Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Iacon 5000.

Just the thought of it made Chromia’s spark seize up with excitement. She had been preparing for this moment for her entire life! A chance to prove herself—a chance to move beyond all the meager, insignificant races she had won in the past. Everything she had achieved in the past had been for this. Everyone in Iacon, including Sentinel Prime himself, would be there!

“Whatcha smiling so big for?” came a voice from the other side of the training room. Chromia turned to see Swindle a few steps behind her with a huge smirk on his face. She promptly set down the polish that she had been applying to her glossy blue chassis. Her fellow racer was endlessly curious, not to mention a cheat and something of a pathological liar. She catered to his questions all the same.

“Just imagine being the first over the finish line at the Iacon 5000!” Chromia breathed excitedly to him. “With Sentinel watching, too!”

“Yeah, I can imagine it,” Swindle sniggered. “Only ‘cause I’m gonna be the one to win.”

Chromia sniffed, her faceplate rumpling dubiously. “Yeah, right. You wish, Swindle. I’m obviously going to be the first to finish.”

“Look, Chromia,” Swindle said, “just because you’ve got a massive fan following doesn’t mean that you’re a better racer than me. I’ve beaten you handfuls of times!”

Chromia stifled an explosive laugh. Swindle certainly lived up to his name.

Although the two of them had both garnered a huge following, Chromia’s was arguably larger. As one of the only successful female racers of her time, Chromia was idolized by many citizens of Iacon for her speed and energy.

Swindle, on the other servo, was almost as much of a fan favorite as she. He was well-known for being charismatic as well as fast, and Swindle took his reputation very seriously. The popular beliefs about him were true, too—he could charm almost any femme out of her wits.

Yet there was a side of Swindle that Chromia was sure no one in Iacon would ever be ready to see. He was a gambler, a troublemaker, and a frequent visitor of Iacon’s detainment sector. He could always bail himself out, of course—he was a racer and had enough money to last him a lifetime.

Well, Swindle was a fan-favorite all the same. Even among the miners.

Chromia saw them on occasion during training sessions and occasional errands. She had learned something interesting about them from even her minimal interactions with them: they always had one of two expressions on their faces. It was either a dejected sort of hopelessness that made even Chromia’s spark ache, or a type of sober determination. Chromia found it sad that the former was a far more common sight than the latter. In fact, she rarely saw a miner with a remotely hopeful or determined look on their face anymore. Well…except for one.

She didn’t know his name. She wasn’t even sure if she would ever learn his name. But she didn’t need to know his name to know what type of mech he was. He always looked resolute in whatever he was doing, whether it be carting energon around or even doing something so simple as getting on a train accompanied by his fellow miners. He fascinated her in a way no other bot had before.

Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of his scuffed red frame and forcibly keep her optics from following him. She hated that it was a conscious choice. He wasn’t anything special, really—just another cogless miner. Even his model was relatively simple. A strong frame, an unobtrusive head crest, and the bright red paint which was part of what set him apart from the other miners. Though his paint was scuffed and his frame was dented, he never looked dull or dejected like many of his companions.

Once, their optics had met. The miner and one of his friends had been unloading energon onto a transport, and Chromia had been on her way to the raceway for a few hours of practice. He had turned around, his friend right behind him, and had stopped short when he saw her.

'Probably because I’m such a well-known racer,' Chromia had thought amusedly to herself at the time, ignoring the telltale nervous leap of her spark. But she had stopped to acknowledge him anyway. His optics were an electrifying blue, like her own, and for a moment she had held his gaze. That is, until the other miner, a black and white bot with a bright blue visor, had grinned broadly and exclaimed, “Hey, check it out! It’s Chromia!” At that point, she had dashed away without looking back.

She laughed internally at the memory. He was just another cogless miner, and she knew it. There were hundreds of others just like him. She swiftly pushed the thought out of her mind as she turned to Swindle again. “Well, good luck tomorrow, Swindle.” She stood and stretched briefly before turning to go.

“Good luck to you, too,” Swindle said, and Chromia was surprised to hear something like genuine sincerity in his voice. “Don’t get too distracted.” This last comment had a strangely dark undertone to it.

“I won’t,” she said with a faint smile. “See you from across the finish line!”

Swindle snickered. “Right, whatever.” Chromia gave him a grin and a quick wave before she left.

The Iacon 5000 came and went, and Chromia’s prediction of victory came true. Despite some unexpected circumstances(such as the sudden interferences of miners Orion Pax and D-16), the day was, at least in Chroma’s optics, a huge success.

Yet her joy was only ephemeral.

Mere days later, the whole of Cybertron was turned upside down. D-16 became Megatron, Orion Pax became a Prime, Sentinel was brutally murdered, and her life of racing was over—just like that. All because of some lowly miners!

No words could encapsulate the anger and helplessness Chromia felt at having her life, her passion…her joy…torn away from her so mercilessly. All because some slagging miners thought they knew what was best for Cybertron.

She knew she never should have spared the cogless a second thought. They were nothing but trouble. It was stupid of her to have even locked optics with a miner, let alone think well of one. They were the reason she had lost it all. So Chromia vowed never to lend them her help, never to fall for a pair of electrifying blue optics ever again.

But some promises were simply never meant to be kept.

Chapter Text

FOUR DAYS LATER...

“Prime wants to see you.”

Ironhide wasn’t sure if he should be terrified or elated by Prowl’s statement. This could mean one of two things: he was in deep, deep trouble, or he was getting promoted. He was currently nothing more than a mere soldier, not a tech specialist and security officer like Prowl or a lieutenant like Elita One. He only hoped that he would be receiving a promotion, since he hadn’t done anything wrong, as least not as far as he knew.

“Why does Prime want to see me?” he asked, studying Prowl’s faceplate for any signs of emotion that could betray the answer.

Prowl only shrugged, his face impassive as always. “He didn’t say.”

Ironhide frowned. Curse Prowl and his uncanny ability to keep his emotions so well hidden all the time. Ironhide himself had never been able to do the same, and he knew it. His emotions were always broadcasted plainly across his face for all to see. His friend Jazz never failed to remind him of the fact. “Hey, man,” Jazz would often say, “it ain’t no wonder you’re always in trouble. Your face says everything your voice box won’t—which ain’t much, mind you.”

Ironhide turned his attention to Prowl once more. “You’re sure he didn’t say anything about why he wanted to see me?”

Prowl’s optics glinted with mild annoyance. “Positive.”

Ironhide heaved a sigh before beginning to work his way through the long winding halls of the Autobots’ new headquarters. It was still having quite a bit of repair work done, and small chunks of the wall were even missing in some places, but it was already beginning to feel like home. But then again, almost anything would feel like home to Ironhide in comparison to the awful mines in which he had spent his entire life.

Every single day had been spent slaving away to mine energon. Pure energon, forged and harvested in the fiery pit of deprivation and despair that was the mines. It almost hurt more to see and feel the energon up close than to observe its absence from the surface. From the surface, a poor mech could accept the energon’s absence. But a poor mech slaving away down in the mines…he had the solution to his misery dangling in front of him like a toy. Breathtakingly close, yet somehow just out of reach. And then, right when he thought he had gotten a hold of it, it would be carted away to some faraway noble with no intention of using it well.

