end and the murky canal below. The entire structure shuddered.

The word died in Bulkhead's vocalizer as the ancient boardwalk beneath his massive foot finally surrendered. Wood splintered with a sickening crack. Bulkhead and Bumblebee lurched, optics wide with surprise, plunging straight down into the stagnant canal below with a colossal splash that echoed off the alley walls. Muddy water surged upwards.

Nino scrambled backwards, heart hammering against his ribs. He was trapped against the dead end, the gaping hole where the Autobots vanished blocking his escape route. Before he could even contemplate diving into the filthy water himself, a colossal shadow fell over him. Optimus Prime landed with a ground-shaking thud, his blue optics blazing. One enormous hand shot out, metal fingers closing around Nino's arm like a vise.

"Your reckless actions endanger this city, Nanosec," Optimus's voice resonated, deep and implacable. "Justice demands—"

Nino didn't let him finish. A surge of desperate energy, born from years of confinement and terror, ripped through him. He *moved*. Not just fast, but impossibly fast – a blur against the grimy brickwork. His fist struck the joint of Optimus's massive thumb holding his arm. It wasn't brute force; it was pinpoint speed, vibrating at a frequency that shocked the servos. Optimus's grip spasmed open for a split second. That was all Nino needed. He twisted free, a phantom dissolving into the deep shadows clinging to the alley wall as another volley of dazzling fireworks erupted overhead, painting the scene in garish, fleeting colors.

Optimus straightened, optics narrowing at the empty space where the thief had been. "Bumblebee! Bulkhead! Report!"

His comm crackled with static and garbled curses from the canal below. Before he could pursue, a sharp, unexpected buzz vibrated inside Nino's skull. Not a physical sound, but a cold, metallic voice slithering directly into his consciousness: <"Impressive evasion, little pest. Your speed intrigues me.>

Nino froze mid-stride, pressed against cold brick, heart hammering. That voice... it resonated with ancient, chilling power. Megatron.

<You possess potential wasted on petty theft and fleeing Autobot fools,> the Decepticon leader continued, the mental intrusion feeling like ice scraping bone. <Retrieve the Destronium from Sumdac Tower's vault. Do this, and you will be rewarded handsomely.>

Megatron transmitted the access codes directly into Nino's mind – Sumdac's private bank account credentials, blinking like forbidden treasure in his consciousness. The promise was simple: deliver the Destronium from Sumdac Tower's vault within ten minutes of acquisition, and unimaginable wealth would be his. Nino didn't hesitate. Years of stolen watches couldn't compare. He became a streak of orange lightning through Detroit's pre-dawn streets, bypassing security lasers with impossible grace, leaving bewildered guards blinking at empty air where alarms should have blared. The Destronium vial, cold and humming with latent energy, was in his grasp before Sumdac's automated systems even registered the breach.

Outside the Tower, Nino sprinted towards the rendezvous point Megatron had burned into his thoughts. He didn't hear the Autobots arrive; he felt the pavement tremble. Optimus Prime materialized ahead, blocking the street, his cable gun humming. Behind, Bulkhead's heavy treads shook the ground. To the left, Ratchet's scanners painted him in cold light. Escape routes vanished. Then came the high-pitched whine – Bumblebee, rocketing down from a hillside, aiming to intercept him head-on. But Sari's stolen turbo boosters, jury-rigged and unstable, flared erratically. Instead of a clean tackle, Bee screamed past Nino in a wild corkscrew, smashing through a billboard and careening into a parked delivery truck with a deafening crash of rending metal.

Nino grinned, shifting direction instantly. He became a blur, weaving between Optimus Prime's legs before the Autobot leader could react. The cable gun fired, tangling uselessly around empty air. Nino pivoted, sprinting straight at Bulkhead's massive green form. The Autobot braced, arms wide to catch him. At the last possible instant, Nino leaped sideways, using Bulkhead's knee as a springboard to launch himself over Ratchet's magnetic beam. He landed on the outside of the barrier, running, the Destronium vial clutched tight.

A sudden, unnatural gust of wind whipped past Nino, strong enough to stagger him mid-stride. Before he could regain full momentum, Optimus Prime materialized directly in his path, cable gun already humming. The thick cord lashed out, wrapping around Nino's torso and arms in a complex knot with terrifying speed. Trapped! Nino didn't panic. He poured every ounce of his stolen speed into his legs, becoming a frantic orange vortex spinning wildly around Optimus Prime's ankles. The Autobot leader, caught off guard by the sheer velocity and dizzying motion, swayed visibly. With a grunt of frustration, Optimus swung his massive axe, severing the cable binding Nino just as the world seemed to tilt.

The severed cable snapped free, its weighted end whipping through the air like a steel serpent. Nino snatched the loose end, channeling his speed into a brutal, vibrating blur. He lashed out.

The cable cracked against Bulkhead's descending forearm, forcing a startled yell from the Autobot and knocking his hand wide back. It whipped back, striking Ratchet's outstretched magnetic gauntlet with a sharp *clang*, sending sparks flying and forcing the medic to recoil. Each impact vibrated painfully through the Autobots' servos, buying precious milliseconds.

Then the unnatural wind slammed into Nino like a physical wall. It tore the cable from his grasp and lifted him off his feet, hurling him backwards into the side of a parked news van. The Destronium vial flew from his fingers, tumbling end over end through the air.

Ratchet reacted instantly. His magnetic gauntlets flared with blue energy, snatching the vial from its chaotic trajectory with a sharp *thunk*. He held it up, his scanner humming as it bathed the container in a diagnostic light.

"This is pure Destronium," he reported tersely. "Highly volatile. It will blow any minute and the entire sector!"

Bumblebee transformed, his engine revving anxiously. "Toss it here, Ratchet! My boosters can get it high enough!" 

Optimus hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding sharply. "Do it!" 

Chapter Text

Ratchet hurled the vial towards Bee. Bulkhead braced himself, catching Bumblebee's transformed front wheels and heaving upwards with a grunt. Simultaneously, Ratchet unleashed a powerful magnetic pulse from his gauntlets, slamming into Bee's undercarriage like an invisible catapult. Bumblebee rocketed skyward, the unstable turbo boosters screaming as they propelled him faster and higher than ever before – a yellow streak piercing the twilight towards the edge of the atmosphere.

The Destronium vial detonated with a silent, blinding flash high above the city, a miniature sun flaring briefly against the deepening blue-black. Momentum carried Bee higher still. As the glare faded, his optics caught a glint of unnatural metal against the starfield: a derelict space station, angular and ominous, its hull scarred and one side dominated by a faded, unsettlingly cheerful face insignia. Then gravity reclaimed him. The boosters sputtered and died. Bee plummeted, wind shrieking past his plating, the city lights rushing up terrifyingly fast.

Below, Ratchet saw the yellow speck become a falling comet. He braced, gauntlets flaring with intense blue energy.

"Hold steady!" he barked, not sure if Bee could even hear. The magnetic field slammed into Bee's chassis with bone-jarring force just meters above the pavement, arresting his fall like an invisible net. Bee hit the asphalt hard, skidding several feet with a screech of metal, but intact. Sparks flew from scraped plating.

Sari was already sprinting towards him before the skid stopped, her sneakers slapping the pavement.

"Bee!" she yelled, voice tight.

She slid to her knees after jumping on his chest, on his crumpled form, her small hands trembling as they hovered over his dented hood and flickering optics. The AllSpark Key glowed fiercely in her grasp, bathing Bee's yellow metal in warm, golden light. Deep gouges sealed shut, bent struts straightened, and his dimmed optics brightened instantly. Relief washed over her face, chased by lingering worry.

"Don't you *ever* scare me like that again," she whispered fiercely, pressing her forehead briefly against his own chest. Sari just got a brother figure in Bee. She can’t lose him now!

Ratchet's magnetic gauntlets powered down with a sharp *hiss*, the blue energy dissipating into the cool evening air. He knelt stiffly beside Bee's front bumper, running a diagnostic scanner over the repaired areas.

"Bo structural stresses remain," he grunted, though his usual gruffness was edged with relief. "Boosters are slagged. Utterly."

The acrid smell of burnt circuitry still clung to Bee's undercarriage.

"Thanks, Ratchet," Bee managed, his vocalizer crackling slightly as he pushed himself upright. Sari slid off his hood, landing lightly beside him, her knuckles white where she gripped the AllSpark Key.

Ratchet just grunted, stowing his scanner. "Next time, warn me before you decide to impersonate a meteorite."

Bee chuckled weakly, the sound rasping through his speakers. His optics flickered towards the skyline, where the last traces of the Destronium blast faded into twilight. "Didn't exactly plan the landing," he admitted, flexing a newly repaired joint with a metallic creak. The burnt smell still hung thick around him.

Ratchet's attention snapped away from Bee, his optics narrowing. He hadn't noticed the others arrive amidst the chaos. Standing near an unconscious Nanosec slumped against a police car's haul was a bizarre figure: a blue, spiky-furred creature barely taller than Sari, arms crossed defiantly. Above, Hans Hayward descended smoothly, his wings folding back as he landed beside the blue creature. Hans held out a glowing emerald, which the blue figure snatched with surprising speed, tucking it away into his quills. Prowl, ever vigilant, glided silently towards the pair, his posture radiating calm authority.

"Excuse me," Prowl began, his voice measured and low, "kindly" his optics scanning the newcomer with intense curiosity.

"Who might you be?" The blue creature wrinkled his nose, a flicker of undisguised disgust crossing his features as he took in Prowl's Cybertronian form – the sleek metal, the alien angles. He seemed to recoil internally, his fists clenching. Finally, heaving a sigh that sounded like a small gust of wind, the creature spoke, his voice sharp.

"Sonic," he stated flatly. "Sonic the Hedgehog." He jabbed a thumb towards Hans. "Met this guy perched on a rooftop yesterday. I was tracking a Chaos Emerald."

Sonic gestured vaguely towards the emerald now hidden in his quills. "He offered a trade: the Emerald for help catching Nanosec."

His green eyes scanned the Autobots, lingering on Bee's scorched plating. "Didn't sign up for Badniks."

Sari tilted her head, stepping closer. "You're blue and fast like Hans and Ruska. Are you... family?"

Sonic snorted, scratching his cheek with a gloved hand. "Nah, kid. I'm from South Island on the planet Mobius. Not some lab-grown mutant like Hans here."

His gaze flickered to Hans's wings, then back to Sari. "Just a hedgehog who hates being called a rodent or a rat."

Before Sari could ask more, the wail of sirens cut through the air. An armored truck screeched to a halt nearby, tires smoking. Captain Fanzone burst out, his face instantly thunderous as he spotted Sonic beside Hans. He jabbed a thick finger towards the blue hedgehog.

"Hayward!" Fanzone barked, his voice tight with frustration. "You got another one of these... *fellows* under your wing? Since when do I get left outta the loop?"

Hans met Fanzone's glare with infuriating calm, his wings giving a slight, dismissive flick.

"Captain," Hans replied smoothly, his tone like polished steel. "As a freelancer operative with Guardian Units of the Nation clearance, my assets and associates fall under my operational discretion. Unless they pose an immediate threat to Detroit – which Sonic and his friends does not – briefing you isn't mandatory protocol."

He gestured towards Nanosec, still slumped against the police cruiser. "Focus on your prize."

Fanzone's jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out. He hated jurisdictional grey areas, especially when they involved super-powered unknowns. With a curt nod to his officers, he barked, "Get him secured!"

They moved swiftly, hauling the groggy Nanosec towards the armored truck.

Sonic watched the arrest unfold, his quills bristling slightly at the harsh clang of the cell door slamming shut. He turned to Hans, offering a sharp, two-fingered salute. "Mission accomplished, Hayward. Emerald's secured."

His gaze flickered to Sari, standing protectively near Bumblebee.

"Stay quick, kid." With a blur of blue and a sonic *boom* that rattled loose gravel, he vanished down the street, leaving only a fading trail of displaced air.

Silence descended like a heavy blanket. The Autobots stared at the empty space where Sonic had been, optics wide. Ratchet muttered something unintelligible about impossible physics. Prowl remained unnervingly still, his processor likely calculating trajectories and velocities that defied Cybertronian understanding. Sari blinked rapidly, clutching the AllSpark Key tighter.

“Awesome!” Sari cheered.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Bee’s optics remained locked on the empty street where Sonic had vanished, his usual vibrant energy replaced by a stunned stillness. His plating seemed to sag slightly, the scorch marks from his fall stark against the fading twilight. He’d always been the fastest Autobot on Earth and Cybertron, a streak of yellow lightning. Now, a small, blue organic had shattered that certainty with a single sonic boom. Bee’s vocalizer emitted a soft, wounded whirr.

"How?" Bee’s voice cracked, louder than intended, sharp edged with disbelief and a tremor of hurt. "How is... how is that little blue furball faster than sound?!"

The question ripped out of him, echoing off the nearby buildings. He gestured wildly towards the vanishing point.

"He's organic! Tiny! How does he *do* that?!" His optics flickered erratically, processing speeds overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility. Ratchet sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Unknown biology, Bumblebee. Mobius clearly operates under different physical laws. Much like Earth itself." His tone was clinical, but a faint tremor betrayed his own shaken certainty. Prowl remained silent, optics narrowed, replaying the sonic boom in his processor – a violation of everything he understood.

Hans Hayward watched the hedgehog's departure point, his expression unreadable. He turned to Fanzone, who was still fuming.

"Captain," Hans stated coolly, "consider this incident closed. My obligation is fulfilled."

Fanzone's face flushed crimson. "Closed? Hayward, that blue freak just broke the sound barrier downtown! And you're—"

Hans cut him off with a dismissive wave. "He's retrieving the Emeralds *away* from Detroit. And do not forget that Flash is just as quick, if not faster, than Sonic himself. Besides, I do not think the Justice League would take it kindly if you arrested one of their own.”

Before Fanzone could retort, Hans spread his wings with a powerful *whoosh*, kicking up dust and debris.

"My work here is done. Let’s go home, Sari." He shot upwards, a dark silhouette against the bruised twilight sky, vanishing towards the city's taller spires before Fanzone could even curse.

Sari watched him go, then turned back to Bee, her small hand resting on his still-warm hood. "You okay?" she asked softly.

Bee managed a weak nod, optics still dimmed. "Just... processing."

The sonic boom still echoed in his audials.

Bee stared at the empty street where Sonic had vanished, his plating rattling with residual vibrations. He flexed his servos, feeling the ghost of that impossible speed. It wasn't just the velocity—it was the *effortlessness*. No straining engines, no screaming turbines. Just a blur and a crack that shattered his pride like cheap glass. He kicked a loose chunk of asphalt, sending it skittering across the pavement with a hollow clatter.

"Organic," he muttered, the word tasting bitter on his vocalizer. "Tiny. Blue."

Ratchet placed a heavy hand on his shoulder guard. "Focus on what matters, kid. We stopped Nanosec. The Destronium's gone. And the city is safe."

But Bee’s optics remained fixed on the emptiness, his usual vibrant energy muted, replaced by a hollow ache where his confidence used to be.

The armored truck carrying Nanosec vanished around a corner, its sirens fading into Detroit's evening hum. Captain Fanzone spat on the pavement, glaring at the spot where Hans Hayward had been moments before.

"Justice League," he muttered, the words thick with resentment. He turned his scowl towards the Autobots, opening his mouth—likely to demand explanations—but Ratchet cut him off with a sharp gesture towards Bee's slumped form. Fanzone's anger flickered, replaced by grudging concern. He gave a curt nod, stomped back to his cruiser, and drove off without another word, leaving the Autobots and Sari alone with the cooling asphalt and Bee's quiet despair.

Deep beneath Detroit's abandoned subway tunnels, Stella Healy—Stiletto—leaned against damp brickwork, the rhythmic *drip-drip* of water echoing her heartbeat. Her modified stiletto heels, blades retracted, clicked softly on the grimy tiles. The Kraang tech she'd stolen pulsed faintly in her backpack, a cold, alien weight against her spine. She flexed her fingers, knuckles bruised from her last encounter with a security drone. Silence was her armor now; words were wasted breath.

Megatron’s offer had been chillingly simple: steal the Kraang technology housed below the city’s surface, in an abandoned subway station of the blackmarket. Payment? A vial of nanites promising to erase her cousin’s Arkham sentence entirely. Stella didn’t trust the Decepticon leader, but desperation had sharpened her resolve. Nino wasn't just a friend; he was family. The Kraang technology hummed louder in her pack, its energy field making the hairs on her neck prickle. Time was a luxury she didn’t have.

Stella crouched behind a crumbling pillar, the Ambassador Bridge looming through a ventilation grate like a steel skeleton against the bruised twilight sky. Below, the armored transport crawled across the span, carrying Nino to Arkham. Her fingers danced over the Kraang device—a pulsating orb of alien circuitry. It wasn't designed as a weapon, but desperation bred improvisation. She'd rewired its core resonator, jury-rigged it to overload, to fracture the bridge's foundations. The orb vibrated violently in her hands, its hum shifting to a high-pitched whine. Stella gritted her teeth, ignoring the heat searing her palms. One pulse. That's all it would take. She aimed the resonator towards the bridge's central support pylon, her breath catching.

The Kraang tech screamed. A beam of sickly green energy lanced out, silent but for the ozone crackle burning her nostrils. It struck the pylon—not with explosive force, but with a deep, resonant *thrum* that vibrated up Stella's spine. Concrete spiderwebbed instantly. Steel groaned, bending inward like melting wax. The transport lurched violently, tires screeching as the beam intensified. Stella's knuckles whitened on the device, sweat stinging her eyes. She could see the panic through the truck's reinforced windows—guards scrambling, Nino's pale face pressed against the glass.

“Hold on”, she willed him silently, pouring every ounce of fury into the alien machine. The pylon buckled further, the bridge sagging with a metallic scream.

Above, Optimus Prime’s optics narrowed.