But Ironhide had refused to let this break him. In reality, it wasn’t the mines themselves that broke the mechs and femmes of the lowest class, it was the desperation that often tailed along so closely behind. He had seen what it could do to bots, and it frightened him. He’d seen the looks of helplessness tainting their scuffed faceplates, and it made his spark burn with anger to think that there was little he could do to help besides keeping his own head held high.

Yet, beneath the bold front he had tried his best to keep up for the world to look upon, there was a more painful truth that lurked under the surface. The knowledge that he was cogless, and therefore worthless in the eyes of most Cybertronians, ached more than the actual labor of the mines did. He’d seen nobles snigger behind their servos at him, but he had never before seen them treat him with any actual respect.

One moment stood out in particular.

He and Jazz had been off on an errand, carting energon to the nearest transport station. When they had finally gotten the carts safely to their destination, they had turned to leave, not wanting to spend any more time at the transport station than necessary. But there…amidst all the bots there at the Iacon transport station…one had stood out.

With a lustrous blue chassis and slight hints of silver peeking through her sleek frame, it was obvious to both Ironhide and to Jazz that the femme they were seeing was a racer. ‘A bot with a transformation cog,’ Ironhide had reminded himself lamely. Yet this femme racer had been staring at him, with optics so blue that he stopped short.

“Hey, check it out!” Jazz had exclaimed excitedly. “It’s Chromia!”

And just like that, she was gone.

At the moment, Ironhide had foolishly thought to himself that perhaps she had been looking at him out of curiosity, maybe even respect. But it soon became apparent, at least in his optics, that nobles of Iacon were capable of no such thing. When Sentinel Prime was revealed as a traitor and a monster, he realized that Chromia had been looking at him out of spite, not recognition. It had been silly of him to think that a noble could ever look at a cogless miner as anything other than a mindless worker. And now that he had his cog…he would be sure to never misuse the trust of his comrades like so many of the nobles of Iacon had. After all, his t-cog had come to mean everything to him, and he’d be slagged if he let it go to waste.

Although he would never admit it to himself, he had felt worthless without his cog. He felt that it was only with it that he could gain Prime’s admiration. He refused to be like those terrible bots who had wasted their potential by using their cog for nothing more than mere entertainment—bots like Chromia. He didn’t despise nobles for having a cog, he despised them for wasting it.

The almost surreal realization of the t-cog resting in his chest cavity brought an extra bounce to Ironhide’s step as he at last reached Optimus Prime’s quarters. He hesitated before the large metal doors before bringing his fist up to knock.

“Come in,” came Prime’s deep voice from inside.

His spark hammering in his chest, Ironhide stepped forward into the room.

Optimus Prime wasn’t alone in the room. Alongside him stood Elita One and B-127, the latter of whom was gesturing wildly as he progressed in some story that he had been telling. “—so, I was all like, ‘No, I really think the name Badassatron really suits me better”, and he was all, ‘But that sounds like a Decepticon name to me’ and I…” B-127 trailed off when he saw Ironhide waiting at the doors, but his face promptly broke into a wide smile. “Hey, Ironhide.”

Ironhide smiled back faintly. “Hey.” B-127 was sweet, but he never stopped talking. Always buzzing about something, Ironhide thought fondly.

“Ironhide, thank you for coming,” Optimus Prime said with a smile, turning to him. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“Nah,” Ironhide said, relaxing slightly. Optimus was such a good mech. “What’s goin’ on?”

Optimus’s faceplate betrayed no sign of agitation, but his fingers suddenly twitched sharply. Something so small may not have been telling in any other bot, but for Optimus, it conveyed stress that went beyond words. “Ironhide, you’ve been a loyal soldier since you joined the cause,” Optimus said, “and I will always appreciate that.”

Ironhide was beginning to get a sinking feeling. “Thank you, Prime.”

“But…there have been rumors. About…a conspiracy against me.”

Ironhide optics widened. “But, Prime—!”

Optimus held up a hand. “Listen.” There was a thread of strain to be heard in his voice. “I…I know you had been conflicted about joining the Autobots in the past, and you didn’t always think of me as you do now. So…” For the first time in Ironhide’s entire life, he saw Optimus lost for words. He could hardly believe it.

Elita One placed a careful servo on Optimus’s shoulder. “Ironhide, Optimus may not be ready to say this, but I am. There is a possibility that you are the mech behind this conspiracy against him.”

Ironhide was almost too numb with shock to register the comment. He didn’t hear any maliciousness in Elita’s voice. In reality, what he heard was worse. Suspicion. Distrust. Disappointment.

Oh, Primus.

How was he going to make them believe him? “Prime, I swear I would never do such a thing! You know me. You know I would never betray you!”

“No,” Optimus said, sounding exhausted. “I’m not sure that I do.” He looked away. “Until we can get this sorted out, I would like you to…to take your leave from me. Until we figure this out.”

Elita One was grim, and B-127 was pitying, but Ironhide was nothing but numb as he ducked his head and left the room with only a soft “Yes, Prime.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, what’sa matter with you?” Ratchet joked, cuffing Ironhide lightly on the arm. “You haven’t once told me to hurry up during this entire maintenance check. Something’s amiss.”

Ironhide looked up at the Autobot medic. “You really don’t know?”

Ratchet frowned as he finished putting his tools away. “Don’t know what?”

“There’ve been these rumors—”

“Rumors, hah!” Ratchet threw back his head as he laughed. “I’m a medic. I don’t have time for rumors.” He stopped when he saw Ironhide’s bleary face. “Right, sorry. Carry on.”

“They think I’m leading a conspiracy against Optimus,” Ironhide blurted out.

For a moment, Ratchet only blinked without saying anything. Then he tilted his head, the sharp red prongs on his crest veering sharply to the side. “What?” His voice was deceptively calm, although the torrent of emotions behind his optics was clear to Ironhide.

Ironhide’s spark shuddered at the thought of Ratchet turning against him, too. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring it up at all, but Ratchet surely would have found out eventually. Besides, Ironhide had almost inadvertently shared everything with Ratchet. Every time he was due for another maintenance check, he would talk to Ratchet for hours about everything that was on his mind. Even back during his days as a miner, this single routine had remained the same. It had been one of Ironhide’s only sources of relief in a world which offered him none.

“Okay, first off, who exactly is ‘they?’ ” Ratchet asked at last. His tone didn’t change.

“Nearly every Autobot here,” Ironhide answered.

“How? What?” Ratchet’s words began tumbling over one another as he finally seemed to grasp the implications of Ironhide’s words. “You? Betray Optimus? Of all the ill-informed…” Ironhide listened doggedly to the long string of various swears that followed. Ratchet was a good mech, but sometimes he struggled with expressing his frustration in ways that didn’t involve oaths. It didn’t bother Ironhide. He knew that Ratchet only expressed himself in this way because of how passionate he was regarding issues that concerned his fellow Autobots. In a way, it was sweet.

When Ratchet finally ran out of obscenities, he turned to Ironhide again. “Surely Prime doesn’t believe this nonsense.”

“He does,” Ironhide said, meeting Ratchet’s optics. “Actually, I…I’m not permitted to speak with him anymore.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“You know I wouldn’t lie to you,” Ironhide said pointedly.

“Yeah, I know.” Ironhide watched as Ratchet’s expression suddenly shifted from indignant disbelief to decidedness.

“Ratch? What’re you gonna do?” Ironhide asked, a poorly stifled smile splitting his face.

“I’m going to figure out what in Primus’s name is going on here,” Ratchet stated firmly, straightening and drawing himself up to his full height.

“Hey, I’m all for making split-second decisions,” Ironhide said, “and it’s nice of you to wanna help, but…”

“I hereby prescribe you thirty minutes of silence,” Ratchet announced suddenly.

“What? But I—”

Ratchet pressed a finger to Ironhide’s mouth. “Nuh-uh. Doctor’s orders.”

Ironhide sighed, his gaze flicking away.

“Look, Ironhide. You’re my patient, sure, but you’re also my friend. You’ve been willing to put all your trust in me, and it’s only right that return the favor.”

Ironhide locked optics with Ratchet. He really DID trust him.

“And you didn’t just see me as a cogless automaton with a task. You saw me as a friend, and this is the closest I’ll ever get to repaying you for that.”

Ironhide felt guilt tug at his spark at this remark. He had always felt as though being cogless reduced him and the other miners to—what was it Ratchet had said? Ah, yes. Automatons. But he really HAD come to think of Ratchet as a friend. He supposed it had been hard to truly consider many other miners as friends when all he had known of them were nameless faces and dirty, broken frames.

Even if he had thought of Ratchet as a friend even back then, that hadn’t changed his opinion that neither of them had really had a purpose as miners. Ratchet was a successful medic now, and Ironhide was a soldier. All of that had happened AFTER they had gained their t-cogs.

“I know that your cog means a lot to you,” Ratchet said softly, tapping Ironhide’s chest, “but don’t let it block your view of what really matters.”

Ironhide tapped his mouth.

“What? Oh, right. Prescription overruled. Or something.” Ratchet put a contemplative finger to his chin. “Is that how that works…?”

“Ratchet,” Ironhide said, “no one thought anything of us without our cogs, remember?”

“Well, yes,” Ratchet replied, somewhat baffled, “but you never cared what they thought of you.”

“Yes, I did.” Chromia’s image shot through Ironhide’s memory, but he pushed it away with a strange aching feeling lingering in his chest cavity.

“Well, remember that the cog isn’t what makes the mech,” Ratchet said kindly. The old look of determination stole over his face once more. “Now. I’m gonna go talk some sense into those blockheads who believe a single word of this nonsense.”

Ironhide jokingly reached into Ratchet’s drawers full of medical supplies and pulled out a screwdriver. “Right.”

Ratchet immediately joined in on the joke and gave an airy wave of his hand. “Oh, no, Ironhide, we won’t be needing the screwdriver.” He then gave his best approximation of an evil grin. “Not this time.”

Ironhide grinned broadly at his friend. Maybe he'd find a way out of this mess after all.

Chapter Text

TWO DAYS EARLIER...

There were many, many ‘bots who lived in Iacon—far too many to count. Yet, despite this, there was one name that was almost universally recognized among the city.

Swindle.

But the ‘bot who went by Swindle actually had far more names than one, especially when it came to business dealings. Because, in reality, the odds of someone trusting a mech named Swindle were understandably low. In fact, there was only one mech with whom Swindle hadn’t hidden his real name while dealing with.

This mech went by the name of Megatron, and it had taken Swindle what felt like eons to finally find him. Days ago, Swindle had watched from the ground as the new Prime banished Megatron and the Cybertronian High Guard to the surface as a consequence of their treason. He had watched as Megatron and his followers took their leave, and something within him had screamed at them not to go. Not yet.

The new Prime and his miner friends had taken everything from Swindle, and Megatron had been the only mech bold enough to step up and denounce the upheaval this new Prime had ushered in. And he had immediately been sent away! Oh, Optimus Prime CLAIMED to stand for peace and for unity, but how could he when he had brutally ripped the security away from so many like Swindle? Racers, politicians, ‘bots of countless other occupations.

Still, deliverance had come to Swindle one night in the form of an offhand comment made by one of his friends during an evening at one of Iacon’s casinos.

“Yo, Swindle,” Slambrake had said. “You were there when that Megatron guy got his aft whooped, right?”

Slambrake was a red-and-black mech with a serious gambling addiction and a long-since dormant dream of joining the races, and Swindle had been friends with him since he could remember. That didn’t mean Slambrake was safe from Swindle’s cons, of course. Speaking of which…

Swindle sniggered as he once again succeeded in scamming Slambrake out of thirty energon chips. He brought his servo sweeping across the table, sliding the mound of energon chips under his arm. “Heh. Gotcha again. But yeah. I did see what happened. But I wouldn’t say Megatron ‘got his aft whooped’, per se.”

“Then what WOULD you say, eh?” asked Trigger, a mech with a grey-and-purple frame that looked like it could be sent flying with a gust of wind.

“I would say,” Swindle said, placing his cards down for a moment, “that Megatron has the right idea. In fact, I think he’s a bot worth keeping your optics on.”

“Huh,” Slambrake muttered, glancing over at Trigger. “Trig, if Swindle, the most persuasive businessman I’ve ever laid optics on, thinks Megatron is worth our time…” He shrugged. “…odds are that he’s right.”

This had gotten Swindle’s attention. Megatron? Worth his time? Maybe…

It had been at this point that he had leapt up from the table he shared with his friends and raced for the exit with a hastily uttered, “Sorry, fellas! Gotta go!”

“What? But you haven’t even scammed me out of all of my money yet!” Slambrake protested, sounding almost disappointed.

“Same time next week—!” Swindle shouted back, by this point already out the door with the winnings of the night shoved messily in his chest cavity.

So Swindle immediately decided to take the first train to the surface he could find, although he ultimately wouldn’t be able to leave until he had completed some unfinished business. He still hadn’t finished clearing out his racing stuff which he hadn’t touched since the Iacon 5000, and he decided that before he left for the surface it was about time that he cleaned up his mess.

But when he arrived at the old raceway, he soon discovered he wasn’t alone. There, sitting dejectedly by the practice track, was a femme who Swindle hadn’t seen in days.

“Yo, Chromia!” Swindle raised a servo in salutation, and Chromia looked up sharply. At first, her glistening blue optics were laced with panic, but they softened upon seeing who had given the greeting.

“Hey, Swindle,” Chromia said, getting to her feet. “I was just about to leave…”

“Don’t lie to me,” Swindle said sharply. “I know you’re only here ‘cause you miss the races and being here reminds me of what you used to have.”

Chromia glanced away.

“Say…” An idea was already beginning to take shape in Swindle’s sly mind. “I’m visiting a friend of mine pretty soon here. You wanna tag along?”

“Which friend?”

“Oh, no one special,” Swindle said, examining his paint job absently. “Just a guy by the name of Megatron.”

“Megatron!” Chromia gave a sudden jolt of shock as she stared at Swindle. “You can’t possibly be serious!”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Swindle replied wickedly. “And I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

Swindle’s spark leapt with glee at his own genius. Imagine! If Chromia joined the Decepticons like he was intending to, she would surely be a useful addition to Megatron’s team. And, well, Swindle wanted to see more of her. She was ruthless, determined…and beautiful. With Chromia working alongside him rather than against him, he would be unstoppable!

“Sorry, Swindle,” Chromia said firmly, “but I’m not interested.”

Swindle felt his spark drop. What? “Chromia, just think of what you could do! What WE could do!”

A faint look of discontentment flicked across Chromia’s silver-plated face before she spoke again. “Swindle, I’m not in the mood to join a cult at the moment. Maybe come back later when I’ve brushed up on my fanatics.”