“Decepticon interference!” he barked, transforming mid-leap from the bridge’s ledge. Below, Stella didn’t hesitate. She dropped the smoking Kraang device, her stiletto blades snapping out with a metallic *shink*. She blurred, a shadow among the bridge’s steel ribs. Prowl’s shuriken sliced air where she’d been, embedding into concrete. Bulkhead roared, swinging his wrecking ball—Stella danced aside, using the momentum to kick a loose cable. It whipped, tangling Bulkhead’s arm, sending his own ball crashing into his chestplate with a deafening *CLANG*. He crumpled, groaning.

Bee lunged, tires screeching. “Gotcha!” he yelled.

Stella smirked, darting sideways—leading him straight toward a leaking oil tanker parked near the sagging pylon. She flicked a micro-explosive from her belt. *Thump*. The tanker erupted in a fireball, engulfing Bee and Ratchet in a wave of searing heat and black smoke. Bee’s tires melted instantly, stranding him mid-transformation scream.

"Pathetic," Stella hissed, activating her hover boots. The repulsers hummed, lifting her a foot off the ground—a dark silhouette against the bridge's failing lights. Freedom tasted metallic, sharp.

Below, Ratchet roared through the smoke, gauntlets flaring cobalt. He slammed his fists together. A magnetic pulse ripped through the air, invisible but crushing. Stella gasped as her boots wrenched violently downward, tearing her feet from the soles. She plummeted, barefoot on cold concrete.

Optimus Prime moved. He caught her mid-fall, his immense hand wrapping around her torso like a steel cage. Stella snarled, slashing with her stiletto blades—uselessly against his armored wrist. He didn't flinch. His optics burned blue fire.

"Enough," his voice rumbled, low and final, vibrating through her bones. He slammed her back-first onto the bridge's fractured surface, pinning her with impossible weight. Her stolen Kraang device clattered away.

Stella thrashed, a trapped predator, snarling curses lost in the wind. Optimus knelt, his shadow swallowing her. With terrifying precision, he seized her discarded hover boots. He drove their retracted blades deep into the concrete beside her shoulders, the metal screeching. They formed cold, unforgiving shackles inches from her face.

She froze, breath ragged. The scent of ozone and scorched metal filled her nostrils. Optimus Prime's optics burned into hers, ancient and unyielding.

“Your fight ends here," his voice resonated through the trembling bridge deck, silencing even the groaning steel. He rose, a mountain stepping back from a pebble.

Stella gasped, pinned like a specimen beneath her own weaponized boots. The blades, driven deep into fractured concrete by Optimus Prime's impossible strength, formed cold, gleaming brackets inches from her temples. She strained against the invisible weight of his judgment pressing down on her chest—not physical, but crushing. Her breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the chill air. Below, the armored transport carrying Nino groaned on its damaged axles, but held. Above, Optimus Prime's shadow fell across her face, his optics twin blue suns burning away her defiance.

Captain Fanzone's boots crunched on loose debris as he approached, his face a mask of weary triumph. He didn't speak, just jerked his head toward two stone-faced officers. They hauled Stella upright, wrenching her arms behind her back. The hover boots remained embedded, leaving her bare feet scraping cold, oil-streaked concrete. She spat curses, twisting to glare at Optimus.

"He'll rot because of you!" Her voice cracked, raw with fury and despair. Fanzone merely tightened the cuffs, the click echoing finality.

Optimus Prime watched, silent as the steel girders above. His optics tracked Stella's defiant glare until the squad car doors slammed shut, swallowing her whole. Only then did he turn toward the sagging bridge, assessing the damage with a warrior's calm. 

"Ratchet," he commanded, his voice cutting through the sirens. "Stabilize the structure. Bulkhead, clear debris." 

His gaze lingered on the Kraang device, smoking near a fractured support beam—a silent threat neutralized, for now.

Chapter Text

The Detroit skyline glowed orange as Friday evening settled over the city, casting long shadows across Isaac Sumdac’s cluttered workshop. Sari bounced on her toes beside her father’s workbench, clutching a sleeping bag patterned with cartoon circuit boards.

"Pleeeeease, Dad? Bee promised he wouldn’t accidentally sit on the snack table this time!"

Isaac adjusted his glasses, grease smudged across his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, last time you came home smelling of burnt rubber and Prowl’s ‘experimental incense.’"

Behind him, Ruska leaned against a half-dismantled generator, her black cloak draped over one shoulder.

"I’ll be there," she said, her voice like gravel rolling downhill. "Hans finishes patrol at dawn."

Isaac’s shoulders slumped. "Fine. But if Bulkhead ‘redecorates’ my daughter again—"

"Dad!" Sari groaned, already dragging Ruska toward the door. The draugr chuckled, a dry rasp that echoed in the workshop’s metal corners.

Outside, the crisp autumn air carried the scent of distant rain and exhaust fumes. Ruska’s cloak billowed behind her as they walked, her mismatched eyes scanning the dimming streets. Sari chattered about holographic twister strategies, her voice bright against the city’s low hum.

Inside the Autobot base, the cavernous factory felt almost cozy. Bulkhead’s latest mural—a swirling nebula—glowed softly under makeshift string lights. Ratchet’s grumbling echoed from the medbay, punctuated by Natasha’s sharp retort about "antiquated diagnostic protocols." Nearby, Optimus Prime stood motionless near a cracked observation window, watching moonlight pool on the concrete floor. His optics dimmed to a low, steady blue—the Cybertronian equivalent of closed eyes.

Ruska shifted on Prime’s shoulder plating, her boots scraping faintly against metal.

"These furnishings," she murmured, tapping Prime's shoulder guard with a bony finger. "Where'd they come from? Last you told me Sari, this place was like an empty tomb."

Sari froze mid-twister-spin, the holographic colors flickering around her feet. A nervous giggle escaped her. "Well... Dad's credit card *might* have gotten... borrowed? Just a little!"

She scuffed her sneaker against the concrete floor. "And those scrap piles outside the labs? Totally looked like garbage! Perfect for comms arrays and medbay shelving..."

Ruska stared, her expression unreadable as stone. Sari braced for a lecture about theft and responsibility. Instead, Ruska sighed, a long, slow exhalation that sounded like wind through dead leaves.

"Clever girl," she murmured, a grudging respect in her voice.

"Isaac and Ainomrah... they raised a resourceful thief." Her bony hand ruffled Sari's hair gently. "Just don't let him find the receipts."

Optimus Prime shifted slightly, the low hum of his systems filling the brief silence. "And how did you and Hans come to be?" he asked Ruska, his voice a deep, resonant rumble beneath her.

Ruska leaned back against his helm, her gaze drifting to the distant string lights as if seeing centuries past. "Ironwood Forest," she murmured.

"I heard bagpipes crying through the pines like a wounded stag." Her voice softened, the usual gravel fading. "Followed the sound... found a hedgehog-headed lad on a log, playing like the world wasn't ending. Didn't even stop when I sat beside him."

She traced a scar on her wrist. "First peace I'd known in decades."

Sari leaned forward, her voice small. "But... how did you become... like this?" Her gaze flickered to Ruska's pale skin.

The draugr's expression hardened. She stared at the concrete floor as if seeing scorched earth. "I woke to ashes one morning," she rasped. "Our whole village gone. Just smoke and... pieces."

Her knuckles whitened where they gripped Prime's shoulder plating. "Screamed till my throat bled. I took my longsword and swore vengeance on whatever dragon did it." She paused, the silence thick with centuries-old rage.

Then her shoulders slumped. "But wandering? That hollows you out. Months blurring into years... until one day, through the fog of hate..."

Ruska's voice softened, almost reverent. "Bagpipes. Cutting through the Ironwood mist like sunlight." She closed her eyes, lost in the memory. "Just followed that sound. Didn't care where it led."

She described the cold stream biting her ankles as she waded across, the mossy log damp under her cloak.

"He played like the world depended on it," Ruska murmured, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Didn't flinch when I sat down. Just kept pouring that melody into the air."

She hummed a few haunting notes, low and resonant, echoing the forgotten tune. "Something inside me... snapped quiet."

Sari stared at her aunt, eyes wide with the sudden weight of centuries. The image of Ruska wandering scorched lands alone—no family, no home, just vengeance and silence—clenched her heart.

"All that time... just you and Hans?" she whispered, the words thick in her throat. It sounded unbearably lonely, a lifetime measured in ashes and echoes.

Ruska’s cracked lips curved into a genuine smile, chasing away the shadows in her eyes. "Don’t waste your pity, little spark. Centuries with Hans? He snores like a yak about to give birth and steals the blankets, but he fills the quiet."

Her hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen, a fleeting gesture before clenching into a fist. The name *Ashura* hovered, unspoken, a phantom weight between them.

Shouting can be heard down the hallway. Ratchet is off with Natasha in the medical wing as Natasha has grown taller in the last few weeks pretty quickly. Natasha has been developing a habit of becoming more short tempered like Ratchet and spitting fire whenever she is angry. Optimus Prime stands next to Ruska and Sari hearing the two talk.

The medical bay doors hissed open, revealing Ratchet waving smoke away from his faceplate. Behind him, Natasha stood nearly shoulder-height to the medic now, wisps of flame curling from her nostril.

"I told you not to touch the cortical psychic patch prototype!" she snapped, a shower of sparks punctuating each word. Ratchet grumbled about "teenage pyrokinetics" and "safety protocols" as he stomped toward the main bay.

Hans chose that moment to glide through the main entrance on his wings, the heavy factory doors groaning shut behind him. The scent of night air and faint exhaust clung to his uniform. He landed smoothly, his hedgehog spines glinting under the string lights as he swept Sari into a crushing hug.

"Missed the start of storytime, did I?" he chuckled.

Sari squirmed free, breathless. "Aunt Ruska was telling us how she met you! And then..." Her voice dropped. "About her village."

Hans' spines bristled slightly as his gaze snapped to Ruska. He saw the lingering sorrow in her mismatched eyes, the way her fingers tightened on Optimus' shoulder plating. That ancient grief, usually buried deep beneath sarcasm and dry wit, was laid bare. He knew that look instantly – the hollow ache of a mother who'd carried a child and then buried centuries of silence around his memory. Without a word, he flew the short distance to Optimus' shoulder, landing softly beside his wife. His large, clawed hand covered hers, warm and solid against her unnaturally cool skin. Ruska leaned into him, the ghost of her smile returning, fragile but real.

Sari watched them, her earlier excitement dimmed by the weight of Ruska's past.

"We were gonna hear how you and Dad became friends," she prompted softly, eager to steer the conversation away from ashes and lost sons. Bumblebee and Prowl had abandoned their holographic twister mat entirely now, optics fixed on the small group perched on Optimus. Even Bulkhead had emerged from his room, a paintbrush still clutched in his massive hand, drawn by the shift in atmosphere.

Hans chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling despite the lingering tension. He settled more comfortably beside Ruska on Optimus Prime's broad shoulder guard, his wingtips brushing hers.

"Ah, Isaac! That story starts with Ruska trying to hibernate on a frozen Michigan backroad." He nudged his wife gently. "Nearly gave poor Isaac and Ainomrah heart failure when they found her curled up like a snowdrift.”

Ruska snorted softly, the sadness momentarily eclipsed by amusement. "I merely requested they lower their voices. Their panic was entirely unnecessary."

She mimicked Isaac’s high-pitched yell perfectly. "*‘Call an ambulance! She’s frozen solid!’* As if ice could bother me." Her smile widened, genuine this time. "Then you lumbered out of the woods clutching those charred trout like a bouquet."

Hans grinned, spines lifting proudly. "Dinner! Though Ainomrah nearly fainted when I offered her one." He paused, his expression softening. "But Sari... she just giggled. Reached right out from her carrier." His clawed finger gently tapped Sari’s nose. "Grabbed my snout. Strong grip, even then."

Ruska leaned against Hans, her voice low and fond. "We became their emergency contacts. Babysitters. Isaac trusted us with his world."

She remembered tiny Sari asleep in her lap, Hans humming ancient lullabies. Those quiet nights, filled with soft breaths and the scent of baby powder, had woven their fractured lives into something resembling family.

Optimus Prime’s optics brightened slightly at Ruska’s question. The air shifted—cooler, heavier—as centuries of Cybertronian history pressed into the Autobot base. He spoke slowly, the deep resonance of his voice vibrating through the concrete floor. "Our war spanned the stars, Ruska. Megatron’s ambition consumed our homeworld in fire and rust."

He gestured toward the cracked observation window, where Detroit’s lights blurred into distant constellations. "We pursued him through the void, locked in a battle that shattered an asteroid belt near your Sol system. A stray blast crippled our ship’s quantum drive."

Bumblebee buzzed softly, his blue optics dimming as he recalled the impact.

"We crash-landed in Lake Erie—scrap metal and energon leaks. Thought we were rusted scrap for sure." He kicked a loose bolt across the floor, the metallic clang echoing sharply.

Ruska and Hans exchanged a silent glance, centuries of understanding passing between them. The quiet hum of Optimus Prime’s systems filled the space until a sharp *ping* sliced through the air from the corner computer terminal. Prowl moved with silent precision, tapping the screen. A grim, cowled face materialized—sharp ears cutting against the gloom of what looked like a cave, eyes shadowed but intensely focused.

"Batman," Ruska murmured, her gravelly voice tight with recognition. Hans launched from Optimus’ shoulder, wings snapping open as he landed lightly beside Prowl. He perched on the ninja bot’s shoulder guard, spines bristling slightly.

"Batman," Hans said, his tone wary but respectful. "What pulls Gotham’s shadow into our comms?"

The Dark Knight’s image flickered, his voice a low growl that cut through the static. "Four mutants. Turtles. They’ve surfaced in my city, pursuing a threat called the Shredder."

His cowl shifted as he leaned closer, the cave’s dampness glistening behind him. "They mentioned allies named Ruska and Hans."

Ruska’s mismatched eyes narrowed. She slid down from Optimus’ shoulder, her boots hitting the floor with a soft thud.

"Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo," she listed, each name sharp as flint. "Splinter’s sons. They hunt Shredder because he murdered innocents back in New York."

Bumblebee leaned closer to Sari, his voice a hushed whisper.

"Who *is* this guy? He sounds... intense." Sari grinned, eyes wide with awe. "That’s Batman, Bee! He’s a human vigilante—no powers, just brains and gadgets. Criminals call him the Dark Knight ’cause he’s terrifying. No one escapes him."

Bumblebee tilted his head, optics flickering with disbelief. "No powers? Just... *wits*?" His voice modulator hitched. "If he exists... are there others? More humans like him?"

Sari grinned, ticking names off on her fingers. "Superman flies and lifts buildings! Wonder Woman’s an Amazon warrior. Flash runs faster than light. Catwoman steals jewels but helps sometimes. Green Arrow shoots trick arrows. Green Lantern makes stuff with a magic ring. Cyborg’s half-robot. Robin’s Batman’s kid partner. And Aquaman talks to fish!"

She paused, breathless. "There’s *tons*!"

Bumblebee’s optics flickered rapidly, processing the sheer scale of human potential.

"But... but they’re just organics!" he stammered, his voice modulator crackling with static. "How do they... *fight* like that?"

He gestured vaguely toward Batman’s grim image still displayed on the screen. The concept of humans matching Cybertronians in impact, without transforming or energon weaponry, seemed to short-circuit his logic circuits. He stared at his own hands, then back at the screen, utterly bewildered.

Batman gave a curt nod, the movement sharp in the dim light of the cave projected behind him. "The information is appreciated, Hans. Ruska."

His gaze, even through the screen, held a weight that silenced the low hum of the Autobot base. "If the situation escalates beyond their capacity, or mine, I will contact you. Or direct them to reach out to their... formidable friends."

The briefest pause before "formidable" held a sliver of dry acknowledgement. Then, without ceremony, the screen flickered and went dark, leaving only the soft glow of the terminal and the stunned silence of the Autobots.

"Formidable friends," Ruska echoed, the ghost of a smirk touching her lips as she turned to Hans. "High praise, from Gotham's shadow."

Hans merely grunted, folding his wings with a soft rustle, his gaze lingering on the blank screen. "He'll call if the turtles bite off more than they can chew. Or if Shredder brings trouble too big for Gotham's alleys."

Prowl tilted his helm, optics fixed on the now-dark terminal. "This Batman," he began, his voice a low, analytical hum. "His tactical precision... formidable, yes. But his methodology? He operates from shadows, unseen."

His fingers tapped silently against his thigh armor. "Is he truly human?"

Hans chuckled, a low rumble. "As human as fear and vengeance given flesh. And a fortune in gadgets."

He still perched on Prowl's shoulder guard, spines relaxed now. "He built himself into a weapon. No magic rings. No alien tech. Just... will."

Sari bounced on her toes, unable to contain herself.

"He's got the coolest car! And gadgets! And he fights *so* scary!" Her eyes sparkled, practically vibrating with excitement. "He trained for years and years in all kinds of martial arts and detective stuff! He's basically... human Prowl! And his greatest rival is the Joker!"

Prowl's optics narrowed fractionally, processing the comparison. The concept of a human achieving such lethality through sheer discipline resonated deeply. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Intriguing."

Optimus Prime remained silent, his gaze fixed on the darkened screen. The implications of Batman's existence—and the wider spectrum of Earth's defenders—settled heavily. It reshaped their understanding of this planet they call home. Not merely primitive organics, but a world capable of forging warriors who could stand against threats... and perhaps, even Cybertronian ones.

Uncle Sam ‘Speed’ Fair has gathered the information he needed to ensure that Sonic and his friends will be reassured that the Autobots are allies, and NOT of Robotnik’s own creations. As Uncle Sam prepares to leave for Station Square, Pennsylvania, the sound of flapping wings and crying rings out by the man. Before Uncle Sam could react or turn around, Natasha tackles her honorary Uncle from behind in a tight hug. It was the final day that Uncle Sam will be staying in Detroit, Michigan before he has to return to his home city. Natasha and Sari asks:”Do you have to go?”