“But—but Chromia!” Swindle protested, momentarily losing his proficiency for negotiation. “The races! They—”

“Don’t you dare use my own livelihood against me!” Chromia exploded, taking Swindle aback. “I miss the races more than anyone else, and you know it! But Primus take me if that means I’ll join the Decepticons!”

Swindle was stunned. “But they—”

“They killed Sentinel!” Chromia exclaimed. “He was our Prime, Swindle! I looked up to him—we all did. I refuse to join a faction which is comprised of his murderers.”

Swindle only blinked for a moment. Then, his face hardened. “I thought you were someone who stood up for what mattered,” he hissed. “It appears I was wrong.” Some small part of his mind hissed at him to stop, to reconsider what he was saying to this femme whom he had unconsciously begun to think of as more than a fellow racer. But he didn’t listen.

Chromia turned away from him coldly. “Goodbye, Swindle.” And with that, she began to walk away.

“Chromia!” Swindle yelled at her departing back. “Stop! You gotta reconsider!”

Chromia didn’t so much as turn her head. She started running, and as she did so, her body began reconfiguring itself, joints whirring, until she had at last transformed into a glossy blue sports car. And just like that, she was gone.

Swindle was alone on the track.

He ground his denta in rage. How could she? He would find some way to get her back. He had always had a talent for persuasion, but persuasion wouldn’t work on Chromia. He could see that now.

But he felt sure that Megatron would find something that would.

Chapter Text

PRESENTLY…

Ratchet and Ironhide sat alone in the medbay, discussing their next move.

“Look, Ratch,” Ironhide said. “Bots’ll believe you if you tell them the truth. You’re a medic, and they trust you.”

“No,” Ratchet said, shaking his head. “Being a medic doesn’t make them trust me any more than they used to. In fact, I think it alienates me even further from them. I think I make ‘em nervous—most of ‘em, at least.”

“Then what’re we gonna do?” Ironhide asked helplessly. He knew that not many ‘bots would trust a proclamation of innocence from his own voicebox; he was the accused, after all. Besides, if Optimus believed something to be true, so did almost every Autobot under his command. He was their leader, and so naturally he helped guide their beliefs as well as their actions.

“I don’t know,” Ratchet confessed, “but I’ll think of something…”

The two of them were left in silence for a moment before a hard knock sounded on the medbay door. “Primus,” Ratchet grumbled. “It’s always something. Probably Badassatron coming to complain about not getting an energon pop after his last maintenance check.”

“You call him Badassatron?” Ironhide laughed.

Ratchet shrugged as he went to the door. “It makes him happy.” He threw the door open. “What is it? I’m…” He trailed off when he realized who exactly had knocked in the first place. “Prowl? What are you doing here?”

Prowl immediately stepped inside the medbay, his glistening black-and-white frame taut with stress. “I heard about the rumors, and I—”

“Hey-hey-hey,” Ratchet said. “Slow down. Isn’t it your fault the rumors exist in the first place?”

“No!” Prowl protested. “I had only been asked to take Ironhide to Prime. I didn’t even know what for, let alone how destructive this rumor would become!”

Ratchet glanced to Ironhide for confirmation, who nodded. It was true. Prowl wasn’t to blame for what had happened.

“So I want to help dispel these rumors.”

Ironhide would have been less shocked if Prowl had told them then and there that he was a Decepticon spy. Prowl was one of Optimus’s loyalest followers, and he had always adhered very closely to order, whatever that may be in any given situation. But here it seemed to Ironhide that perhaps he had been wrong about Prowl. Maybe it wasn’t order that Prowl adhered to, but truth.

“You’d really do that?” Ironhide asked eagerly.

“Yes,” Prowl replied firmly. “And I’ve got an idea of where to start, too.”

“Go on,” Ratchet said.

“Well, today I may have…overheard something that could help our case.”

Prowl? Eavesdropping? Ironhide almost laughed at the thought of it. Yet he kept quiet and continued to listen as Prowl went on with his story.

“Yesterday, Optimus had to leave for the city, remember?” Prowl said. “He was giving a speech or doing a recruitment spiel…something along those lines. But today I overheard him speaking with Elita One regarding what had happened. And apparently—” Prowl’s voice dropped in an almost conspiratorial manner. “—he met someone there. Someone who was bent on turning him against you.” He pointed to Ironhide.

“Who?” Ironhide asked breathlessly.

“Some mech called Dodger.”

“Never heard of him,” Ratchet commented.

Prowl’s optics lit up as he continued on. “Exactly! Neither had I. But Prime mentioned to Elita One that this Dodger ‘bot had told him that Ironhide was working against him, and Dodger was apparently able to make it sound true. Dodger allegedly claimed that you had confided to him details regarding a plan to overthrow Prime.”

“Why would Prime believe that?” Ratchet asked, crossing his arms.

“Two reasons,” Prowl answered. “Firstly, he understood that if Ironhide really WAS involved in some scheme against him, he would claim to be innocent. Secondly…Prime was just betrayed by his best friend in the world. So naturally he would believe Dodger, whether he wanted to or not. It’s happened once, and he thinks it could happen again.”

“It makes sense, I guess,” Ironhide said. “But how is that useful?”

“Because,” Prowl said, “Dodger claimed that you had given him details regarding overthrowing Prime. But that means he would have had to interact with you at some point within these past four days. He didn’t, since you haven’t left the base in that time—you’ve been too busy helping reconstruct the base. Prime wouldn’t know that, though, since HE’S too busy adjusting to his role as Prime to keep track of everyone who enters and leaves the base. But if he had just stopped and taken a moment to think about it…or even taken a moment to consult ME about it…he would have realized that in all of Iacon, no record of a mech named ‘Dodger’ exists. And if there’s no record of a mech with this name in the whole of Iacon, there’s no way that there’s a mech with that name here within our ranks.”

“So, Dodger doesn’t even exist?” Ironhide asked, baffled.

Prowl shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” He tapped on one of his wrist cuffs, and a holographic profile sprung up. Both Ratchet and Ironhide crowded closer to see. “I did a deeper dive on Dodger, checking to see if he was mentioned anywhere on the web. And, unsurprisingly, he had been listed as a frequent visitor to some of Iacon’s…less desirable locations. But the mech who frequented these places also had countless aliases and other names, and the name ‘Dodger' seems to be among them.”

Prowl made a few swipes at the hologram suspended in the air in front of him, and a picture of a smirking mech with a purple-and-gold crest appeared.

“Is that Swindle?” Ironhide gasped. Ratchet glanced over at him and snickered. Ironhide, as much as he hated to admit it, had been a very devout fan of the races before Sentinel’s downfall. He could name almost every racer by spark.

Prowl nodded. “The mech Prime knows as ‘Dodger’ is actually Swindle, an ex-racer. Even without his aliases and the like, Swindle himself has been placed in detainment multiple times.”

Ironhide winced. “Why couldn’t Optimus tell?”

“He’s not obsessed with racers like you are,” Ratchet muttered, a huge grin splitting his face.

Ironhide narrowed his optics at his friend as Prowl answered his question. “It’s like I said: Prime doesn’t pay close attention to things like that. Besides, it took me hours to find enough information on Swindle’s aliases to actually trace them back to him.”

“Right,” Ratchet said, nodding. “So…what now?”

“We gotta find him,” Ironhide chimed in. “Somehow…”

Prowl, ever logical, stepped forward with a solution. “We have to start by finding someone who’s close with him and who understand him. Maybe then we can gather enough information on him to land him back in detainment where he belongs.” Prowl’s lucid blue optics glinted as he went on. “Without the races as a constant source of money for him, he’s hardly got anything left—especially when you take his gambling addiction into account. So maybe this time…we’ll get him for sure.”

“Alright, alright,” Ratchet rushed on. “But where do we start?”

Prowl smiled as the image of a silver-and-blue femme racer appeared on his hologram screen. “I have some ideas…”

Chapter Text

“I don’t mean to intrude,” the bartender said, “but don’t you think you should be getting home, ma’am?”

Chromia looked up from her drink at the mech standing behind the counter. She shook her head numbly. “I can’t,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“I just…I can’t,” Chromia repeated. To her, home was the races. In a way, she had no home left to return to.

The bartender nodded tolerantly, watching in silence as Chromia pushed back an empty glass. “Another refill, ma’am?” he asked.

Chromia nodded absently, letting the almost melodic murmur of other bots’ voices ease her mind. She was jolted firmly back to reality when the bar suddenly fell deathly silent. She turned in her seat, her chassis twisting uncomfortably as she tried to get a good glimpse of whatever had quelled the bar’s activity.

Despite the grogginess brought on by the drinks and the weariness which continued to plague her, Chromia was certainly lucid enough to recognize the group of mechs hovering at the bar entrance. Her optics widened in shock as she struggled to hide a poorly stifled gasp.

Those were AUTOBOTS.

Chromia’s grip tightened on her cup, which the bartender had since slid back to her. What were they doing here? Shouldn’t they be busy elsewhere, seeing how far they could push the limits of their new transformation cogs? Chromia pulled a face. She had already begun to turn around when she saw it. Rather, when she saw HIM.

His transformation cog had changed him, but it had by no means made him any less recognizable. His head crest, once unobtrusive and subverted, now rose confidently from his helmet. His red frame, once scuffed and battered, now shone, although he had somehow already accumulated a number of new dents. But there was one thing that hadn’t changed in the least: his optics. Determined, bright…riveting.

She hadn’t realized she had been staring until he locked optics with her. She swiftly turned away, a burning sensation rising in her faceplates. The flow of chatter in the bar gradually resumed again, and it was then that Chromia heard heavy footsteps behind her. Could it be that the Autobots were coming to speak with her? Why would they want to do that? She swiftly chided herself, telling herself to relax. They were probably just going to order a drink.

Sure enough, an Autobot with a mainly white frame and red crosses adorning his arm joints came up to the counter. “Hey,” he said to the bartender, “what’ve you got in this joint?”

While the bartender was busy explaining the drinks menu to who appeared to be the Autobot medic, another mech approached the counter. This one, like the previous ‘bot, had a red-pronged helmet, but this certain mech sported a simple black-and-white frame. Rather than ordering a drink like Chromia had hoped he would, he simply sat himself down beside her. The red mech stood beside him quietly with his arms crossed.

“Hello,” the black-and-white mech said simply. “Your name is Chromia, correct?”

Chromia didn’t bother answering the question. “Who’re you?” she questioned, her optics narrowing with suspicion.

“My name is Prowl, I’m with the Autobots.” He gestured to the medic standing at the counter. “That’s Ratchet, our medic, and that’s Ironhide.” He pointed to the red mech.

Ironhide, huh? It was nice to finally learn his name…

'STOP IT,' Chromia told herself. 'Pay attention.'

Chromia looked Prowl over, forcing herself to focus. “I see. Well, what do you want from me?” Although she hated deferring to this mech she had never met before, she figured it was the wisest choice she could make in this situation.

Prowl lowered his voice slightly. “I’m here to ask you some questions regarding a mech named Swindle.”

Oh, no. Primus, not now.

“No,” Chromia said thickly. She didn’t want to think about Swindle, let alone talk about him.

“Chromia, this is very important,” Prowl said pointedly. “We think Swindle may be planning something—”

“I don’t care.” Chromia didn’t have time for this nonsense. She got to her feet. “I have to go,” she said sharply, not caring in the moment how blunt she sounded.

As Chromia rose, the tipsiness and weariness of the evening hit her like a tidal wave. She felt her joints begin to buckle beneath her against her will, and she gasped as she lost her balance.

But she never touched the ground.

She looked up sharply from where she was suspended in the air, and the gaze she met was all too familiar. Ironhide had somehow caught onto her arm before she’d hit the ground. Time seemed to freeze. For a few taut moments, their electrifying blue optics locked. Suddenly he glanced away, faceplates flushed bright pink, as he pulled her up so she could regain her balance. She was breathless—though whether from the fall or from some other unspoken exhilaration she wasn’t sure.

Ratchet, still leaning on the counter as he waited for his drinks, had his mouth drawn in a comical ‘o’. Even Prowl seemed caught off guard.

“Oh, uh…” Prowl’s optics darted back and forth between Chromia and Ironhide. He looked helplessly to Ratchet, who at this point was struggling to balance three fizzy pink drinks in his arms. When Ratchet finally caught Prowl’s pointed glance, he smirked and attempted to shrug, which inadvertently sent him into another bout of struggling to keep the drinks steady. Prowl sighed, looking over to where Ironhide stood as though immobilized. At least NOW Chromia didn’t look as though she would try to leave—she seemed just as stunned as Ironhide was.

“So, Chromia,” Prowl said in a futile attempt to get back to business, “about Swindle…”

Chromia glanced over at Prowl, her optics hardening. “You Autobots are just as much to blame for what’s happened to me as the Decepticons, so if you think I’m going to get all buddy-buddy with you all of a sudden, think again.”

“Decepticons?” Ratchet pitched in suddenly. “Where’d you get that from?”

Recognition dawned on Prowl’s face. “You mean that Swindle is a Decepticon?”

“No! I never said that!” Chromia protested. Swindle may have been a pest toward the end, but she would feel terrible if she were the one responsible for his death. She had seen what miners were capable of—whether they be Autobots OR Decepticons. “Don’t kill him…please.”

Ironhide’s expression was one of pure confusion. “Kill him? Why in Primus’s name would we kill him?”

Chromia opened and closed her mouth multiple times before finally landing on a reply. “Well, after what happened with Sentinel…”

“Our Prime tried to save Sentinel,” Ratchet pointed out.

The memory returned to Chromia in a flash. Orion Pax HAD jumped in front of blaster fire to save Sentinel. But…the races…

“All we ask of you is that you give us a chance,” Ironhide said. His expression was a peculiar blend of skepticism and admiration. “And we promise to make it worth your while.”

Chromia hated that she believed him, but she did nonetheless. Besides, there was nothing she wanted less than Swindle actually teaming up with Megatron. Maybe these Autobots could help her somehow.

“Alright,” Chromia said. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll need something in return.”

“And what would that be?” Prowl asked.

Chromia didn’t know why she hesitated before she replied. “I want my old life back. The races. If you can somehow give that back, I’ll help you.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Prowl said, nodding. “Would you be willing to meet with us tomorrow? We could discuss this more thoroughly then.”

Chromia nodded. The races meant more to her than anything. Besides…

'Oh, forget him,' she told herself. She’d think of that tomorrow, when her mind wasn’t as muddled.