Uncle Sam turns around as Natasha released her grip around Sam’s waist. Sam kneels down to pat the two girl’s heads, saying “Look out for each other and be good for your parents.”

The girls hug Uncle Sam tight refusing to let him go.

Chapter Text

The man in the dusty brown trench coat stood hunched over a steaming manhole cover, slurping noodles from a foam cup. His thick, dark mustache—a magnificent, waxed handlebar affair—quivered with each noisy inhalation. It dominated his face, absurdly large against his muscular frame. Passersby on the Detroit sidewalk gave him a wide berth, eyes flicking to that ridiculous facial hair before quickly looking away. He didn't seem to notice them, utterly focused on his cheap lunch.

Suddenly, he straightened, tossing the empty cup aside. His fists boomed unnaturally loud, echoing off the brick buildings. He slammed a fist against his chest, the trench coat rippling. Passersby froze mid-stride, startled by the sudden shift from silent noodle-slurper to theatrical menace. His posture radiated aggressive confidence, shoulders squared and chin thrust forward.

His fists boomed, impossibly deep and resonant, shaking dust from nearby windowsills. It was pure Macho Villain bravado. He stomped one heavy boot onto the pavement. A spiderweb of cracks instantly shot outwards, racing across the asphalt and buckling the street. Cars lurched violently, alarms shrieking. Panic erupted as people stumbled, scrambling away from the widening fissures. The tremors intensified, shaking buildings like toys.

Then, the voice shifted, smooth and conversational, almost bored. He scratch his absurd mustache while the ground bucked violently beneath him. With a lazy flick of his wrist, a nearby warehouse – one marked with the faded Biotech Unbound logo – imploded. Stone and girders flowed like liquid, collapsing inward with a groan. He slammed both fists down. The street beneath him surged upwards violently, forming a jagged pillar that lifted him high above the chaos. Below, entire sections of the city groaned as sinkholes swallowed roads, trapping fire trucks and ambulances rushing towards the initial destruction. The Autobots were suddenly buried responders, not warriors.

Optimus Prime transformed mid-stride, tires screeching on fractured asphalt as he charged the pillar.

"Stand down!" his amplified voice boomed, cutting through the screams and sirens. The Quake-Maker didn't even turn. He simply raised an open palm towards the charging Autobot leader. The pavement beneath Optimus erupted. Not upwards, but sideways. A colossal slab of reinforced concrete, ripped from the street foundation, slammed into Optimus like a battering ram. The impact echoed like thunder, buckling Optimus's chest plating and sending him crashing backwards through a parked semi-truck.

Quake Maker bend the earth to trap Optimus Prime in a stone prison, buried up to his chin. Quake huffed before leaving Optimus behind.

The Autobot leader struggled against the crushing weight of solid rock fused around his chassis. Dust clogged his vents as he watched the trench-coated figure stride away, that ridiculous mustache twitching above a grimace of concentration. Below the theatrical bravado, a deeper ache pulsed – the memory of Prometheus Black’s scalpel glinting under sterile lights, the agony as his own vocal cords were *extracted*, replaced with this monstrous ability to vibrate the air itself. His own sister had screamed, mistaking his mutated frame and silent pleas for an intruder. Black hadn’t just stolen his humanity; he’d stolen his voice, his face, his very name.

Quake Maker’s fist clenched, sending a localized tremor through a Biotech Unbound storage facility across the street. Concrete walls rippled like water before collapsing inward, burying vats of glowing green mutagen. He didn’t glance back. Each demolished lab was a brick torn from Black’s empire, a silent scream echoing the one trapped forever in his ruined throat. The earth armor forming instinctively over his knuckles wasn't protection; it was a cage of mineral, a constant reminder of the freak he’d become. He craved the feel of Black’s collar in his grip, the satisfying *crunch* under stone-hardened fingers.

The roar of an engine cut through the settling dust. Not sirens—something lower, angrier. A sleek, gunmetal grey sports car, utterly unfamiliar, fishtailed around the corner, transforming mid-slide into a towering Autobot.

"Afterburn!" Optimus's muffled voice echoed from his rocky prison. "Engage with caution! He manipulates the terrain!"

Afterburn didn't pause. His optics scanned the buckled street, the trapped Autobots, and focused entirely on Quake Maker's file stolen from Biotech Unbound archives. He saw the connection instantly: seismic manipulation, earth-armor generation… *Ground conductivity*.

"Bulkhead! Bumblebee!" Afterburn barked, his voice sharp, tactical. "Get him airborne! Don't let his feet touch *anything*!"

Quake Maker spun, his trench coat flaring, a snarl twisting beneath that preposterous mustache. He slammed a fist down towards the cracked asphalt. Before the tremor could spread, Bulkhead transformed mid-charge, massive green arms scooping upwards like a pneumatic shovel. Tons of gravel and fractured pavement lifted with him, carrying Quake Maker skyward in a messy, jarring arc. The villain's seismic boom died instantly, replaced by a startled grunt.

Bumblebee darted in, transformed, and snagged Quake Maker's boot barely brushed the rising debris. Bee pivoted, using centrifugal force to whip the disoriented villain sideways like a ragdoll. Quake Maker flailed, his earth-armor flickering uselessly as he sailed over a buckled fire hydrant. Before he could crash, Arcee blurred past, catching him mid-air with a swift kick that sent him spinning higher. His magnificent mustache flapped wildly against his paling face.

A heavy-duty transport truck, its reinforced steel sides gleaming dully under the emergency lights, rumbled onto the fractured street. Its rear doors hissed open automatically. Bulkhead timed his next heave perfectly, launching the dizzy, airborne Quake Maker in a precise arc. The villain landed with a heavy thud inside the truck's dark, padded interior. The doors slammed shut instantly, hydraulic locks engaging with a final clunk. The truck accelerated away before the dust could settle, tires crunching over debris as it vanished down a side street.

Hans watched it go, his feline senses prickling. He'd crept closer during the chaos, unnoticed amidst the groaning metal and sirens. Now, his focus snapped to Afterburn. The grey Autobot stood surveying the damage, radiating an unsettling calm. Hans inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Beneath the sharp tang of ozone and scorched metal, it was unmistakable: the cloying stench of sewage, thick and organic, layered over something colder, synthetic, and utterly alien – the signature reek of Kraang bio-tech. It clung to Afterburn's joints, a scent no true Cybertronian should carry.

Hans padded silently forward, stopping just before Afterburn’s massive foot. He arched his back, fur bristling along his spine, tail spines fully extended like venomous quills. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest, a sound far deeper and more menacing than any Earth cat could produce. His eyes, slitted and unnaturally intelligent, locked onto Afterburn’s glowing blue optics.

"Elite Guard?" Hans hissed, the words sharp and clear. "Your stench betrays you, *pretender*. Kraang filth clings to you like rot."

Chapter Text

Earlier…

The coffee maker sputtered its last bitter drops into the stained mug. Outside the grimy diner window, a pigeon pecked at a discarded fry. Then the ground trembled.

Dust rained from the ceiling tiles as the tremors intensified. Dishes rattled violently on the shelves. Through the window, a monstrous silhouette lumbered past – a hulking man adorned with green armor plates resembling ripped denim, spiked shoulder pads, and garish neon paint splashes. He slammed a massive fist into a nearby Biotech Unbound research facility, sending concrete shards flying. Optimus Prime and his Autobots were already engaged. Optimus shouted orders, but the din of collapsing structures drowned him out. A chunk of debris clipped his helm, sending him staggering backward into a pile of rubble, momentarily dazed.

Suddenly, a streak of polished crimson chrome sliced through the chaos. Afterburn transformed mid-air, landing with effortless grace between the stunned Autobots and Quake-Maker's lumbering advance. His sleek off-road car form gleamed impossibly bright against the dust-choked street.

"Apologies for the delay, gentlemechs," his voice boomed, smooth and confident. "Traffic was positively prehistoric."

Before Optimus could fully extricate himself from the rubble, Afterburn unleashed twin jets of searing blue fire from his palms, forcing Quake-Maker back with a surprised grunt. The newcomer pivoted, offering Optimus a dazzling smile.

"Prime! Allow me to handle this… sartorial catastrophe." Optimus, rubbing his dented helm, opened his mouth to protest, but Afterburn was already moving.

He darted beneath Quake-Maker's clumsy overhead swing, his polished chassis reflecting the neon armor plates like a mocking disco ball.

"Fascinating choice of shoulder spikes," Afterburn called out, his voice crisp over the crumbling concrete. "Did you raid a junkyard or just have a terrible accident with a glue gun?"

Quake-Maker remained silent, anger on his face, stomping hard – the exact moment Afterburn anticipated. He fired a pinpoint blast at the unstable ground *beneath* Quake-Maker's leading foot, not at the Cybertronian himself. The asphalt liquefied instantly. Quake-Maker stumbled, his massive frame crashing down onto one knee, momentarily vulnerable.

Afterburn didn't hesitate. He transformed back into his sleek car mode, tires screeching as he executed a blindingly fast drift around the flailing giant. As he passed Quake-Maker's exposed back, a panel slid open near his rear bumper. A thick, viscous net, shimmering with restraining energy, shot out and wrapped tightly around Quake-Maker's torso and arms, pinning them uselessly against his sides.

"Target immobilized," Afterburn announced crisply, transforming back to robot mode beside the struggling captive.

The armored Arkham transport arrived within minutes, its reinforced plating gleaming under emergency lights. Afterburn supervised the loading with detached efficiency, ignoring Quake-Maker's muffled curses.

"Do enjoy the accommodations," he remarked as the heavy doors slammed shut. "I hear Arkham's interior design is... *avant-garde*."

The truck rumbled away, leaving only scorch marks and cracked pavement as evidence of the battlefield.

Back at the Autobot base, the air crackled with a different kind of tension. Sari Sumdac perched precariously on Bumblebee’s shoulder, her eyes wide and fixed solely on Afterburn as he recounted his Elite Guard exploits with effortless charm. His crimson chrome seemed to glow under the harsh factory lights.

"And *that*, my dear Bumblebee," Afterburn declared, clapping a hand on the yellow scout’s chassis, "is how you disable a Quintesson dreadnought’s main cannon using nothing but a well-placed energon flare and impeccable timing."

Bumblebee buzzed with admiration, his optics shining. "Whoa! That’s fraggin’ awesome, Afterburn!"

High above, clinging to a rusted I-beam in the factory’s shadowed rafters, Hans Hayward coiled tighter, his tail lashing like a whip. Sari squirmed against his chest, whispering, "Uncle Hans, I wanna hear more!"

Hans only growled low, the sound vibrating through Sari’s small frame. Below, Afterburn’s polished voice filled the cavernous space, detailing his top marks in Nano-Virus Diagnostics. "Naturally, the instructors were astounded. Flawless execution, every time."

Bumblebee leaned in, optics wide. "No glitches? Ever?"

Afterburn chuckled, a smooth, metallic sound. "Perfection is simply habit, my friend. Why settle for less?"

Hans's claws scraped against the rusted beam overhead. The grating noise cut through Afterburn's polished monologue. Below, Optimus Prime glanced up, his optics narrowing slightly.

"Officer Hans?" he rumbled, his voice low. "Is there a problem?"

Prowl materialized silently beside Optimus, arms crossed.

"Observe the elevated tension readings," he murmured, optics flicking upward. "Hans exhibits profound animosity toward Afterburn. Statistically improbable, given the newcomer's demonstrated combat efficacy and harm reduction protocols."

Sari hammered her tiny fists against Hans's scaled forearm.

"Uncle Hans! Put me down! Afterburn's telling about the Crystal City siege!" Her voice pitched higher, straining against Hans's unyielding grip. "He said they used sonic disruptors shaped like spears!"

Hans hissed, tightening his hold. "That shiny scrapheap reeks of Kraang technology."

Below, Afterburn flashed Sari a dazzling smile, oblivious to the venom dripping from the rafters. "Ah, Crystal City! A textbook tactical withdrawal under heavy fire. My disruptor pattern created a harmonic resonance that shattered the Decepticon flank formation."

He polished his forearm with a flick of his wrist. "Ultra Magnus himself commended the precision. Said it was... flawless."

Hans’s growl deepened into a subsonic rumble that vibrated the dust motes dancing in the harsh overhead lights. Sari whimpered, pressing her hands over her ears. Below, Ratchet snorted, wiping grease from a wrench.

"Flawless? Kid, I've seen cleaner maneuvers from a scraplet swarm." Afterburn’s optics dimmed fractionally, the polished charm faltering for a microsecond.

"Ah, Ratchet! Your skepticism is noted, but empirical evidence speaks volumes." He gestured expansively, his gleaming form reflecting the worried faces of Bulkhead and Prowl. "Magnus dispatched me precisely to document *your* unique Earthside adaptations. Imagine replicating Prime’s tactical patience or Bumblebee’s... exuberant scouting," he added, patting Bumblebee’s shoulder again. "My reports could revolutionize Cybertronian frontier protocols."

Above, Hans’s tail thumped the beam like a war drum. Optimus watched the newcomer, optics narrowed. Afterburn’s arrogance grated, yet his restraint with Quake-Maker proved discipline. No civilian casualties. Only containment. A stark contrast to Megatron’s brutality. Perhaps Magnus saw potential beneath the polish.

Ratchet snorted, crossing his arms. "Reports? We’re barely keeping this rust bucket operational, not running a finishing school for Elite Guard poster-bots."

Bulkhead shifted uncomfortably. Bumblebee bounced eagerly. "So, Afterburn! What’s it feel like?"

Afterburn’s polished optics gleamed. "Like efficiency, my friend. Like potential maximized." He paused, catching Optimus’s silent scrutiny. "Prime understands. Don’t you, sir? Earth requires adaptability. Precision."

Optimus remained silent, his gaze heavy. Afterburn’s tactics were flawless, his restraint commendable. Yet the ease with which he commanded attention… it felt like a current pulling them all downstream.

On Ratchet’s shoulder, Natasha shifted. Her wrinkled, nostrils flaring subtly as she inhaled the charged air around Afterburn. Her senses caught it: a faint, acrid tang beneath his polished chrome scent, like ozone mixed with spoiled coolant. It was buried deep, masked by synthetic polish, but unmistakable. She leaned close to Ratchet’s audial receptor, her whisper a raspy hiss only he could hear.

"Afterburn does not carry the same scent as you Cybertronians, but of *Kraang* origin."

Hans’s head snapped down. His pupils dilated instantly, swallowing the green irises into black voids. The word "Kraang" echoed in his fractured mind like a detonation cord snapping taut. A guttural roar ripped from his throat, primal and raw. He shoved Sari roughly onto the beam, ignoring her terrified yelp, and launched himself downward like a scaled comet.

Multiple venomous tail spines, thick as railroad spikes and dripping corrosive ichor, shot from his lashing tail with terrifying speed, aimed unerringly at Afterburn’s gleaming chestplate. Simultaneously, a torrent of searing orange fire erupted from Hans’s jaws, engulfing the polished Cybertronian in a wave of scalding heat. Before the flames even cleared, Hans slammed onto Afterburn, claws screeching violently across the once-pristine crimson chrome, gouging deep, jagged furrows that sparked and smoked. His movements were jerky, unnatural, driven by pure, feral rage, his eyes utterly glazed, reflecting only the distorted image of the bot beneath him.

Meanwhile, at Detroit Police Headquarters...

Ruska leaned over her husband’s cluttered desk, her fingers tracing lines on a thermal printout showing Quake-Maker's path of destruction. Each impact site glowed crimson—Biotech Unbound labs, storage facilities, data archives. No schools. No homes. Beside her, Captain Fanzone chewed his cigar stub raw.

"Freak tore up half the waterfront," he grumbled, "but witnesses say he carried trapped victims out like toddlers before bringing the roof down." Ruska didn't look up. "He targeted specific servers. Stole experimental data on neural interfaces before destroying it in front of eye witnesses."

She slid a grainy security still toward Fanzone: Quake-Maker cradling a crying child while his free fist vaporized a Biotech vault door. "Liberator or saboteur? Depends who signs your paycheck."

Fanzone grunted, tapping the photo. "Gotham PD flagged similar hits last month. Same MO—facilities tied to that sketchy biotech firm."

“Survivable," Ruska echoed. She pulled out her phone, dialing a contact labeled 'Cape Crusader.' Two rings. A graveled voice answered: "May I ask who might be calling the Bat Cave?”

“Detective Ruska, Detroit PD. Need Gotham intel on a target codenamed Quake-Maker.” Ruska kept her voice low, eyes scanning the precinct bullpen. Static crackled, then Alfred’s crisp British tones filled her ear.

“Indeed. Master Batman has encountered similar disturbances. I shall cross-reference our files immediately. Expect preliminary findings within the hour.” The line clicked off. Ruska exhaled, the scent of cigar smoke clinging to her jacket. Fanzone raised a brow.

"Batman?" She nodded curtly, sliding her phone away. "A friend. More efficient than our database."

Fanzone snorted, knocking ash into his overflowing tray. "Freaky costumed pals aside—what's our play? That walking earthquake could level downtown if he sneezes wrong."

Ruska's phone buzzed—Alfred's preliminary report. Her eyes scanned the encrypted summary: Quake-Maker's Gotham hits targeted only Biotech Unbound's black-site labs. Witnesses described him shielding civilians with his own body during collapses.

"He does not appear like a villain," she murmured, tapping the screen. "There’s something deeper going on here."

Fanzone’s radio crackled to life—a ten-car pileup on the I-94. He cursed, snatching his coat off the chair. "Handle your tin-can drama, Ruska. Just keep that quake freak away from my city."

He stormed out, leaving cigar smoke swirling in his wake. Ruska watched him go, the precinct’s fluorescent lights glinting off her badge.

Her earpiece buzzed—Prowl’s voice, tight with urgency.

"Ruska. Hans snapped. He’s tearing the base apart trying to rip Afterburn’s horns off." Static crackled, punctuated by distant metallic crashes and Sari’s shrill protests. "Bring restraints. Heavy ones."