Chapter Text

Despite the deal the four of them had made to meet up at the new Autobot base, Ironhide had privately suspected that Chromia would fail to arrive. He could think of a million reasons why, too. She was too drunk to remember the meeting arrangement, she hated him for laying a servo on her, she thought that she was being scammed…the list of possibilities went on and on. Or, more likely than any of those other possibilities, Chromia still saw him, Prowl and Ratchet, as nothing more than the cogless miners they had once been. And maybe she hated them for it.

But, although Ironhide was still somewhat inclined to believe that, something had changed. Namely, the way she had looked at them—at HIM. When he had kept her from falling the evening before, she hadn’t looked at him with the gaze of someone who despised him. It was as though she had seen through him, as though she had seen past his history as a miner. Almost like she had seen him for who he truly was.

Could it be that when the two of them had exchanged glances all that time ago, there hadn't really been any distaste in Chromia’s expression? That perhaps the skewed view Ironhide had attributed to Chromia had really been nothing more than how he felt about himself?

‘Impossible,’ Ironhide told himself sternly. All nobles were the same. They wasted their talent for meager things like races, while he and the other Autobots poured every last spark in their body into defending the cause.

But despite Ironhide’s doubts, Chromia did in fact arrive at the Autobots’ base as agreed. Granted, it took her quite a while to actually find the group of three amidst the array of winding hallways, but she managed it nonetheless. From there, Prowl had taken the three of them to his office.

Prowl’s office appeared smaller than it truly was on account of the disorganized papers and files scattered haphazardly about the room. So once he, Ironhide, Ratchet, and Chromia had all managed to squeeze into the room, the rest was easy. He cleared the stacks of papers from the chairs he had set up and beckoned the three of them to sit down as he strode over to a wall which he had covered in red string and multiple photographs.

“You really think Chromia will be able to make sense of this?” Ratchet had asked when Prowl first showed him the string-strewn wall. Ironhide had had to agree—it was all a bit of a mess.

“Of course she’ll be able to make sense of it!” Prowl had insisted. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“I dunno, mech….” Ironhide had said. “It’s a bit of a mess, ain’t it?”

“It’s not a MESS,” Prowl had stated firmly. “It’s a CASE MAP.”

“I dunno,” Ironhide had muttered softly to Ratchet. “Looks more like the crime scene itself to me.” Ratchet had snorted with laughter upon hearing that remark, effectively evicting himself and Ironhide from the room until Chromia’s arrival.

Now they all sat listening patiently as Prowl began to explain their situation. “I’ll try my best to sum it up,” he said. “Ironhide is currently forbidden from speaking to Prime, and the reason for this appears to be information provided to Prime by a mech named Dodger.”

Chromia frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with Swindle.”

“Dodger,” Prowl explained tautly, “is one of Swindle’s many aliases. He has at least ten, each of which he uses for different reasons. This specific alias has only been used a couple of times, all of which occurred after Sentinel’s downfall.”

Chromia scooted up a bit further on her seat. “Really?”

Prowl blinked, apparently surprised to see how much interest Chromia took in the case. “Er, yes. And the information Swindle had provided to Prime was that Ironhide was supposedly leading a revolution against him. Ironhide, you know how a few days before you were accused of leading a conspiracy, bad things had been happening to Prime?”

“Kinda,” Ironhide said, perking up with interest. Some bad things HAD been happening during that time period—small things, to be sure, but still enough to pique one’s interest. Things like Prime’s recharge station ceasing to function, his tires being deflated, transformation errors due to the occasional missing screw…things like that. All of these issues had been rectified, but it had taken time and effort.

“You mean that Swindle organized all of those happenstances?” Ratchet inquired thoughtfully.

Prowl nodded.

“But why would he do that?” Chromia asked pointedly. “Why all of this nonsense against Ironhide specifically? Especially when Swindle seems close enough to do all of these things himself? If he’d wanted Prime dead, he’d be long gone already.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Swindle himself,” Prowl suggested. “He could have easily persuaded someone to do it for him. But all the same, you have a point. If it was Prime he wanted gone, he’d be dead already. So it’s Ironhide specifically he’s targeting.”

“But why would he want to alienate Ironhide?” Ratchet questioned.

“I don’t know,” Prowl admitted. He glanced over at Chromia. “Do you have any ideas?”

Ironhide, too, looked over at the blue femme. Her faceplates were unusually pale, but she shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “It…it doesn’t sound like him.”

“Doesn’t it?” Prowl asked grimly.

Chromia remained silent. She averted her optics, and Ironhide felt a strange tug on his spark. She didn’t deserve this, noble or not. Someone who she had thought she could trust, now blatantly turning on her. He knew what that was like.

“But, in any matter,” Prowl said, “for now we don’t understand for sure why he’s done this, but I propose that part of the reason may be that he wants to prove to Megatron that he is worthy of being a Decepticon.”

“Worthy of being a Decepticon!” Chromia cried out, jumping to her feet. “As though he wasn’t already! I’m no Autobot, but…what he’s done to your Prime…” She shook her head. “It’s cruel. And he had the audacity to try and get me to join him!”

Ironhide was utterly taken aback by her sudden explosion. Did she…did she just defend Optimus? Despite everything? Maybe she wasn’t as apathetic as she pretended to be.

“I looked up to Sentinel,” she went on ruthlessly. “I thought that Swindle and I both did. But somehow he was willing to buddy up with Megatron, despite it all. I don’t know what in Primus’s name possessed him to do it, but he did.” Ironhide listened to her, awestruck, and when she looked at him, it felt as though she was speaking to him and him alone.

“Power,” Prowl said simply. “Swindle loves to deal—it’s what he does best. Why do you think he gambles and wins every time? He loves the feeling of power he gets from winning over his opponent every time. He loves the rush of knowing that he alone cuts the deck.” He shook his head. “And with the Decepticons, power is a promise.”

Chromia nodded numbly, turning. She cast a look over her shoulder momentarily. “I’ll be right back,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I just…need a moment.”

With that, she was gone from Prowl’s office. The three mechs remaining watched her step outside and shut the door, and for a moment all of them were silent. Then Prowl gave a nervous smile.

“Do you think it was the case map?” he ventured.

Ratchet sighed, shaking his head. Ironhide silently got to his feet, ignoring Prowl’s question. He could feel Ratchet’s questioning optics following him as he slowly made his way to the door. For a moment, his servo rested on the knob. Both Prowl and Ratchet were silent.

At last he turned the handle, his spark hammering in his chest. He needed to talk to her—he didn’t know why, but he just did. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he was a fool, but he hated to see her so unhappy.

He knew he shouldn’t care—after all, maybe she still saw him as the worthless miner he once had been. But he was willing to take that chance. He had always been willing to take a chance, and it seemed that she was much the same way.

He closed the office door behind him, leaving him and Chromia in the hall.

Chromia gasped when she saw him, hastily drawing a servo across her optics. “I…I was just about to go back in,” she stammered even as she met his gaze, beginning to near the door again.

“Wait,” Ironhide said, his spark pounding. “Please don’t go.”

Chromia paused, almost subconsciously.

“I’m sorry about Swindle.”

The beautiful femme looked up at him, an almost confused expression flitting across her face. Then the melancholy look returned. “Me too.” This time, she didn’t draw any closer to the door.

“I know this is tough for you,” Ironhide said haltingly, “but I really appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?” Chromia asked.

“You helpin’ me.”