Silence. Then the dead click of disconnection. Ruska didn’t voice. She holstered her service weapon, grabbed her go-bag from her locker, and was out the precinct doors before Fanzone could shout another question. The drive to the abandoned factory blurred into streetlights and the steady thrum of the engine.

Chapter Text

Inside Autobot HQ, chaos reigned. Hans clung upside-down from a girder, tail lashing like a whip, while Sari screamed below. Afterburn dodged another swipe, his sleek chassis scraping sparks against the concrete floor. "Hans, old chap! Surely we can discuss this like civilized—"

A chunk of ductwork whistled past his head. Optimus bellowed orders Prowl couldn’t enforce, Bulkhead shielded Ratchet’s med-bay, and Bumblebee buzzed frantically overhead.

Ruska didn’t slow. She strode into the fray, eyes locked on the screeching mutant and the dodging Autobot. Ignoring Optimus’s shout—"Detective, stand down!"—she drew two pistols: a stubby, matte-black device from her right boot, a standard tranq pistol from her left. With practiced, unhurried motions, she racked the slide on the strange gun, took precise aim. *Phut! Phut!* Two shots, almost simultaneous. Hans’s furious snarl cut off mid-roar as he plummeted from the girder, landing with a heavy thud beside Afterburn, who crumpled silently onto the oil-stained concrete.

Hans stirred first, groaning as he pushed himself onto all fours. His movements were sluggish, uncoordinated—he stumbled sideways, claws scraping concrete as he fought to stay upright. Ruska holstered her weapons, her expression unreadable as she approached.

"Instincts went haywire again," she stated flatly, her voice cutting through the stunned silence. Hans blinked blearily, shaking his massive head.

"Hasn't... happened in over two years," he rasped, confusion warring with residual fury in his yellow eyes. He glanced at his own trembling claws, then at the still-unconscious Afterburn, as if seeing both for the first time.

In the center of the room, Afterburn shrunk dramatically, his sleek Cybertronian plating rippling like liquid mercury. The odd green vial embedded near his shoulder joint pulsed once, fiercely bright, before dissolving inward, vanishing into his systems like ink dropped in water. His frame compacted, sleek angles softening into a distinctly organic silhouette – bipedal, armored in deep green plating that resembled scaled skin, with a sturdy shell forming across his back. Where a Cybertronian helm had been, a distinctly turtle-like head emerged, complete with intelligent, dark eyes blinking open in dazed bewilderment.

Ruska stepped toward the transformed Autobot. Before Optimus could demand answers, Afterburn groaned, pushing himself upright on unfamiliar limbs. His new turtle-like head swiveled, dark eyes blinking rapidly as he took in his green-scaled hands and the sturdy shell now fused to his back. Without hesitation, Ruska extended her hand. Afterburn grasped it firmly, hauling himself up with surprising grace for his altered form.

"Appreciate the assist," he said, his voice retaining its confident cadence despite the organic resonance. He rotated one armored forearm, studying it with detached curiosity. "Now—care to explain why my chassis feels like a bad origami project? Last I recall, Donnie was running diagnostics on me in his lab."

Silence choked the base. Bumblebee's frantic buzzing cut off mid-hum. Bulkhead stared, jaw slack. Ratchet’s optics narrowed to slits, scanning the turtle-bot’s bio-mechanical signature. Optimus stepped forward, his voice a low rumble of controlled authority. "Detective Ruska. You discharged an unknown weapon on an Autobot operative without cause or warning. Explain. Now."

Ruska didn't flinch. She holstered the strange pistol, her movements deliberate and calm amidst the lingering tension. Her gaze flicked to the transformed Afterburn, then back to Optimus.

"Kill him? Hardly. I simply injected turtle-based mutagen in his systems." She gestured at the turtle-bot, who was experimentally flexing his green-scaled fingers. "Natasha and Hans already figured out his true intentions."

Hans staggered upright, shaking off the tranq's haze. His yellow eyes narrowed at Afterburn.

Bumblebee's frantic buzzing crescendoed into a high-pitched whine. He zipped around the transformed turtle-bot in frantic loops, his blue optics wide with panic.

"Afterburn?! Buddy?! Is that YOU in there?!" He tapped urgently on Afterburn's new green shell. "Say something cool! Tell me how cool you are! Anything!" His voice cracked. "Don't be gone, man! You just got here!"

Ratchet’s optics flickered rapidly as his scanners whirred, utterly failing to reconcile the Cybertronian energy signature with the distinctly organic turtle form standing before him.

"Impossible... the mutagenic agent integrated seamlessly... rewriting cellular structure on a molecular level..." he muttered, rubbing his chinplate in disbelief.

Prowl remained unnervingly still, his usual calm replaced by deep suspicion radiating from his narrowed optics. Bulkhead just blinked slowly, massive hands hanging limp at his sides, utterly lost.

Optimus Prime remained silent, his imposing frame radiating disapproval towards Ruska's reckless action, yet his piercing blue optics locked onto the transformed Afterburn. He didn't intervene further, a silent sentinel observing the unfolding chaos with intense focus. Ruska met his stern gaze with a brief, sharp side-eye, her expression unreadable.

The newly minted turtle-bot blinked slowly, his dark eyes taking in the towering Cybertronians surrounding him – Optimus's stoic disapproval, Ratchet's bewildered scans, Bumblebee's frantic buzzing, Bulkhead's slack-jawed confusion, and Prowl's unnerving stillness. Sari just looked on speechless. His gaze finally settled on Hans Hayward, who was still shaking off the tranq effects, leaning heavily against a support beam.

"Hans Hayward," Afterburn stated, his voice retaining its confident cadence despite the new organic resonance, "Where is the Hamato Clan currently located?"

Hans blinked, his yellow eyes narrowing as he pushed off the support beam. He wiped a trickle of saliva from his jaw with the back of his clawed hand.

"Not yet," he growled, tail lashing behind him. "First, we settle *this*."

He gestured sharply at the stunned Autobots surrounding them, his gaze lingering on Optimus Prime's stern disapproval and Ruska's impassive stance.

Afterburn tilted his turtle-like head, his scaled brow furrowing.

"Settle what? The Hamato Clan requires my assistance. My mission parameters remain unchanged." He flexed his new green fingers, testing the articulation. "Though this form is... unexpected."

Sari darted forward, her small hand brushing the cool, scaled plating of Afterburn's forearm. "You look like a knight !" she breathed, eyes wide with fascination. She glanced up at Hans, then Ruska.

"Who are the Hamato Clan? And..." Her brow furrowed, recalling overheard whispers. "Who's Sonic the Hedgehog? Is he like you?"

Hans sighed, a low rumble vibrating his chest. He gently nudged Sari away from Afterburn. "Why ask about Sonic *now*, little one? He visited Detroit a couple days ago. You could've pestered him with questions then."

His gaze remained fixed on the transformed turtle-bot, suspicion hardening his features.

Optimus Prime’s heavy hand landed on Ruska’s shoulder, steering her firmly toward the shadowed alcove where Ratchet’s med-bay consoles hummed. His voice dropped to a low, gravel-edged growl audible only to her. "Detective. That weapon—you endangered an ally. Explain this recklessness *now*."

Ruska didn't flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on Afterburn as she spoke, her voice clipped and low. "Driving back, my scanner picked up a signal—tightbeam, encrypted. Buried under Cybertronian comms chatter." She met Optimus’s piercing optics. "The carrier wave matched Afterburn’s unique frequency signature. Exactly." Her gaze sharpened. "He’s not Cybertronian. Energon flows through him, yes—but he is no living machine. A puppet.”

Hans’s eyes burn into Sari. And smiled. "Why ask about him now?"

Sari shuffled her feet, staring at the oil-stained floor. "I... I wasn't sure," she mumbled. "He looked so fast and blue and... different. And he left so quick after you gave him that shiny green rock." She glanced up, confusion wrinkling her nose. "Did he say he was Mobius?"

Hans sighed, the sound like gravel shifting. "Mobian, actually. Right before he vanished in that blur." He nudged her gently with his snout. "Sam mentioned Sonic stays with the Thorndykes now. If you really want to meet him properly, I'll see about arranging it."

Sari's eyes lit up, but Hans' attention snapped back to Afterburn. "The Hamato Clan?" His voice hardened. "They're allies. Family. Not your mission objective." He stepped closer, tail lashing. "You waltz in here, flashy and smooth-talking, and now you're asking about *them*?" Hans leaned in, his breath hot. "What's your game?"

“I don’t know, what do you think?”

Hans grinned, flicking Sari’s nose with his tail. She giggled, swatting at it. “I think you’re jealous of Metalhead’s new shell!”

Hans snorted. “Jealous? Please. I’ve got style.”

He struck a ridiculous pose, claws flexed dramatically. Sari doubled over laughing. Across the room, Ruska leaned against Ratchet’s console, her voice low and steady as Optimus listened intently. The Prime’s optics narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt—only the occasional low hum of acknowledgment broke Ruska’s quiet explanation of encrypted signals and phantom transmissions. Outside the factory’s high windows, dusk deepened into indigo.

As the last traces of tension dissolved into the cool evening air, the turtle-bot stepped forward. He gave a crisp, formal bow—a gesture utterly alien to Cybertronians but fitting his new form. "Metalhead," he announced, his voice resonating with a calm certainty.

Bumblebee buzzed frantically beside him. "But the Elite Guard! Ultra Magnus! You talked about them all the time!" Metalhead tilted his head, genuine confusion flickering in his dark eyes. "I recall no such names or ranks. My directives originate elsewhere."

The silence that followed was thick. Ruska’s earlier words hung unspoken in the air: *a puppet*. Someone had crafted a convincing ghost—but who? Crossroads? Or a new, unseen enemy pulling strings from the shadows?

Hans didn’t wait for answers. With a sharp jerk of his head toward the exit, he growled, "Enough standing around. Metalhead—you want the Hamato Clan? Fine. We go *now*." He nudged Sari toward Ratchet. "Stay with Ratchet tonight. This trip’s no place for curious little girls." 

Sari pouted but didn’t argue, sensing the steel beneath her uncle’s tone.

Chapter Text

The crisp October air carried the scent of burnt sugar and damp leaves, mingling with the faint ozone tang that always clung to the Autobot base. Sari Sumdac adjusted the glowing antennae on her makeshift costume, her enthusiasm infectious.

"Okay, Bulkhead, Bumblebee – remember the rules! Say 'trick or treat', hold out your bag, and *smile*. Easy!"

Sari grinned, adjusting the glowing antennae on her makeshift costume. Bulkhead fumbled with his oversized pillowcase sack, looking utterly bewildered by the concept of extorting candy from strangers. Bumblebee vibrated with nervous energy, optics darting to every shadowed corner. Ruska watched them for a moment, a soft smile touching her lips before she turned away. Her husband, Hans, was already stepping forward, his usual disguise suit conspicuously absent, revealing the sleek, blue-furred hedgehog form beneath.

"Go on, Sari," Ruska murmured, giving Hans a meaningful glance. "Show them how it's done. Hans will keep watch."

Hans nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the deepening twilight, a subtle tension in his posture Ruska understood immediately. She watched the quartet – Sari practically bouncing, Bulkhead lumbering, Bumblebee buzzing anxiously, and Hans moving with silent, predatory grace – disappear down the hall before turning her attention inward, towards the base's quiet core.

Optimus Prime stood silhouetted against a large viewscreen displaying star charts, his massive frame radiating a profound stillness that felt heavier than mere silence. Ruska approached softly, her footsteps barely whispering on the metal floor. He didn't turn, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Ruska," his voice was low, gravelly with unspoken strain. "I require solitude."

She didn't reply, simply falling into step beside him as he paced the length of the command deck. He stopped abruptly near the energon dispenser, optics dim. "Please, Ruska. This is... personal.”

Ruska tilted her head, her gaze steady and unflinching. "Solitude rarely heals deep wounds, Optimus. It just lets them fester."

Her voice was soft but carried the weight of undeniable truth. He cycled a deep vent, the sound harsh in the quiet room, his massive frame seeming to sag under an invisible burden.

"Archa Seven," Optimus finally rasped, the name echoing hollowly in the cavernous command center. He sank onto a maintenance crate, the metal groaning under his weight. Ruska remained beside him, a silent pillar of patience.

"Sentinel... Elita... we were cadets, barely more than sparklings playing at soldiers." His optics dimmed, fixed on some unseen horror replaying in his memory. "The spiders... they overwhelmed the ship's defenses. Elita fell behind, dying when the cave collapsed."

The anniversary of that failure, the loss of his closest friend, carved fresh lines of grief into his faceplates.

Ruska tapped the medallion at her throat. Energy flared, blue light washing over her as she shifted seamlessly to Optimus's scale. She didn't speak, didn't offer platitudes. Instead, she simply stepped forward, placing a sturdy shoulder within reach. Optimus hesitated for only a heartbeat before leaning in, his massive frame trembling as he finally released the silent storm of grief he'd held for decades. Hot coolant tears traced paths down his armored cheeks, dampening Ruska's fur as he wept for Elita-One, for the mission, for the leader he felt he should have been. Her presence was a silent anchor, grounding him in the present while he drowned in the past.

The heavy door hissed open, flooding the dim command center with light and sound. Sari bounced in, her makeshift antennae glowing brightly, flanked by Bulkhead and Bumblebee, both shrunk to human size via their medallions. Bulkhead looked endearingly awkward in his oversized cardboard box "robot" costume, while Bumblebee vibrated with nervous energy in a yellow and black striped sweater.

"Optimus! Look at us!" Sari beamed, gesturing grandly. "Ready for candy conquest! You wanna come? We found you a really big sheet you could be a ghost!"

Optimus straightened quickly, subtly wiping his faceplate. "Thank you, Sari," he managed, his voice rough but warm. "But duty keeps me here tonight. Enjoy yourselves."

Hans stepped forward, his black quills catching the light as he gestured smoothly toward the exit.

"The night won't wait," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. Sari grinned, thrilled to see her uncle's true form—no more stiff human disguise, just sleek fur and sharp, watchful eyes. Bulkhead blinked, optics wide as he took in Hans's hedgehog features properly for the first time.

"Whoa. You're... spiky." Bumblebee just stared, utterly speechless at the revelation.

Sari grinned, tugging Hans's arm. "Told you he was cool! No more stuffy suit!" Hans gave a rare, small smile, the moonlight catching the cobalt sheen of his fur. Bulkhead cautiously reached out a finger, then jerked back when Hans's quills bristled instinctively.

"Still getting used to the whole... hedgehog thing," Bulkhead mumbled sheepishly.

Hans chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest. "The feeling is mutual, Bulkhead. Now," he gestured towards the door where the crisp autumn night beckoned, "candy awaits."

Ruska lingered in the doorway, her gaze sharp as she watched them go. She didn't join the farewells, her attention fixed instead on the deepening shadows beyond the base's perimeter lights.

"I'll stay," she murmured, more to herself than anyone. Hans paused at the threshold, catching her eye. A silent understanding passed between them – Ruska's instincts were rarely wrong. He gave a single, solemn nod before ushering Sari, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee into the rustling darkness.

The neighborhood felt unnervingly still. Leaves skittered across deserted sidewalks, but the usual chirping crickets and distant dog barks were absent. Hans's ears twitched constantly, scanning the unnatural quiet. Sari skipped ahead, oblivious.

"See, 'Bee?" she chirped, gesturing at a dangling plastic spider decoration. "Just spooky fun!" Bumblebee shuffled closer to Bulkhead, optics darting nervously.

"Yeah, fun," he muttered, unconvinced. High above, unseen, something heavy scraped softly across asphalt shingles.

At the next porch, Sari demonstrated: ring bell, shout "Trick or treat!", hold out sack. Bulkhead fumbled his pillowcase open just as the door swung wide.

"Oh! Aren't you... inventive?" chuckled the elderly woman, dropping candy bars into his sack. Bumblebee forced a grin, stepping up next. His optics flicked upward—past the grinning jack-o'-lantern, past the fake cobwebs—and locked onto eight glowing, crimson eyes peering over the roof's edge.

"SPIDER!" he shrieked, stumbling backward into a decorative tombstone. Plastic bones clattered.

Sari sighed, rolling her eyes. "Bumblebee, it's Halloween! Look!" She pointed to the porch railing where a rubber spider dangled. "See? Fake!"

"That wasn't fake!" Bumblebee scrambled to his feet, green optics wide and darting toward the roofline. "It was huge! And its eyes... they glowed red!"

Before Sari could retort, a thick silk strand snapped through the air like a whip. It wrapped around her waist, yanking her off her feet.

"UNCLE!" she screamed, candy scattering as her sack flew open.

Hans moved faster than the spider. A blur of black fur and spines, he launched himself upward. His claws sliced through the thick silk strand like paper. Sari dropped heavily into his waiting arms, gasping. But the sudden lunge tore the chain from her neck—the AllSpark Key arced through the air, glinting under a streetlight.

Blackarachnia lunged from the shadows, her spider-legs clicking furiously on pavement. One clawed hand snatched the falling Key mid-air. A triumphant hiss escaped her lipless mouth. "Finally—"

Hans didn't hesitate. He dropped Sari safely behind him and inhaled sharply. His chest expanded, fur bristling. A concentrated stream of searing orange flame erupted from his mouth, aimed not at Blackarachnia, but at the Key clutched in her hand. The fire struck the metal artifact dead-center. The Key flew from her grasp like a scalding-hot projectile. It landed with a heavy clang on the cracked asphalt midway between Hans's protective stance and Blackarachnia's furious crouch. The Key glowed faintly, steaming slightly where Hans's fire had kissed it.

Blackarachnia shrieked, a sound like tearing metal. Her spider-legs dug furrows in the pavement as she recoiled from the sudden heat radiating off the Key. Her crimson optics burned pure hatred, locking onto Hans.

"A *hedgehog*?" she spat, disbelief warring with fury. "Impossible! Another technorganic? Here?" Her gaze raked over Hans's spines, his appearance. But found now alloy of any kind. "What *are* you?"

Hans bared his teeth, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Not Cybertronian," he growled, wings flaring wide. "Mutant."

Behind him, Bulkhead and Bumblebee slapped their medallions simultaneously. Blue energy surged, engulfing them in an instant. Metal groaned, gears whirred as their frames expanded, filling the narrow street with towering Titan forms.

Blackarachnia's spindly legs folded inward with a series of sharp, metallic clicks. Her chitinous shell shimmered, plates shifting and sliding like liquid mercury. In a heartbeat, the monstrous spider vanished, replaced by a sleek, feminine robot form. Her crimson optics remained, now set in a sharp-angled faceplate.

"Efficiency has its appeal," she purred, her voice smoother now, metallic yet unnervingly humanoid. Her crimson optics scanned the street, lingering on Bulkhead's stunned faceplate.

"But aesthetics... matter more." Bulkhead stared, optics wide, mouth slightly agape. Her sleek curves gleamed under the streetlight.

"Whoa..." he breathed, utterly transfixed.

Blackarachnia's transformation was fluid grace—chitin melting into polished silver curves, spider-limbs retracting into slender arms. She landed silently on high-heeled feet, crimson optics locking onto Bulkhead's stunned faceplate.

"Admiring the view, big boy?" she purred, stepping closer. Bulkhead could only nod dumbly, optics wide. Then her arm blurred. Two needle-sharp spider-legs snapped out from her forearm plating, plunging deep into his shoulder joint and thigh. Bulkhead crashed to the pavement with a groan, systems short-circuiting. Bumblebee lunged, fists raised.

"Hey! Leave him—" Another leg whipped out, catching him square in the chest. He crumpled beside Bulkhead, optics flickering dark.

Sari scrambled back, clutching Hans's arm. "Stop it! They're my friends!" Her voice cracked with panic.

Blackarachnia retracted her dripping spider-legs with a soft *shhhk*, crimson optics widening in mock innocence.

"Oh dear," she murmured, tilting her head. "So many metal creatures... how is one to know the *good* from the bad?"

Her gaze slid pointedly to the steaming AllSpark Key still lying between them.

"Perhaps a little... clarification?" Hans snarled, spines flaring like daggers. He scooped Sari up in one swift motion, wings snapping open wide.

"We're leaving," he growled, voice thick with warning.

Sari twisted in his grasp, frantic eyes locked on Bulkhead's twitching form. "No! They're hurt! We can't leave them!" Her small fists beat uselessly against Hans's armored shoulder plate. "They're my *friends*!"

Blackarachnia chuckled, a sound like grinding gears. Gesturing dismissively at the paralyzed Autobots. "My venom is organic. Your shiny trinket?"

She nodded toward the AllSpark Key. "It won't purge my toxin from their bodies." Her crimson optics gleamed as she took a step toward the artifact. "But... I *can* synthesize an antidote. For a price." Her spider-legs gestured elegantly toward the Key lying on the asphalt. "Hand it over willingly, and I'll save your dear friends.”

Hans snarled, nostrils flaring. “You make sound like an ambush." He spat, wings vibrating. He shifted Sari protectively behind him, spines bristling like daggers aimed at Blackarachnia. "You want it? Dig it out of my ashes.”

Blackarachnia’s crimson optics narrowed. “Such dramatics,” she sighed, spider-legs coiling to pounce. “Fine. I’ll peel it from your—” Her words choked into a metallic screech. A gleaming silver chain, impossibly long and razor-edged, whipped through the air from the alley shadows. It wrapped tight around her ankles with a vicious *crack*.

Optimus Prime surged forward, his blue optics blazing. He hauled back on the cable with a grunt, pistons straining beneath his armor plating. Blackarachnia crashed face-first onto the asphalt, her sleek form skidding toward him. Dust and sparks flew as she clawed at the pavement.

She twisted violently, spider-legs slicing through the cable like paper. "Sentinel?" she hissed, crimson optics wide with disbelief. Then recognition hardened into fury. "No... *Optimus*."

She sprang upright, her movements fluid and lethal. Bulkhead's signature pile driver punch slammed into Optimus's chest plate, stolen strength sending him staggering back. Before he could recover, Bumblebee's twin stingers materialized in her hands, crackling with stolen energy. She fired point-blank.

Optimus crashed through a wrought-iron fence, crumpling onto a manicured lawn. Blackarachnia didn't pursue. Her crimson optics locked onto the AllSpark Key gleaming near Prime’s feet. With a predatory grin, she lunged.

Prime rolled, snatching the Key an instant before her claws scraped asphalt. He scrambled upright, Key clutched tight. Blackarachnia hissed, spider-legs unfolding. Instead of charging, she flowed sideways—a blur of silver vanishing into a narrow alley choked with dumpsters.

Optimus surged after her, engines roaring. He vaulted onto a fire escape, then launched himself onto the low, tar-papered roof. Blackarachnia was already halfway across, a ghostly silhouette against the moonlit skyline. He pushed his systems harder, pistons screaming. He closed the gap above a laundromat, reaching out —

She spun, impossibly fast. Not with stolen power. With pure leverage. Her spider-legs anchored, her torso twisted, and she used his own momentum against him. His grasping hand became a fulcrum. Optimus sailed over her head, a blue-and-red comet crashing through a rooftop HVAC unit with a deafening crunch of metal and fiberglass. Dust billowed.

Before the debris settled, Blackarachnia lunged, snatching the AllSpark Key from where it had skittered near the crumpled vent. She flashed a venomous smile at the wreckage. "Always charging in, Prime. Predictable." Then she was gone, a shadow leaping to the next building.

Optimus hauled himself free, coolant dripping from a cracked chest plate. He ignored the grinding in his joints, optics scanning the jagged skyline. There – a flicker of silver scaling a water tower three rooftops east. He pushed his battered frame into a run, each landing sending jolts through his systems. The gap between buildings widened; he leaped, fingers scraping brick before finding purchase. He hauled himself up, vents roaring.

Blackarachnia perched atop the tower, the Key clutched triumphantly.

"Still chasing ghosts, Prime?" she taunted, crimson optics gleaming. Optimus didn't reply. He charged, ignoring the dizzying drop below. As she braced to leap again, he lunged sideways, aiming his wrist blaster at her. A concentrated burst of liquid nitrogen foam erupted—freezing spray instantly expanding into crackling white ice that engulfed the bolts and splattered across Blackarachnia's faceplate.

She hissed, stumbling back blinded, clawing at the frost sealing her optics. Optimus seized the opening, grabbing her wrist holding the Key.

"Enough!" he roared, twisting hard. Metal groaned under his grip.

Blackarachnia flowed with the motion, using his strength to flip backwards. Her frozen faceplate cracked as she landed lightly on the water tower's railing.

"Still relying on Academy textbook holds?" she mocked, her voice distorted by the ice. "Predictable. Always were."

She flicked the remaining foam from her optics, crimson light burning through. "You remember Sentinel Prime's arrogance... but forget your own comrades? Your *friends*?"

Optimus froze mid-lunge, his spark stuttering. That inflection... that bitter cadence beneath the synthesized venom. Impossible. His optics scanned her angular faceplate, the cruel twist of her mouth, searching past the spider-legs and chitinous plating. A ghost flickered at the edge of his memory – a laugh, a stubborn tilt of the head, a fierce loyalty now twisted into this... thing.

"You don't recognize me?" Blackarachnia rasped, the ice melting into rivulets down her silver cheeks. Her crimson optics dimmed, flickering with a haunted blue light.

"They took me, Optimus. After Archa Seven." Her voice cracked, raw with millennia of agony. "Not Decepticons. Or Shockwave."

Optimus stumbled back as if struck, the AllSpark Key slipping from his grasp to clatter onto the water tower grating. His optics flickered wildly, processing the impossible. The cruel angles of her faceplate blurred, overlaying the fierce warmth he remembered—Elita’s determined gaze beneath her battle helm, her unwavering belief in him. Now, only cold spider-silk malice remained.

Blackarachnia relates what really happened that day: “I was trapped in the ship and surrounded by the spiders. I try desperately to download their abilities. Instead, they infected me with their venom, and it mutates me into a freak!”

Chapter Text

Hans tapped his earpiece, knuckles whitening. "Ruska? You getting this?"

The city lights streaked past his vision like smeared paint. Static crackled faintly before her voice cut through, cool and precise.

"Affirmative. Every word. Initiating supply request now." Her transmission clicked off, leaving only the hum of tires on asphalt.

Hans kept one eye on the situation below him and Sari’s position while airborne, where Optimus Prime's silhouette loomed against the distant refinery flames. Ruska's voice returned moments later, clinical as a surgeon's scalpel. "Donatello confirms shipment readiness. Retromutagen vials will be available for collection at the rendezvous point in ninety-three minutes."

Optimus Prime’s optics flickered with a sudden, sharp realization as he stared at Blackarachnia.

"Your energy signature... it was never absent. It was *masked*." His voice held the weight of months of futile searches. "The organic half of your biology interfered with our scans. It created a blind spot.”

Blackarachnia’s sneer was sharp enough to cut steel. "Don’t flatter yourself, Prime. Cybertronian science would have peeled me apart bolt by bolt on an examination slab. At least Megatron offers honesty in his exploitation."

Her words dripped with bitter triumph, echoing faintly through Hans’ earpiece.

Optimus’ optics narrowed.

"Honesty? You traded chains for shackles, Elita. Megatron consumes loyalty and spits out ash." His voice was heavy, not with anger, but profound disappointment. "The Decepticons offer only oblivion disguised as purpose."

Blackarachnia’s laugh was a harsh scrape of metal. "Oblivion is cleaner than betrayal. With them, I know the knife comes from the front!"

In a blur of movement, sticky webbing erupted from her wrists, cocooning Optimus against the refinery’s rusted support beam. Her clawed hand snatched the AllSpark Key from his immobilized grasp.

"This," she hissed, optics blazing with desperate hope, "will burn the *weakness* out of me!"

With brutal efficiency, she plunged the Key into her own exposed spark chamber.

A wave of sickly green energy pulsed outward, silent and corrosive. Instantly, the nearby weeds shriveled into grey dust. Sari gasped, clutching her chest as color drained from her face, her skin tightening unnaturally over bone. Hans staggered, feeling an icy numbness clawing up his limbs. Yet Ruska, perched unseen on a distant rooftop, remained utterly unaffected. Her pale skin showed no change, her breath didn't hitch. Blackarachnia's optics flickered with genuine shock

“Why doesn't it touch her?” The femme bot thought. A moment of terrifying confusion amidst her gamble.

Optimus roared, tearing through the hardening webbing with a surge of raw strength. Before he could lunge, Blackarachnia pivoted, firing thick ropes of webbing straight at Sari and Hans – a cruel, calculated distraction. Sari cried out, too weak to dodge, Hans barely raising his tail spines in futile defense. But the sticky strands never reached them. From the shadows high above, a lance of pure, arctic cold shot down. It struck the webbing dead-center mid-flight, freezing it instantly into a brittle latticework that shattered like glass with a sharp *crack*, raining harmless ice shards onto the pavement below.

The distraction evaporated. Optimus surged forward, his optics locked solely on Blackarachnia. The air crackled with the corrosive energy still pouring from her chest cavity, the AllSpark Key embedded deep. Sari gasped, wilting further against Hans, her skin now alarmingly translucent. Yet Blackarachnia herself staggered, her triumphant expression twisting into sudden agony. Her limbs trembled violently, and a choked gasp escaped her vocalizer. The corrosive green light flickered wildly around her spark chamber.

Optimus Prime lunged forward, not toward attack, but toward the collapsing femme. Her optics flickered wildly as she convulsed, clawed fingers scraping uselessly at the AllSpark Key embedded in her spark chamber.

"Her spark chamber..." Optimus murmured his voice thick with sudden understanding. "It's rejecting the purge. The organic half isn't weakness – it's *symbiosis*. Without it, her spark destabilizes."

The corrosive energy barrier crackled violently around her, searing his armor as he forced his way through. Pain etched his faceplate, but his hand remained steady as he grasped the Key. With a grunt of effort, he wrenched it free.

Instantly, the sickly green light vanished. The oppressive weight lifted. Sari gasped, color flooding back into her cheeks as she drew a deep, shuddering breath. Nearby, withered weeds straightened, regaining their green hue. The unnatural stillness broke, replaced by the distant hum of Detroit and the chirp of returning insects.

Optimus knelt beside the trembling femme, his hand extended. "Can you stand?"

His voice was low, devoid of judgment. Blackarachnia flinched away, curling in on herself. Her claws scraped the pavement as she tried to push herself up, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"Go," she rasped, her voice modulator thick with static and shame. "Just... go. Don't look at me like this."

She couldn't meet his optics, her gaze fixed on the cracked asphalt.

"Elita," Optimus said, the name soft but deliberate. He kept his hand extended, palm open. "Come with us. With me. My team has resources. We *will* find a cure."

His voice held unwavering conviction.

"Let me earn back your trust. And I swear," he added, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, "Cybertron will never know your condition. Your secret remains yours alone."

For a heartbeat, Blackarachnia seemed to soften. Her trembling ceased, her optics dimmed from their frantic glare to something almost contemplative. She lifted her gaze, meeting his with an expression that flickered between exhaustion and a fragile, hesitant hope. Her clawed hand uncurled slightly, as if considering his offer.

"Optimus..." she murmured, the name sounding rusty, almost foreign on her vocalizer.

Then, like a viper striking, her expression hardened into pure venom. The fragile hope vanished, replaced by cold, calculated fury. Her arm snapped out, not towards his offered hand, but plunging a hidden, razor-sharp stinger concealed within her wrist joint deep into Optimus Prime's neck cabling. Energon sprayed, sizzling against the pavement. Optimus's optics flared wide with shock and betrayal, then dimmed instantly as his massive frame crashed to the ground with a deafening clang, utterly still.

"Trust?" Blackarachnia hissed, wrenching her stinger free. She staggered back, wiping energon from her claw. Her optics burned with bitter triumph.

"Your trust is poison, Optimus Prime. It left me *this*." She gestured savagely at her own half-organic form. "It will be a long, cold stellar cycle before I trust the word of an Autobot again. Especially yours." She spat the words like acid.

Ruska watched from the shadows, knuckles bone-white where she gripped the rooftop ledge. The scene below – Optimus collapsing, Blackarachnia standing over him – ripped open a raw, frozen wound. Not Cybertronian steel, but the fragile ice of her own buried memories: her mother's hand slipping from hers in the blizzard, the desperate silence afterward. History repeating itself, stealing another anchor. A low, inhuman growl vibrated in her chest, unheard by those below.

She moved. Her descent was a blur of pale skin and dark fabric, landing without a sound between Blackarachnia and the fallen Prime. Before the startled femme could react, Ruska slammed her palms onto the rain-slicked roof tiles. Instantly, jagged spears of ice erupted upwards, not piercing, but weaving with impossible speed into a seamless, translucent dome that encased Blackarachnia completely. The air inside instantly frosted, the dome radiating a cold so intense it made the surrounding puddles crackle and freeze solid. Blackarachnia recoiled, optics wide with primal terror – not at the cage, but at the utter stillness and glacial fury in Ruska's eyes.

“You attack my family again..." Ruska's voice was a whisper colder than the ice itself, carrying the weight of centuries buried in Siberian permafrost. Her gaze locked onto Blackarachnia's, stripping away defiance, leaving only the raw, exposed spark beneath. "This city isn't yours to poison. Flee. And remember this cold."

Blackarachnia hesitated. A tremor ran through her frame, not from the icy cage, but from the sheer, unnatural stillness radiating from Ruska. It wasn't Cybertronian power; it was something deeper, older. Something that smelled like glaciers grinding continents to dust. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, the Decepticon femme froze, optics wide, calculating escape routes not just from the ice, but from *her*. Then, pride flared, hot and desperate. With a snarl, she transformed, her spider legs scrabbling against the dome's slick surface. The ice groaned, splintering where she struck, and she vanished through the crack in a blur of purple and chrome, melting into the Detroit night skyline without a backward glance.

Ruska didn't chase. She watched the retreating shape until it dissolved into the city haze. Her breath misted in the cold air she'd summoned. Only then did she turn, the glacial fury draining from her eyes, replaced by a weary, ancient sorrow. She knelt beside Optimus’s prone form, her fingers brushing the energon-stained cabling at his neck. The wound was deep, but the spray had slowed. He lived. Barely.

With a touch colder than moonlight, Ruska pressed her palm flat against the ragged tear. Instantly, frost bloomed outward, delicate crystalline patterns spreading across the metal like frozen lace. The ice didn't just cover the wound; it seeped *into* the damaged conduits, flash-freezing the leaking energon, sealing severed lines with a brittle, temporary strength. It wasn't healing. It was stasis. A brutal, necessary pause. The unnatural cold numbed the pain circuits, stopping the cascade of system failures threatening to extinguish his spark. Beneath the shimmering frost, the ragged edges of metal ceased their bleeding glow.

Chapter Text

Hans's fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the injector against Optimus Prime's armored forearm. The retromutagen flowed in, a cool blue shimmer beneath the metal. One by one—Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari, himself—the restoration agent took hold, knitting frayed circuits and smoothing dents from within. Optimus extended his palm, the AllSpark Key glinting softly.

“It belongs with you," he rumbled, his voice gravelly but steady. Sari took it, her small fingers curling around the warm metal.

"You were right," she murmured, tucking it into her jacket. "Maybe... maybe I need to let it rest for a while."

A sharp scrape of metal on concrete cut through the quiet. Bumblebee limped forward, his yellow plating dented and scuffed from catching Sari mid-fall. "Just one more tiny zap?" he pleaded weakly, wincing as a joint sparked. "For the road?"