“Right,” Chromia murmured, a guilty expression stealing over her face. “I…I don’t mean to disappoint you, Ironhide, but I’m no Autobot. I just want the races back. It’s all that matters.” She looked up at him. “You know?”

Ironhide ignored the persistent ache in his chest. “Yeah. I know. Just…give us a chance.” He paused. “Give me a chance.”

He expected her to wince, to grimace, maybe to ignore him altogether. But she did none of those things. She just stared at him, her mouth hanging open. Ironhide remained silent, attempting a bold smile and a shrug, but his body refused to obey. Chromia’s faceplates flushed bright pink as she glanced away.

‘Oh, Primus,’ Ironhide thought. ‘Now I’ve done it.’ He stifled a frustrated sigh.

But as he held the door open for her, he failed to notice one crucial detail. The melancholy look had vanished from her face, and her silver faceplates were now overtaken by a peculiar blend of bewilderment and hesitant joy.

Ironhide may not have seen, but Prowl and Ratchet did. The two of them exchanged knowing glances. This would either end very well…

Or very poorly.

Chapter Text

Swindle stood smugly at his newly-earned place by Megatron, enjoying the moment even though he subconsciously knew it wouldn’t last. Megatron pretended to idolize him now to secure his loyalty, but in a matter of days it would be a new recruit to which Megatron directed his attention. A matter of days, and that was all.

Interestingly enough, that was probably even more time than the Decepticons would need to finish off Prime.

Chromia had set off a fuss that time a while back about Sentinel Prime being murdered by the Decepticons, but there was one flawed aspect of her argument which she had failed to recognize. Sentinel had been weak and duplicitous. Megatron had opened Swindle’s optics to that fact. If the all-so-mighty Prime could be taken down by a single miner, surely he wasn’t fit to rule. Yes, Swindle had respected Sentinel once, but when he had seen the ease and power with which Megatron ended Sentinel’s rule, it had RESONATED with him somehow.

Optimus “Prime” had ripped Swindle’s livelihood away from him, and Megatron was the only mech willing to restore it. Miners were slag and should have been reminded of that fact, long before their half-baked minds had even begun to entertain the thought of ruining Swindle’s perfect life.

Optimus and Megatron had intervened in the Iacon 5000, but Megatron had explained quite clearly to Swindle whose fault that had been. Optimus had dragged him into it. It had ALWAYS been Optimus, from what Swindle could tell. Optimus who dragged him into the race, Optimus who had defended the mech who had been proven to be a traitor to all Cybertronians.

No matter what Optimus claimed, Swindle knew that he would do nothing more for Cybertron than to carry on Sentinel’s legacy, whether he intended to or not. A Prime was a Prime. Swindle knew that now. But if this was true, hopefully it meant that Optimus would come to his end just as swiftly as Sentinel had.

Chromia was a fool to have defended Sentinel. To still respect him even after all he did. Swindle knew that Chromia wasn’t exactly leaping to join the Autobots, but she seemed adverse to the prospect of joining the Decepticons. It seemed very strange to Swindle. Why WOULDN’T she want to join the side which possessed power, guts, and the blossoming possibility of retaking Cybertron? The Autobots couldn’t do that for her. The Autobots, no matter their lies, could never restore her way of life through kind words and the occasional compliment. Action had to be taken to get results.

Swindle knew that the Autobot’s pretty words and empty promises wouldn’t convince Chromia to join them. Chromia, like himself, believed in action. That was how you got results. She was brash and bold and never hesitated to strive for what she wanted. He had thought her to be the type of femme to launch into action against the new Prime.

But maybe he didn’t understand her as well as he had once thought.

The idea angered him. Back when the two had been professional racers, he had been one of Chromia’s only friends. As one of the first femme racers to ever garner success, she had received a good deal of hostility from some of the other mech racers. Besides Swindle, the only other real friend of hers had been another femme by the name of Windblade. Even then, Windblade and Chromia had rarely had the chance to interact. Chromia was always too busy improving her racing abilities to really spend time getting to know Windblade, who always seemed to be looking for ways to improve her social life.

But Swindle had thought he had hit it off really well with Chromia. Two like-minded racers, willing to do whatever it took to get what they wanted. Or so he had thought.

The Decepticons were what it would take. Why couldn’t Chromia see that?

Swindle supposed it had started that one day when she had been hurrying to the track for practice. He had been on his way to the track, too, and had been trying to catch up with her. But despite being in a hurry, something had stopped Chromia right in her tracks. Swindle, naturally confused, had scanned the area for whatever had caught the femme’s attention. They had been in a relatively crowded lobby, nearby a boarding station. Nothing special to see there.

But Swindle had followed her optics, and had realized that she had been looking at a MINER. Of all things! He had been so shocked that he momentarily stopped moving. Miners didn’t deserve their very frames, let alone Chromia’s attention. Especially not this particular one. A simple model at best, this specific miner was dented in at least a hundred different places. Unordinary and cogless, just like they all were.

Chromia had never noticed Swindle watching, but he had seen what happened nonetheless. He had seen the way the Primus-damned miner had looked at her. And it made him SICK.

Megatron, who stood beside Swindle, seemed to notice the subtle clenching of his jaw and the sudden stiffening of his frame. “Peace, Swindle,” Megatron grumbled. “The time will come soon enough. For now, tell me of your progress.”

Swindle nodded. “I’ve already completed the smaller tasks against Prime. It should be enough to convince him of the conspiracy.”

Megatron looked at Swindle thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me, Swindle,” he said, his red optics glinting. “Why is it that you despise this miner so much?”

Swindle hesitated, his spark nearly stopping even as Megatron’s probing, flashing optics pushed him on. “He’s a threat,” Swindle said. “He and Optimus seem very close. If we hadn’t incriminated him, he’d be a major obstacle.”

“That’s not all,” Megatron said. “Come now, Swindle. I’m not stupid. There are plenty of other mechs like this one.”

“Well, yes,” Swindle stumbled, “but he’s one of the mechs whom Optimus trusts the most. Once his trust in him is destroyed, so is his trust in the other mechs.”

“This is true,” Megatron said, “but there’s something more to it than that.”

“I…he’s the reason I lost the races.”

“But the same can be said for all the Autobots.”

Swindle felt rage bubbling up in his spark. “He’s the reason I lost…I lost…”

“Go on.”

Megatron was prompting him, pushing him forward. And right then and there, that was exactly what Swindle needed. “He’s the reason I lost her!” he finally exploded.

Megatron suddenly smiled, his denta gleaming. “That’s it. Don’t be afraid, Swindle. You’ve been holding back for so long. Concealing your rage—it’s a waste. Use it to your advantage.”

“I intend to,” Swindle replied darkly.

“Now,” Megatron said. “What are you going to do with it?”

Swindle gritted his denta. He had already set up the conspiracy against Ironhide and successfully impressed Megatron with it. He had already made the plans to lure Optimus Prime to the surface. But Swindle still had unfinished business.

And this time he wasn’t going to hold back.

Chapter Text

When the next day rolled around, Prowl had decided that the group would try to hunt down Swindle themselves, but Ratchet(being Ratchet) had naturally insisted that this seemed quite dangerous. So he had demanded that everyone in the group undergo a weapons and maintenance check.

Chromia went first.

“You got any weapons?” Ratchet asked absently, jotting something down on a notepad.

Chromia scoffed, a smirk playing across her faceplates. “What do I look like to you?”