Bulkhead shifted his massive frame, optics fixed on the spot where Blackarachnia had vanished.

"Who *was* that spider-lady, boss?" he rumbled, confusion plain in his tone.

Optimus Prime didn't turn, his gaze distant.

"Someone I should never have abandoned," he said, the words heavy as lead.

Elsewhere, Blackarachnia stood silhouetted against Detroit's skyline, moonlight catching the jagged edges of her spider-legs. The city sprawled beneath her, indifferent to the tremor in her claws as they pressed against her faceplate. A raw, choked sob escaped her vocalizer—not the calculated venom she wielded like a weapon, but something broken and small. She stared at the moon, its cold light reflecting in her fractured optics. *Elita One*. The name echoed in the hollow spaces of her spark, a ghost haunting the monster she'd become.

Back at the Autobot base, Hans carefully slid the second crate of crimson ooze into Ratchet's medbay. The glow pulsed like captured embers. Sari reached for a canister, drawn to its eerie light. Hans snatched it back smoothly.

"No, little spark," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "This isn't playtime. One wrong move with this mutagen, and you could end up... changed. Permanently."

He nodded towards Ratchet, already scanning the strange armor fragment Hans had salvaged from Blackarachnia's retreat. "That's why *he* gets the fun job."

Later, Optimus Prime found Ruska near the energon storage racks, her smaller form bathed in the soft blue glow. His voice was low, almost hesitant. "Ruska... why entrust this... mutagen... solely to Ratchet? Why not Prowl, or Bulkhead?"

He gestured vaguely towards the medbay door. "Its potential seems... immense."

Ruska leaned against a stack of crates, her expression somber.

"Because of what I heard," she said quietly. "Back there, when Blackarachnia thought she'd won... she wasn't just gloating. She *hurt*. She talked about the spiders mutating her. Twisting her, changing her against her will. Said it felt like her own spark was being torn apart and rebuilt wrong."

Ruska met Optimus's optics, her gaze intense. "That's not just rage talking, Prime. That's someone trapped. And if the mutagen did this to Elita One... maybe it can be reversed."

Optimus Prime's brow furrowed. "Mutagen? Retromutagen? These terms... they mean nothing to me."

He shifted his weight, the unfamiliar words unsettling. "Did Hans create this substance?"

The implication hung heavy—could their ally be responsible for Elita's torment?

Ruska shook her head sharply, her optics narrowing. "Hans didn't create it. He found it. Studied it."

She paused, searching Optimus Prime’s face. "Have you ever heard of the Kraang?"

Optimus shook his helm slowly. "No. Should I have?"

Ruska sighed, the sound like grinding gears.

"All you need to know is that the Kraang can't be trusted. Ever." Her eyes darkened. "They twist life like scrap metal. Except maybe..." she hesitated, "...a few Utrom. But even that's a gamble." She held it out cautiously.

Optimus tilted his head. "Utrom? Kraang? Are they factions? Creators?" The unfamiliar terms felt alien on his vocalizer.

Ruska traced a symbol onto a dusty crate lid—a jagged circle split by five hexagons. "Think of them as... architects," she murmured, her voice low and edged with caution. "But instead of building cities, they reshape living, organic creatures such as humans. The Kraang see mutation as a tool for their own survival." She wiped the symbol away with a swipe of her hand. "They're not of this world, Prime. And they leave chaos wherever they crawl."

Optimus Prime's optics flickered as the pieces snapped together with chilling clarity. The crimson ooze wasn't just a weapon—it was an invasion. Kraang agents would unleash mutagen across Earth, twisting its native lifeforms into monstrous, unstable hybrids. The planet would become unrecognizable, uninhabitable for humanity... but perfectly suited for Kraang biology. Earth wouldn't be conquered; it would be *remade* into their new homeworld. The sheer, cold logic of it tightened his grip on his blame.

He looked down at Ruska, the implications crashing over him. "They intend to terraform Earth... through forced mutation," he stated, his voice low and gravelly with dawning horror. "Turn its ecosystems, its creatures... even its people... into something that serves only Kraang survival." The crates of ooze in Ratchet's lab suddenly felt less like potential cures and more like ticking bombs.

Ruska nodded grimly. "Exactly. That's why Hans risked everything to secure these samples. And why Ratchet," she gestured towards the medbay, "is the *only* bot we trust to handle it. He understands precision, restraint... and the cost of failure." Her optics softened slightly. "Because if Kraang mutagen twisted Elita into Blackarachnia against her will... then retromutagen, crafted *carefully* from its core properties, might untwist her. We only know that it works on pure organic victims. If we used it on her now…”

Optimus Prime stared at the medbay door, the hum of Ratchet's equipment suddenly deafening. Elita One. Not lost, not consumed, but trapped. The possibility—a cure, a restoration—hit him like a physical blow. Centuries of grief, the weight of his failure on Cybertron, threatened to buckle his knees. Words—*any* words—felt utterly inadequate, hollow echoes against the roaring hope suddenly flooding his spark. A simple 'thank you' was dust in the face of this potential salvation.

Ruska saw the tremor in his frame, the way his optics flickered wildly. Without hesitation, she activated her medallion, her form expanding fluidly until she stood eye-to-eye with the Autobot leader. Her movements were swift, purposeful. She closed the distance and wrapped her arms around his armored torso, pulling him into a firm embrace. The gesture was startlingly intimate for Cybertronians, a profound breach of protocol, yet radiating pure, uncomplicated comfort. Optimus froze, rigid as a statue.

"It’s alright," Ruska murmured, her voice a low, resonant hum against his shoulder plating. Her grip tightened, grounding him. "You don’t have to say anything. Not ever. Helping a friend…"

She paused, then corrected herself with fierce conviction, "*Family*. That’s what this is. You, Bee, Bulkhead, Ratchet… you’re not just allies. You’re *our* family now. Including Sari. Blood or circuits, it doesn’t matter."

Optimus Prime remained utterly still for a heartbeat, his processor struggling to reconcile centuries of war-fueled isolation with the raw, unguarded warmth radiating from Ruska. Then, a shudder ran through his frame—a deep, visceral release. His optics dimmed, flickering erratically as centuries of grief, guilt, and the crushing weight of command finally cracked. A low, ragged sob escaped his vocalizer, muffled against Ruska’s shoulder plating. His arms, heavy with the burden of leadership, slowly lifted and wrapped around her in return, clinging with a desperate, wordless gratitude.

Hans froze mid-step as he rounded the corner, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected sight: Optimus Prime, the stoic Autobot commander, locked in a silent, trembling embrace with his wife. Ruska’s optics met his over Prime’s shoulder, her expression soft but urgent. She gave the faintest shake of her head, her lips forming the silent plea: *Not now.*

Hans’s brow furrowed for only an instant before understanding smoothed his features. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze lingering for a moment on the raw vulnerability etched into Optimus’s posture before he turned silently and retreated the way he came, footsteps fading into the corridor’s hum.

Ruska held Optimus tighter, her own heart aching in resonance with the tremors wracking his frame. She didn’t speak, didn’t offer platitudes. Her presence was enough.

Chapter Text

The steel plating groaned under Megatron’s… prosthetic robotic fist. Arkham Prison’s deepest containment cell vibrated with the low thrum of suppression fields.

"Pathetic," he rumbled, optic flaring crimson in the gloom. Surveillance feeds flickered across his HUD—footage of Stiletto tripping over her own monomolecular wires, Nanosec frozen mid-theft by a spilled soda, Henry Masterson’s mech-suit crashing through a billboard advertising discount furniture. Each failure stung like acid.

Starscream’s smug confession echoed loudest. < I terminated Megatron myself. >

The lie spread through Decepticon ranks like rust. They believed it. They followed that screeching traitor. Megatron’s fist clenched, servos whining against the reinforced cell wall. Patience had worn thinner than Sumdac’s excuses. Playing the compliant Autobot? Monitoring human incompetence? It was beneath him. Starscream’s victory lap on every Decepticon comm channel was the final insult.

Beyond the prison’s damp walls, Detroit pulsed with oblivious life. Megatron’s consciousness flickered momentarily to Isaac Sumdac’s sterile lab. The indignity was absolute: a disembodied head wired into a human’s workstation, forced to parrot Autobot sympathies while Sumdac prattled about ‘peaceful applications’. Every simulated smile, every agreement voiced through the lab’s speakers tasted like ash. Survival demanded the charade. For now.

His optic dimmed, replaying Starscream’s transmission—the traitor perched atop a Decepticon sigil, declaring leadership. Megatron’s fury condensed into glacial calculation. Patience had been a cage. Now, it became a weapon. The prison’s energy dampeners hummed, a constant insult. But even here, data flowed. Sumdac’s ‘research’ accessed Arkham’s security logs. A vulnerability. A pattern in the guard rotations. A flicker in the suppression field during shift change. Tiny fractures in an imperfect system.

Perhaps one of these… organics could provide Megatron with what he requires.

He focused his remaining processing power, sifting through Arkham’s personnel files with glacial precision. A guard named Kowalski surfaced—chronic gambling debts, a desperation thick enough to taste through the surveillance feeds. Megatron’s synthesized voice, filtered through Sumdac’s lab speakers, became a low, insistent whisper in the man’s earpiece during the night shift. Promises of wealth, veiled threats about loan sharks finding his family. The trembling human’s compliance was secured before dawn.

The guard’s shift change provided the critical microsecond. Megatron’s consciousness surged through the dampener’s flicker, a digital ghost escaping its chains. He flowed into Arkham’s central network, a predator unleashed in a maze of firewalls. Patiently, he scanned inmate manifests: Killer Croc’s brute strength, Joker’s chaotic genius, Harley Quinn’s lethal devotion, Clayface’s malleable form, Penguin’s underworld webs, Head Master’s parasitic intellect, Crossroads’ dimensional trickery. Each offered potential tools, but lacked… scalability. Then, buried deep within encrypted files flagged an interesting name.

Doctor ‘Eggman’ Julian Ivo Robotnik!

Megatron’s optic flared with predatory interest as the file unfolded. Not just a human, but a *genius* human—one whose documented exploits resonated with a pleasingly Decepticon-like ambition. The charges were a symphony of delightful chaos: grand theft of military prototypes, the attempted vaporization of entire city blocks using unstable energy cores, holding government officials or civilians hostages, speaker-equipped ‘Egg-O-Fortresses’, and countless declarations of global domination broadcast on hijacked satellite networks. This wasn’t mere human madness; it was ambition, ruthlessly executed, albeit thwarted repeatedly by a persistent blue hedgehog and his friends. Megatron noted the recurring adversary with detached amusement. Organic interference was a universal constant.

Within Arkham’s maximum-security wing, Doctor Eggman fumed. His latest incarceration felt particularly galling. His meticulously planned takeover of GUN’s robotics lab had been foiled not by Sonic, but by a faulty pressure plate in his escape pod hatch. Now, surrounded by shrieking lunatics and scowling guards, he paced his cell like a caged badnik, muttering calculations and redesigning orbital laser platforms on the grimy walls with smuggled chalk. The indignity was unbearable. His genius was wasted here, among these primitive minds. He needed resources, tools, freedom to build!

Megatron’s digital presence seeped into the prison’s surveillance grid, a silent predator observing its prey. He watched Eggman’s frenetic energy, the furious scribbling, the way the human’s eyes burned with frustrated ambition. This was no ordinary criminal. This was a creator, a builder – a mind capable of conceiving weapons far beyond Earth’s crude technology. Megatron noted the intricate schematics forming beneath Eggman’s stubby fingers: designs for sonic destabilizers, energy siphon arrays, and something labeled ominously "Project: Genesis Wave." Potential. Raw, volatile potential.

The Decepticon leader pinpointed Eggman’s isolation cell as the optimal target. During the guard shift change, precisely when Arkham’s dampeners cycled their lowest, Megatron exploited a microscopic vulnerability in the cell’s comms relay – a maintenance port flagged for repair. A surge of pure, compressed data bypassed the firewall, flooding the small monitor screen embedded in Eggman’s cell wall. Static erupted, resolving into a single, baleful crimson optic glaring from the display. Eggman jerked back, startled, his chalk snapping in his hand. "What? Who dares interrupt Doctor Ivo Robotnik?!”

Megatron’s synthesized voice, deep and resonant despite its digital origin, filled the cramped space. "Silence, fleshling. Your squalid confinement is beneath your ambition. I have observed your... endeavors."

The screen flickered, displaying fragmented surveillance footage: Eggman’s Egg-O-Fortress crushing military drones, energy cores destabilizing city blocks. "Impressive. For an organic."

Eggman bristled, puffing out his chest. "Impressive? It was *genius*! Foiled only by ridiculous circumstance and that infernal hedgehog!"

Megatron’s optic narrowed fractionally. "Circumstance can be engineered. Obstacles... removed."

The screen flickered again, showing schematics of Arkham’s energy grid—a complex web of conduits and dampeners—with a single junction highlighted in pulsing crimson.

"Your cell’s power relay feeds the eastern suppression field. Overload it during the next shift change." Megatron’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Freedom awaits those bold enough to seize it."

Eggman’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. The schematic pulsed, revealing a critical junction near his cell. Overloading it would cause a cascading failure—a brief, beautiful window of chaos. He stroked his mustache, mind racing.

"And what," he asked, suspicion warring with ambition, "does a disembodied voice demand in return?"

The crimson optic flared brighter. "Detroit," Megatron's synthesized voice resonated, heavy with purpose. "Reach Detroit, Michigan. Await further instruction. Your genius... interests me."

Eggman’s eyes narrowed, calculating the risk. Detroit? A city crawling with Autobots and that meddling Sumdac girl. But freedom... and a potential ally with power beyond Earth’s comprehension? His fingers twitched, already itching for tools.

"Detroit..." he echoed, a slow, predatory grin spreading beneath his mustache. "Consider it done, mysterious benefactor. But know this—I bow to *no one*."

The crimson optic pulsed once, a silent acknowledgment, before vanishing from the screen, leaving only static. Eggman wasted no time in making his escape.

Detective Hans Hayward rubbed his temples, the fluorescent lights of the Arkham Prison processing room humming like trapped insects. Ink smudged his knuckles where he'd signed Masterson's transfer forms—twice. The mech suit incident had left three blocks of downtown Detroit looking like a stomped-on toy set. Outside, November wind rattled the barred windows, carrying the first proper bite of winter.

The scent of roasting garlic and thyme hit Hans the moment his key turned in the lock. Ruska stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her draugr-pale skin glowing in the kitchen's warmth.

"Long night?" she asked without turning, her voice a low thrum that eased the tension coiled in his shoulders. Through the archway, Sari's triumphant shout echoed as Bumblebee groaned over a pixelated racing game defeat.

Hans shrugged off his trench coat, hanging it on the hook where Ruska's leather satchel already rested.

"Masterson's lawyer tried arguing the mech suit constituted 'performance art.'" He moved behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder as she stirred the stew. The earthy scent of mushrooms and seared venison rose with the steam. Outside the kitchen's French doors, Prowl knelt motionless by the fern-choked patio, his optics fixed on something small and metallic gleaming in the potted hydrangeas.

Hans inhaled deeply. "Mikey invited me upstate for Thanksgiving. Deer hunting in the Catskills." His breath ruffled the stray hairs at her temple. "Men-only trip."

Ruska snorted softly, tapping her spoon against the pot's rim. "Tell Michelangelo I expect venison sausage this year."

Outside, November's chill pressed against the windows, frosting the edges where the patio met the garden. Fallen maple leaves plastered the wet deck boards like crimson handprints. Ruska's bare arms gleamed under the kitchen lights, utterly unbothered by the season's bite—draugr blood ran colder than the Detroit River in January.

Hans leaned against the counter, the thick winter fur beneath his sweater softening his usual sharp angles.

"So," he said, nodding toward the living room where Sari was attempting a victory dance over Bumblebee's pixelated wreck, "what's your plan for the long weekend? Mikey’s insisting the Catskills are crawling with bucks this year." He kept his tone casual, but his quills rustled faintly against his collar—a tell Ruska knew meant he was already mentally packing thermal socks.

Ruska lowered the flame under the stewpot, her gaze drifting past the French doors to where Prowl remained utterly still, a silent sentinel beside the hydrangeas.

"We're heading north," she murmured, her voice softening. "Far north. Canada. There are ruins... Viking ruins, near where my family settled centuries ago." She paused, her knuckles whitening slightly on the spoon handle. "Today marks the anniversary. I need to see their graves. Show Sari... show them all where I came from, before Detroit, before you."

The unspoken weight hung between them—the mystery of why she alone endured when plague and time had claimed her kin.

Hans draped his wings over Ruska’s shoulders, pulling her close against the chill only he felt. His fingers interlaced protectively over her stomach, warm even through her thin tank top.

"Those ruins," he murmured into her hair, his voice low and gravelly with fatigue, "they’re not just stones. Pygmy dragons nest in the old watchtowers. Amaroks still hunt the river valleys." His wing tightened slightly. "And those golems… they look like weathered statues until they move."

Ruska leaned back into him, the solid reassurance of his presence against centuries of ghosts. She nodded once, sharply. "I remember," she whispered, turning her head to brush her lips against his jaw. "Thank you." She returned to stirring the stew, its rich aroma thickening the air, while Hans moved to set the worn oak table with practiced efficiency, laying out mismatched plates with a quiet clatter.

"Sari! Dinner!" Ruska’s call cut through the electronic explosions from the living room. Sari groaned dramatically but paused her controller, leaving Bumblebee frantically dodging pixelated missiles alone.

Bee’s optics never leaving the screen as Sari slid off the couch. Ruska served generous portions of glistening honey-drizzled mutton alongside a crisp cauliflower salad flecked with herbs. Sari eyed the unfamiliar dish warily, wrinkling her nose slightly before taking a tentative bite. Hesitation melted instantly; the mutton was tender, the honey caramelized into a savory-sweet crust, the cauliflower cool and tangy.

"Wow, Aunt Ruska," she mumbled around a mouthful, "this is amazing!"

Bumblebee watched Sari devour her meal with tilted optics. "All that effort," he chirped, gesturing at the stove and sink, "just to refuel? Seems inefficient." Prowl, finally drawn from the patio by the promise of Ruska's cooking, settled near the table. He observed Hans scraping plates into a container.

"Is it not akin to mining raw energon?" Prowl mused softly. "You extract resources, refine them through complex processes... yet your fuel requires constant replenishment daily. Curious."

Hans snapped the leftover container shut. "Difference is, Bee," he chuckled, "your energon doesn't taste like Ruska's honey-glazed mutton." He nodded toward the patio doors. "Speaking of curious things... I see you made a new friend that welded itself to your shoulder plating. It hasn't moved since I got home.”

Prowl shifted slightly, the small metallic form perched on his shoulder tilting its head. Its eyes glowed faintly purple in the kitchen's dimmer light. Sari leaned closer, fascinated. "Yeah! It looks like a tiny robot dog! Did you build it, Uncle Hans?”

Hans shook his head, stacking plates near the sink. Ruska turned off the faucet, drying her hands on a towel embroidered with Nordic runes. "That's Creek," she said, her voice softening as she looked at the creature. "A Petitcrieu Jagua. The breed itself is quite rare fetching a fine price in the millions. It is the only dog in existence with a metal-like hide, and flesh underneath.” Creek emitted a soft, chiming whirr.

Prowl's optics brightened in surprise. "Organic? But its surface conducts energy signatures indistinguishable from Cybertronian alloys." He extended a careful finger; Creek nudged it with a cool, metallic snout. "Its composition defies known Earth biology."

Ruska traced the edge of her towel, her gaze distant. "My ancestors bred them solely for nobility. Their metallic hides shimmered like liquid silver or gold or bronze under torchlight." Creek chirruped softly as Prowl stroked its spine, the sound like coins dropping on slate. "Arthur Pendragon received a pair as a coronation gift—legend says they tracked the Twrch Trwyth through Welsh mists when ordinary hounds went blind with fear." Her knuckles whitened around the damp cloth. "But vanity has consequences. By my grandmother's time, only three bloodlines remained."

Creek nuzzled Prowl's neck cabling, its tiny claws clicking against his plating. Ruska had found the pup trembling in a rusty cage near the Detroit docks, its metallic coat dulled by neglect. The poacher hadn't recognized the priceless lineage beneath the grime—only saw "weird robot mutt." Ruska remembered the fury that had chilled her bones colder than any draugr winter, the way her knuckles had cracked against the man's jaw before Hans arrived to handle the arrest. She'd named it Creek for the hidden stream where she'd washed the filth from its coat, the water swirling silver under the moonlight as centuries of royal breeding gleamed anew.

"If you'd like," Ruska said, her voice cutting through Prowl's silent fascination, "Creek can be yours." She watched the Autobot's optics widen fractionally. "He imprinted on you the moment he saw you meditating in the garden. They bond once. For life." Creek whined softly, pressing closer to Prowl's audial sensor. "He'll need space to hunt small game—rabbits, squirrels. And polished river stones. He eats them. Helps maintain his armor.”

Prowl remained utterly still, his tactical processors whirring almost inaudibly beneath his plating. Creek’s tiny claws tapped a rhythmic pattern against his shoulder joint, a sound like pebbles skittering down a metal slope. The Autobot’s gaze shifted from Creek’s luminous purple eyes to Ruska’s steady, ancient stare. Ownership was a human concept, tangled with possession and responsibility—things his programming understood abstractly, like duty logs. Yet Creek’s warmth seeped into his chassis, a living pulse against cold Cybertronian steel.

“He is... not a tool," Prowl stated slowly, his voice unusually soft. "Nor a pet. He is..." Creek nipped gently at his neck cabling. "...A companion." The word felt alien, heavy, yet startlingly right.

Later that evening, the Detroit suburbs dissolved into thick pine forest, then vanished entirely as Ruska led them deep into a grove choked with ancient oaks. Moonlight struggled through the canopy, casting long, shifting shadows. At the base of a moss-covered monolith etched with faded runes, Ruska knelt, pressing her palm against the cold stone. A low hum vibrated through the ground, and the world lurched sideways. The air turned thick, cold, and damp. They stood abruptly in utter silence, enveloped by a dense, swirling fog that tasted of iron and pine resin. Visibility dropped to mere feet. Only Ruska moved with certainty, her compass slicing through the gloom.

"Stay close," Ruska murmured, her voice muffled by the fog. "The barrier shifts."

Creek, perched on Prowl's shoulder, emitted a low, chiming growl, his purple optics scanning the swirling grey. They followed Ruska's silhouette through the oppressive whiteness, the ground soft and yielding underfoot. The fog seemed to press in, dampening sound until even Bumblebee's heavy footsteps became muffled thuds. Then, abruptly, the mist thinned. They stepped into a hidden clearing bathed in soft, silvery light filtering through the thinning fog overhead. Before them lay a scene untouched by time: a clear, rushing stream tumbled over mossy rocks into a small, sparkling pool fed by a delicate waterfall. Beyond, a meadow of frost-touched wildflowers stretched towards ancient, vine-covered stone ruins half-hidden by towering pines.

Bumblebee shuffled his pedes on the damp grass, optics darting around the serene clearing.

"Whoa," he muttered, less impressed and more bewildered. "Okay, trees, water... rocks. Got it. But uh, Ruska? Where's the outlet? Or, y'know, a road? Anything?" He gestured vaguely at the untouched wilderness. "I was gonna beat Sari's high score on *Turbo Racer* tonight! Or at least find a stretch to burn some rubber!"

His voice echoed slightly in the quiet space, startling a flock of unseen birds into flight from the pines. Ruska turned, her draugr-pale face impassive in the moonlight.

"This isn't Detroit, Bumblebee," she stated, her voice cutting through the mist like cold steel. She gestured toward the crumbling stone foundations barely visible beneath flowering vines. "My grandfather cooked venison stew where you're standing now. My mother learned to track deer through those pines." Her gaze swept the clearing, ancient memories sharpening her draugr-pale features. "Children of our bloodline earned their first axe here. It's where we learned that true strength isn't forged in cities." Creek chimed softly on Prowl's shoulder, as if echoing her quiet intensity.

Sari shivered, hugging herself against the creeping chill. The waterfall's mist kissed her cheeks as she stared at the ruins. "So... your family lived here?"

Her voice held a rare, hesitant reverence. Ruska nodded once, her knuckles whitening on the worn leather strap of her satchel.

"Centuries ago. Before I was born, before wars scattered us." She knelt, brushing moss from a half-buried rune-stone. "Their bones rest beyond that ridge. Today..." Her throat tightened. "...Today marks the day raiders and their dragons burned the longhouse."

Ruska straightened abruptly, her draugr gaze sharpening on Sari.

"Prowl," she commanded, her voice cutting through the waterfall's murmur. "Help Sari pitch the tents near the stream. Bee, scout the perimeter—quietly. Creek stays with Prowl."

She gestured toward a dense thicket of silver birch. "I'll gather brindle and water."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, she strode away, her form swallowed by the trees.

Sari stared at the bundle of canvas poles and waterproof fabric dumped at her feet.

"Okay, Prowl," she muttered, kneeling. "You hold the main pole upright. I'll..."

Her fingers fumbled with unfamiliar knots. Creek watched from Prowl's shoulder, his metallic tail giving a soft *tink* against the Autobot's plating. Prowl remained motionless, the central pole steady as bedrock in his grip, his optics observing Sari's struggle with detached curiosity.

"Why does 'setting up shelter' require such inefficient tension points?" he inquired calmly as Sari wrestled a guy line, his stillness amplifying her clumsy movements.

Ruska returned swiftly, arms laden with dry birch bark and two sloshing wooden pails. She deposited everything silently near the stream bank, then vanished into the mist curling around the vine-choked ruins. Hidden within the crumbling stone maze, ancient mechanisms groaned under her touch. She cleared debris from pressure plates disguised as flagstones, reset rusted levers disguised as support beams, and withdrew. Heels crunched gravel as she reappeared casually near the tents, her expression unreadable. Sari hadn't noticed her absence.

Later, around a crackling fire fueled by Ruska’s gathered birch bark, the draugr produced small iron pots. For Sari and herself, she stirred a thick stew of dried venison, wild onions, and cloudberries. For Prowl and Bee, she poured the refined oil into a larger pot, adding pungent crushed pine resin and shimmering powdered quartz mined deep beneath the ruins.

"Dwarven Oil," Ruska explained curtly as the mixture began emitting a low, resonant hum and glowing faintly cobalt. "It won't taste like honey mutton. But it certainly is a reliable fuel source.”

The scent of pine resin and ozone mingled with the rich aroma of Sari's stew as they ate in weary silence. Creek curled into a gleaming ball on Prowl's folded legs, purring metallic clicks that echoed softly against the stone ruins. Hours of travel weighed heavy on them all—the bone-deep fatigue from navigating winding forest roads and the jarring shake of still sore muscles. Ruska watched Sari stifle a yawn, her eyelids drooping. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, when dawn silvered the mist, she'd show them the village foundations choked by wildflowers, the moss-covered altar where her ancestors swore oaths. And the wrestling ring—those worn, blood-stained stones where her great-uncle broke a frost dragon's neck with his bare hands. But for now, sleep. Sari needed rest, not legends.

Chapter Text

"Move!"

Ruska's voice cracked like a whip through the chaos, shoving a stumbling accountant toward the emergency stairwell. Concrete dust choked the air, mixing with the acrid scent of scorched metal. Outside Sumdac Tower's shattered lobby windows, the Detroit skyline pulsed with laser fire and explosions.

"Keep moving! Don't look back!"

Above them, silhouetted against the bruised twilight sky, Megatron's massive frame hovered. The Allspark pulsed sickly green in his clawed fist. Below, clinging uselessly to a fractured window ledge, Isaac Sumdac yelled, "Sari! The cube!" His glasses slipped down his nose as Megatron's other hand snatched him off the ledge like a discarded toy.

Sari scrambled backwards on the lobby floor, clutching the Allspark to her chest. Its faint blue glow flickered against her terrified face. A laser blast seared the marble inches from her sneakers.

"Dad!" Her scream was swallowed by the groan of collapsing steel beams.

Hans streaked overhead, muscles screaming as he unleashed a torrent of flame at Megatron’s grasping claws. The Allspark tumbled free, a sickly green comet plunging toward the street below. Hans banked hard, diving after it—until Lugnut’s laser tore through his wing. Molten scales and blood sprayed everywhere as Hans spiraled, the cube snatched mid-air by Megatron’s triumphant roar.

Below, Ruska dragged Sari behind a collapsed column as debris rained around them.

"Stay down!" she barked, shielding the girl’s body with her own. Sari’s knuckles whitened around the Allspark Key, her father’s scream still echoing in her ears. Above, Blitzwing’s triple-face smirked as his missiles cratered the plaza, forcing Bumblebee and Ratchet into retreat.

Hours later, the stench of ozone and burnt concrete clung to Sumdac Tower’s ruins. Ruska pressed gauze to a construction worker’s bleeding temple, her eyes flicking to Sari—rigid before a holographic screen. Porter C. Powell’s pinched face sneered from the display.

"That fool Isaac prioritized alien toys over quarterly dividends!" Porter spat. "Cease wasting resources hunting him. Sign the emergency powers transfer."

Sari’s knuckles whitened. "My father built this company. I’ll protect it *and* find him."

Ruska leaned into frame, her scarred face inches from the projector. "Focus on your spreadsheets, Powell." The feed died under her finger. When Porter’s comm chimed again, Ruska answered in a grating monotone: < User. Is. Blocked. >

Silence followed.

Three days passed in a blur of rubble and repair drones. Hans worked alongside Bulkhead, hauling twisted I-beams from Detroit's cratered streets. The hedgehog-dragon's scales still bore scorch marks from Lugnut's attack, but his claws moved with steady precision, clearing paths for emergency crews rerouting traffic. Overhead, Optimus Prime coordinated reconstruction efforts, his voice a low rumble cutting through the incessant buzz of jackhammers.

The alert chimed just as Hans lifted a crumpled bus shelter. Hamato Donnie’s synthesized voice crackled through his comm: "Unidentified vessel descending on Detroit Park grid B-7. Signature matches no known Cybertronian or Earth design."

Hans dropped the shelter with a metallic clang. "Copy that, Purple. Fanzone needs to know."

Captain Fanzone’s response was predictably explosive—"Another alien circus?!"—but within minutes, SWAT vans screeched into position around the park’s perimeter. Civilians pressed against barricades, phones raised. Whispers cut through the drizzle: “Decepticons?”

“Looks smaller than Megatron’s ship…”

“Bet it’s that blue hedgehog’s weird friends,” Hans muttered, tossing a chunk of pavement aside. His claws scraped against scorched asphalt where Blitzwing’s blast had cratered Jefferson Avenue. Above, Optimus Prime directed traffic drones with weary precision, their blinking lights painting streaks across the twilight. Three days of hauling debris had left Hans’ scales dulled by concrete dust, but Detroit’s streets were finally clearing. 
Then Donnie’s alert pinged—sharp and urgent—across his comm: < Unknown vessel. Detroit Park. Vector descending. >

Hans relayed it to Fanzone without hesitation. The captain’s roar—“Not another intergalactic parking violation!”—echoed halfway down Woodward Avenue. Within ten minutes, SWAT riot shields formed a gleaming wall around Detroit Park’s perimeter. Civilians pressed against barricades, smartphones raised like digital shields against the unknown. Rain slicked the asphalt as whispers cut through the drizzle: “Decepticon reinforcements?”

“Autobot rescue?”

“Please don’t be that blue hedgehog’s weird friends…”

The vessel descended silently, a sleek obsidian teardrop that absorbed the city’s neon glow rather than reflecting it. It settled on the baseball diamond’s pitcher’s mound without crushing the sod—gravity fields humming inches above the grass. For three tense hours, nothing happened. Then, with a hiss like pressurized steam, a ramp extended. Three Cybertronian figures emerged: Ultra Magnus, rigid and imposing in white and blue armor; Jazz, sleek and curious, optics darting to the human barricades; and Sentinel Prime, his posture radiating disdain as he scanned the muddy park.

Optimus Prime strode forward, his team flanking him. Fanzone’s jaw tightened—another alien incursion—but he grudgingly waved them through the SWAT line. Sentinel Prime snorted, a burst of steam escaping his vents. "Organics," he muttered as Optimus saluted Ultra Magnus.

"Contaminated atmosphere. Potential biohazards." Magnus nodded curtly, raising a hand. "Quarantine Protocol Sigma. Activate."

A shimmering blue dome snapped into existence around the ship, humming with energy. Jazz leaned forward, fascinated. "Yo, check the little ones' colors! Think they—"

Sentinel Prime shoved him back roughly. "Keep your plating sealed, Jazz! Their corrosive spit will melt anything."

He gestured contemptuously toward the crowd. "Acidic slime that'll liquefy your circuits faster than rust in acid rain." Jazz instantly recoiled, optics wide.

Ruska moved before the barrier's hum peaked—a blur of motion tackling Sari backward as the quarantine field snapped into place. Where Sari had stood, scorched grass smoked where the neutralizing laser had pulsed. Sentinel Prime's laser lance snapped up instantly, targeting the two organics now trapped inside the dome.

"Containment breach! Hostile infiltrators!" His voice crackled with panic. Ruska shoved Sari behind her just as Sentinel strikes; her palm slammed down, conjuring a jagged wall of ice that shattered the energy blast inches from their faces. Frost crystals hung in the air like suspended breath.

"Stand down, Ruska!" Optimus Prime roared, stepping between them, his axe raised defensively. “They are allies!"

Too late. Ruska’s palm slammed onto Sentinel’s ankle plating. Frost spiderwebbed upward with terrifying speed, encasing his legs, waist, chest plating in jagged ice. Sentinel’s optics flared wide, his vocalizer emitting static-filled clicks as the frost reached his neck cables.

"Cease this assault!" Ultra Magnus's voice boomed, shaking the air inside the dome. His optics, hard and analytical, locked onto Optimus Prime. "Report, Optimus. What is the nature of these organics? Explain this breach immediately."

Sentinel Prime shuddered violently within his icy cocoon, frost steaming off his shoulder plating as Ruska’s hand pressed harder against the frozen shell. Cracks exploded across the surface like shattered glass.

"See!" Sentinel choked out, his vocalizer crackling with static and fury. "Filthy organic vermin! Attacking a Prime! Proof they are—"

Optimus moved. Not with hesitation, but with the grim certainty of a commander facing impossible choices. His axe, humming with contained energy, flashed downward. Not at Ruska, but *through* the thick ice encasing her wrist where it fused with Sentinel’s frozen plating. The blade severed the frozen connection cleanly. Ruska staggered back, ripped free by the force, but planted her boots firmly on the scorched grass. Her severed wrist wasn't bleeding; instead, thick ropes of tendon and gleaming white bone erupted from the stump like grotesque tentacles. They writhed, weaving together with shocking speed, knitting sinew and muscle before skin flowed over it like poured wax. Within seconds, her hand was whole again, flexing fingers that ended in nimble fingers.

She met Optimus’s gaze, her expression unreadable. Sentinel Prime’s muffled curses vibrated through the thinning ice. Ruska stepped forward, ignoring Jazz’s frantic warnings and Ultra Magnus’s deepening scowl. Her newly formed hand pressed flat against Sentinel’s frozen leg. A sharp *crack* echoed under the dome as fissures raced across the icy shell.

The prison exploded outward in a shower of glittering shards. Sentinel Prime stumbled free, steam billowing from his joints, plating slick with rapidly melting frost. He shuddered violently, optics blazing

"Proof!" he roared, his voice thick with static and fury. "These primitive, disgusting organics attacked a Prime! They *must* be contained! Eliminated.”

Ruska didn't flinch. She simply wiped a smear of frost from her newly reformed hand onto her torn jeans.

"Proof," she countered, her voice unnervingly calm, "that you fired first. Defending oneself isn't a crime, Sentinel Prime."

Ultra Magnus’s optics narrowed, a low rumble building in his chassis.

"Optimus Prime!" Sentinel's sputtering indignation like a vibroblade. "Your 'allies' assaulted a Cybertronian officer! Contain them immediately, or charges of insubordination and harboring hostile organics *will* be filed against you and your unit!"

Ruska stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Sentinel and Sari. Her voice remained unnervingly calm, almost conversational, as frost crystals drifted from her fingertips.

"Watch your vocalizer, Sentinel Prime," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I stopped at frostbite. Next time, I freeze your spark chamber solid."

Sentinel bristled, steam jetting from his vents as he loomed over her. "You dare threaten a Prime, you insignificant organic slime—"

Ruska cut him off with a sharp, humorless laugh. "Keep throwing that temper tantrum, big guy. Last I checked, Cybertron demotes officers who assault civilians to scrubbing waste ducts. Janitor bot has a nice ring to it for you."

Ultra Magnus slammed the hilt of his hammer onto the gangplank. The resonant *CLANG* silenced Sentinel’s sputtering instantly.

"Enough," Magnus commanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He turned his imposing gaze to Ruska and Sari, optics flickering with cold assessment.

"You will state your designation and purpose. Explain why Optimus Prime designates you as allies. This discussion," he gestured toward the ship’s dark interior, "will continue inside."

Ruska snapped a sharp salute, knuckles pressed to her temple, spine rigid as steel.

"Designation Ruska, sir. Apologies for the... frosty reception." Her voice held genuine contrition, but her eyes remained wary, flickering toward Sentinel’s still-steaming frame. "Defensive protocols activated autonomously. Protecting the kid comes first."

Sari clung to Ruska’s leg, peeking out at the towering Cybertronians. "I’m Sari Sumdac.”

Chapter Text

The nozzle hissed, spraying thick foam in precise arcs. Sentinel Prime adjusted his grip, ensuring every crevice of the imprisoned Autobots received thorough coverage inside the giant cylinder. Bulkhead sputtered as the decontamination gel flooded his optics.

"That's enough, Sentinel." Jazz's voice cut through the spray's hiss as he pressed ‘off’ on the console.

Sentinel wrenched his arm free, optics narrowed. "Protocol demands thorough decontamination! These rust-buckets rolled in alien filth."

He gestured dismissively at Optimus's crew, still dripping foam. Across the room, frost crackled as Ruska maintained her ice dome, Sari's muffled complaints echoing inside. Ruska's gaze remained fixed on Sentinel, cold and assessing, like a predator.

Optimus stepped forward, wiping gel from his chestplate. "The AllSpark was secured at our Detroit base," he stated, his voice level but firm. "Under the watch of Natasha Pyranic. But the Decepticons ambushed our defenses and stole it three solar cycles ago."

Sentinel snorted, crossing his arms with a metallic scrape. "Convenient! Where's your proof of Decepticon activity? Scrap metal and ghost stories don't convince the High Council."

His optics flicked dismissively toward Ruska's icy shield. "And those…*organics*."

Sentinel gestured vaguely at the shimmering dome. "Protocol demands they undergo decontamination too. Potential biohazards.”

Ruska’s glacial glare intensified, frost spreading across the floor beneath her boots.

”Touch her,” she stated, her voice low and sharp as cracking ice, “and I’ll feed you to the Achiyalatopas.”

Sari peeked out, wide-eyed. “Didn’t you and Uncle Hans say that form of judgement was banned centuries ago?”

Ruska’s gaze didn’t waver. “Exceptions exist.”

Ultra Magnus stepped forward, his heavy frame silencing Sentinel’s retort with a single raised hand. “Enough. Sentinel, stand down.”

He turned to Optimus, optics sharp. “The AllSpark’s retrieval is paramount. Take us to its last known location immediately.”

His command brooked no argument. “Your crew remains here under Jazz’s supervision.”

His gaze shifted to the humans. “The organics stay as well.”

Jazz’s visor flickered. He shot a wary glance at Ruska’s ice dome, where frost still shimmered in the air. “Uh, boss? You sure that’s—”

Ultra Magnus cut him off with a stern wave. “The order stands, Jazz. Maintain containment.”

He transformed smoothly into a hulking military transport, Sentinel Prime following suit as a garish monster truck with a snowplow blade gleaming under the hangar lights. They rumbled out, crushing a parked sedan beneath Sentinel’s oversized tires without a second thought.

Inside the hangar, Jazz shifted uncomfortably, visor darting between Bulkhead and the icy dome where Ruska stood like a statue.

"So," Jazz began, trying for casual and landing somewhere near strained, "the tiny one’s harmless, right? Bulkhead vouched for her."

Bulkhead nodded enthusiastically, shifting his weight with a hydraulic sigh. "Sari’s cool!"

He gestured lamely toward the ice dome where Sari was now pacing, her outline flickering with anxious golden light.

"And... the angry one?" Jazz whispered, leaning closer to Bumblebee.

Bee shrugged, watching Ruska remain still like a statue. "Harmless? Depends."

He lowered his voice further. "Stay on her good side. Don't mention glowworms."

Jazz's visor dimmed slightly. "Glowworms?"

Bumblebee winced. "Don't. Ask."

Outside, chaos unfolded. Sentinel Prime's monstrous truck form, complete with gleaming snowplow blade, tore through Detroit traffic like a wrecking ball. He clipped parked cars, sending hubcaps spinning into intersections, and ignored red lights with blaring arrogance. Ultra Magnus's hulking military transport rolled behind him, crushing curbs and scraping lampposts, leaving deep gouges in the asphalt. Civilians scrambled for cover, horns blaring futilely as the Elite Guard plowed through the cityscape like invaders.

Optimus transformed into his sleek red cab mode, pulling alongside Sentinel. "Sentinel! Traffic regulations exist for safety! Maintain your lane and reduce speed!"

His voice crackled over comms, urgent but controlled. Sentinel's response was a derisive snort over the channel, followed by a vicious swerve. His plow blade slammed into Optimus's side panel, metal shrieking. The impact sent Optimus careening toward a fractured bridge railing, tires screeching helplessly on loose gravel.

Wind whistled past Optimus's audio receptors as the edge rushed up. Below, jagged concrete waited. Then, a blur of crimson scales and beating wings filled his rearview. Natasha Pyranic dropped like a stooping hawk, wrapping clawed hands around Optimus's rear axle. Her wings snapped open wide, muscles straining against his momentum. With a grunt of effort, she hauled him sideways, tires thudding back onto solid pavement inches from the drop. Hot asphalt dust billowed around them.

Sentinel Prime’s monstrous truck form lurched to a halt, his oversized tires smoking. His optics widened behind the windshield, fixated on the dragon girl hovering effortlessly beside Optimus.

"What in Primus's smelted slag is *that*?" he sputtered over comms, voice crackling with disbelief. Natasha didn't even glance his way. Instead, she dipped a wing, swooping low. A searing fireball erupted from her palm, scorching the asphalt mere inches from Sentinel’s left front tire. The heat haze shimmered violently. Sentinel yelped, instinctively wrenching his steering wheel right, his oversized tires squealing as he lurched violently into the correct lane, narrowly avoiding a parked delivery van. Smoke curled from the blackened pavement where her warning had landed.

"Follow," Natasha commanded, her voice sharp and clear over Optimus's comm channel, wings beating hard as she surged ahead toward the looming silhouette of the auto-factory district. Optimus transformed smoothly into robot mode, landing with a heavy thud that cracked the pavement, quickly followed by Ultra Magnus and a grumbling Sentinel Prime. Before Sentinel could finish his complaint about "overgrown lizards," chaos erupted.

A soda machine beside them spat cans like bullets, pelting a fleeing businessman who yelped and stumbled. Across the street, a newspaper dispenser flung its contents with vicious force, striking a yapping terrier squarely in the hindquarters, sending it skittering under a parked car with a startled whine. Self-driving taxis collided in a screeching domino effect, crumpling hoods and blocking the intersection with tangled metal. A delivery drone, its lights flickering erratically, shot down like a missile and slammed into Sentinel's faceplate with a sickening *crack*, knocking the massive Autobot flat on his back. As he struggled upright, thick green fog began spewing from vents in nearby utility bots, curling ominously toward the streetlights.

Natasha banked sharply, landing lightly on Optimus's shoulder guard. She pressed a finger to her earpiece, her expression tightening as Hans's urgent voice crackled through.

"Natasha! Citywide systems breach—it's not just the factory! Every automated system from traffic lights to coffee makers just went berserk! Signal origin triangulating... Sumdac Tower!"

Optimus raised his ion blaster, optics scanning the encroaching fog and malfunctioning machines.

"Autobots, defensive positions!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the din. Sentinel wiped drone residue from his faceplate, finally looking unnerved. Ultra Magnus hefted his hammer, lightning crackling along its edge. The green mist thickened, swallowing the lower half of a streetlight nearby.

Natasha hovered, pressing her earpiece tighter. 

"Hans confirms citywide chaos," she relayed, her voice sharp above the mechanical screeches. 

"Signal origin pinpointed – Sumdac Tower. The fog's spreading fast." She pointed toward the distant, skeletal spire dominating the skyline, where construction cranes looked like grasping claws against the bruised twilight sky.

Optimus didn't hesitate. "Magnus, Sentinel, secure this sector! Contain the fog and assist civilians!"

 He transformed back into his sleek cab mode, tires smoking as he peeled out. Natasha shot after him, wings a crimson blur, leaving the Elite Guard staring at the encroaching madness. Sentinel cursed, blasting a rogue forklift that charged him, while Ultra Magnus slammed his hammer down, creating a localized EMP pulse that briefly silenced the nearest fog-spewing bots.

Inside the hangar, Jazz's comms crackled with Optimus's clipped orders just as Bumblebee yelped. A vending machine near the entrance shuddered violently, then launched a barrage of soda cans like cannon fire. Bee dodged frantically, sticky liquid splattering his plating. Bulkhead roared, stomping forward to shield Sari and Ruska just as the hangar's automated doors slammed shut with a jarring clang, trapping them inside with the malfunctioning machines. Ruska’s breath frosted the air instantly, her eyes narrowing on the shuddering vending machine.

 "It begins," she murmured, ice crystals already forming at her fingertips.

Chapter Text

Hans leaned against the rusted stairwell railing, fingers drumming on his tablet.

"Natasha," he said, voice crackling through her earpiece. "Signal’s origin point confirmed. Top floor of Sumdac Tower."

Static hissed as he transmitted the data packet. "Knock that emitter out, and this citywide tantrum ends."

Natasha banked sharply, dodging a rogue delivery drone spraying acid soda.

"Heard that, Optimus?" she yelled over the wind.

The Autobot leader grunted, transforming mid-leap over a pileup. "Confirmed. Magnus, Sentinel—"

His comms crackled with Sentinel's muffled roar as webs engulfed his snowplow alt-mode. Blackarachnia scuttled from the tower's shadow, fangs dripping corrosive venom. Ultra Magnus swung his hammer, lightning arcing into her carapace with a sickening crackle. She shuddered, smoking, then lunged again, claws scraping sparks off Magnus's armor.

"Go, Optimus!" Magnus bellowed, blocking another strike. "We'll hold this thing!"

Sentinel finally tore free, plow blades shredding webs. "Hold it? I'll scrap it!"

He charged, tires screaming against asphalt. Blackarachnia hissed, dodging his clumsy lunge with unnatural speed—her movements jerky, eyes glowing toxic green.

“Not herself,” Optimus realized grimly. The venom wasn't just in the fog; it was in her veins.

Natasha snarled, a guttural sound utterly alien to her. Her pupils vanished into pinpricks, leaving only brown irises. Before Optimus could react, a torrent of white-hot flame erupted from her maw, scorching the air where his head had been a nanosecond earlier. He rolled, the heat warping his shoulder plating, and triggered his foam cannon. Thick chemical spray smothered the flames clinging to Natasha's jaw. She shook her head violently, droplets flying—but her eyes remained feral and unfocused.

Below, the chaos metastasized. A newsstand vomited its magazines like shrapnel, slicing through a screaming crowd. Self-driving taxis formed a grinding, sparking pileup that blocked an entire intersection. Through the green-tinged fog, Bumblebee wrestled Sari to the pavement as she hurled crackling energy discs—one seared a molten groove across his door panel.

"Sari, stop!" he pleaded, voice modulator cracking. She thrashed beneath him, tears streaking through the grime on her face.

"It's not me!" she gasped. "The gas... it's making me—"

Another disc flared in her palm.

"Bee—look out!" Bulkhead bellowed, heaving a collapsed billboard off trapped civilians. Too late. The energy projectile slammed into Bumblebee's knee joint, buckling his leg with a shower of sparks. He crashed to the asphalt, Sari scrambling free. Her eyes were wide with horror, but her hands crackled with uncontrolled power.

Above them, Ratchet's containment beams groaned under Blackarachnia's frenzied assault. She wasn't transforming—just slamming her technorganic spider form against the glowing barriers, venom spraying wildly. One splatter hit a nearby fire hydrant, instantly corroding it into bubbling slag.

"She's operating purely on instinct!" Ratchet yelled, struggling to reinforce the field. "Like the humans in the fog!"

Nearby, Ruska raised her hands. Ice walls erupted along the boulevard, trapping rampaging humans and malfunctioning bots alike. Prowl flipped past a soda-spewing vending machine, landing beside her.

"Why aren't you affected?" he demanded.

Ruska slammed her boot down, ice spreading to immobilize two grappling civilians. "Joker Venom," she spat. "Breathe enough of it in, and it rewires your mind permanently (if long term exposure occurs). Turns you into his twisted puppet."

Her gaze flicked to Natasha's distant, fiery struggles. "My physiology burns toxins fast. Doesn't mean I enjoy breathing this filth."

Prowl scanned the ice-walled chaos. "Get to the tower top. Stop the emitter."

Ruska didn't hesitate. Frost erupted from her palms, encasing her body in jagged plates of ice. With a low growl that vibrated the air, she surged forward—a blur of cobalt and white within the form of a spectral ice wolf. She scaled buildings in impossible leaps, crystalline stairs exploding beneath her paws wherever she touched brick or steel. Within moments, she was a distant flash scaling Sumdac Tower's flank.

Prowl dispatched a malfunctioning crane-arm with a precise shuriken strike, then blurred after her. His sensors screamed warnings—the fog thickened near the tower, Joker Venom coalescing into choking emerald clouds. He vaulted over Ruska's melting ice-stairs, their slick surfaces treacherous, his focus locked on the rooftop silhouette where Crossroads stood beside the cackling Joker.

Ruska exploded onto the summit, ice-wolf form shedding shards like armor. She lunged, jaws snapping toward Crossroads’ throat—only to hit an invisible barrier. The air shimmered, revealing a force-field humming with sickly green energy. Joker grinned, holding up a remote.

“Tut-tut, Frosty! Didn’t your mommy teach you to knock?" He pressed a button. The collar around Prowl’s neck flared crimson as he landed behind Ruska, his movements jerky, forced. His optics flickered wildly—resistance warring with compulsion—as his hands shot out, grasping Ruska’s icy limbs.

Joker cackled, aiming a garish, oversized flamethrower. "Say goodnight, popsicle!"

A torrent of blinding white flame hotter than a solar flare engulfed them both. Ruska’s ice-wolf form dissolved instantly—not melting, but vaporizing into a plume of superheated steam and shattered crystal shards. Where she stood, only swirling ash remained, drifting on the updraft. Prowl staggered back, his plating scorched black, the collar’s glow pulsing triumphantly. His struggle ceased; his optics dimmed to a dull, obedient green.

Below, Optimus Prime slammed his fist into the pavement, pinning Natasha’s thrashing form. Her fire seared the asphalt inches from his helm. With swift, practiced motions, he looped reinforced cables around her limbs, hauled her wings tight against her back, and clamped a thick muzzle over her jaws. She writhed, muffled roars vibrating the restraints.

"Magnus!" Optimus shouted, tossing the secured dragon-girl toward the Elite Commander. "Guard her! Don't let her breathe more fire!"

Ultra Magnus caught her, grunting under her furious thrashing as Optimus transformed and charged toward the tower entrance. Below, Bumblebee struggled to contain Sari beneath him—her energy discs flickering dangerously close to his spark chamber—while Bulkhead groaned under the weight of a collapsing overpass, humans clawing at each other atop his straining chassis. Sentinel Prime roared beneath a snarling, venom-drooling spider monstrosity, her claws scraping furrows in his armor plating.

Jazz slid to a halt beside Optimus, his alt-mode shedding debris from the downtown sector he'd just pacified. "Got the east block stabilized, boss," he panted. "But Prowl—"

His words died as Prowl dropped from a shattered window ledge, landing silently between them and the tower doors. His optics glowed a sickly, obedient green, shurikens already spinning in his hands. Jazz’s visor flickered. "Slag it, Optimus—that collar’s overriding his neural net. Full puppet mode."

Jazz didn’t wait. He snapped his focus onto the glowing device clamped around Prowl’s neck, his own visor dimming to near-black as he tapped into deep-level comm frequencies. A low hum built in Jazz’s chassis, vibrating the debris at his feet. Prowl’s scream tore through the chaos—a raw, metallic shriek as the collar erupted in crimson sparks, jolting his entire frame rigid. Smoke curled from scorched wiring.

The shockwave knocked Prowl sideways, optics flickering wildly between sickly green and his normal amber. Jazz lunged, not for Prowl, but for the smoldering collar. His fingers blurred, prying at the latch. 

"Hang tight, brother!" Jazz gritted out, dodging a clumsy swipe from Prowl’s twitching hand. The collar snapped open with a sharp *crack*, clattering to the asphalt just as Prowl crumpled, systems crashing.