Ratchet eyed her, his optics narrowing thoughtfully. “You look to me like a femme with very misplaced priorities,” he said bluntly.

Chromia let out a reluctant huff of a laugh. Who exactly did this medic think he was? “Excuse me?”

“You’re not excused yet,” Ratchet said simply, his face a mask of pure innocence. “I’ve got to find a weapon that’ll suit you.”

“Ratchet, I don’t think I’ll be needing a weapon,” Chromia said. “Swindle wouldn’t hurt me. Besides, if something goes wrong, I can always book it.”

“Speed won’t get you everything,” Ratchet intoned.

“I dunno…it did for a while.”

“A while, maybe. But things are different now. I know you hate to admit it, but it’s true.”

Chromia crossed her arms, attempting to avoid the medic’s probing gaze. “Not if I can help it,” she muttered. She was shocked to hear the medic laugh in response.

“You sound like Ironhide,” Ratchet sniggered.

“No I do not!” Chromia protested. “He hardly speaks!”

“Oho, he speaks PLENTY,” Ratchet laughed, a mischievous glint entering his optics. “Sometimes I’m tempted to weld his mouth shut.” He waggled his pen at Chromia. “But he only talks to ‘bots he trusts.”

Chromia narrowed her optics at Ratchet. “Are you implying that he doesn’t trust me?”

“Yes.” Ratchet spoke calmly, though laughter teetered on the edge of his voice.

“But—”

“Oh, I’m not sure if you could ever earn his trust,” Ratchet said, examining his paint job cooly. “It would border on the impossible.”

Chromia felt her spark flare up. Impossible! No one knew the impossible better than she did! She, who had listened to hundreds of ‘bots say that a femme winning the Iacon 5000 was impossible! She, who had believed that enjoying the presence of an Autobot was impossible.

Well, maybe a part of her still clung to that belief. But definitely less persistently. It was almost FUN joking around with Ratchet and Ironhide. Even Prowl could be funny if he really, really tried.

Swindle had been her friend for a long time, but he had also been demanding. Sometimes even rude. Though Prowl could be standoffish, he seemed to genuinely care for his fellow Autobots. But with Swindle, it had almost been hard to tell. The revelation disturbed Chromia.

“No weapons,” Ratchet grumbled, returning to business. “I’m no good when it comes to weapons.” He tapped a cuff on his arm, which immediately lit up. “Ironhide, get in here,” he spoke to the cuff.

“He wants to be Prime’s bodyguard one day,” Ratchet explained separately to Chromia. “Being a weapons specialist comes with the job.”

“His bodyguard?” Chromia asked. She wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to her before, but it made sense. He seemed like the type of mech to do something like that. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

“He doesn’t care,” Ratchet said. “I’ve told him it’s a bad idea, but he won’t listen to me.” He shook his head. “He’s one of those mechs who won’t let anyone change his mind once he’s made it up.”

“I believe you,” Chromia said, raising her optic ridges.

“He struggles with self-esteem,” Ratchet said bluntly. “Ever since he’s gotten his cog, it’s…well, it’s become all he thinks about. He thinks he’s worthless without it now, but that simply isn’t true.”

Chromia only blinked, then tried to slip in a nervous laugh to ease the moment. “I…Ratchet, I don’t think you should be telling me all of this.”

“Maybe it’s something you need to hear.”

Chromia only shook her head mutely. “I don’t think I understand.”

Ratchet sighed wearily, suddenly looking more ragged and tired than Chromia had ever seen him. She felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, but she couldn’t think of anything helpful to say, so she kept quiet.

Mere moments later, Ironhide entered the medbay. “What’sa matter, Ratch?” he asked.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Ratchet said, “but Miss Classy Chassis here” —at this point he gestured to Chromia, whose faceplates rumpled in indignation— “needs a weapon.”

“You’ve come to the right mech,” Ironhide said proudly, crossing his arms over his chest. “We can head to the training room and stop off at Wheeljack’s quarters on the way. He’ll have some great recommendations.”

“Wheeljack thinks you’re a traitor, remember?” Ratchet pointed out drily.

“Yeah, well, he’s crazy,” Ironhide replied.

“You needed the treason allegations to tell you that?”

Chromia let out a poorly stifled snort of laughter, earning herself a grin from Ironhide that made her spark flutter despite itself.

“I betcha Prowl could talk some sense into Wheeljack,” Ironhide suggested brightly. “Prowl has a way with—”

“With words?” Chromia finished.

Ironhide looked at her oddly. “I was going to say he had a way with the crazy ones, but I guess he’s got a way with words too.”

When the group of three had made their way to the training room—and not without catching some dirty looks, either—they found Prowl already waiting for them. He quickly explained that he needed to do some brushing up, himself. Ratchet had explained to Chromia previously that Prowl strongly disliked Swindle for the simple reason of Swindle having evaded the grasp of the law countless times before. It made sense that Prowl would want to prepare in case of any negative interaction between them.

Prowl was a surprisingly good marksman, and when he noticed Chromia, his optic ridges shot up in surprise. “You ever shot a gun before?” he asked.

“Ha! What makes you think I haven’t?” Chromia asked, despite the knowledge that she had never once touched a rifle in her life.

Prowl rolled his optics. “Fine, then. Here.” With that, he attempted to toss her the blaster which he had been holding.

Chromia automatically recoiled from the weapon, which fell at her feet with a clatter. Ironhide quirked an optic ridge at her. “You were s’posed to catch it,” he pointed out helpfully.

Chromia frowned over at him, although he only grinned back. She hesitantly picked up the rifle, which was of a relatively simple design and silver in color. She slung it over her shoulder as she approached the line across from which an array of targets had been set up.

She couldn’t shoot. What in Primus’s actual name was she doing?

No. No, she was a racer. She LIVED for the thrill of a new challenge. She knew she could do this. Heck, she had practically been SPARKED for this. With a new surge of confidence, she slung the rifle in such a way that it was aimed directly in front of her. She heard Ironhide give a sharp gasp from behind her, although she couldn’t tell whether it was from shock or worry.

Although some part of her protested frantically even as she did so, she aimed the best she could, and let her digit squeeze the trigger.

A beam of raw, dangerous energy immediately spouted from the barrel of the weapon, shoving Chromia back with the sudden force of its explosion. She narrowly stopped herself from stumbling back a few steps, instead craning forward to see where her shot had ended up.

“Wow,” Prowl said, valiantly attempting to keep his voice from warbling with laughter when he saw where the blast had landed. “You’re a natural!”

The blast hadn’t even seared the target. Instead, it had left a scorch mark on the opposing wall. Chromia brought a servo to her mouth in a futile attempt to cover both her shock and the embarrassed flush that was creeping up her faceplates.

The three mechs behind her were struggling to hide their laughter. She whirled on them, protesting, “It…the air flow wasn’t right!”

“Yeah, sure, ‘Mia,” Ironhide chuckled, and Chromia felt her spark contract at his use of the nickname. A small smile stole across her face, too. Maybe a week ago, she would have stormed out angrily at her failure to make a perfect shot on her first try. But then again, a week ago, Swindle would have been standing behind her, mocking her in silence. But not now. Not now, when she was surrounded by the ex-miners whom in the past she would have never considered calling her friends.

Things were different now. She had subconsciously begun to acknowledge them as her friends, and she found herself hoping that it would never change. She also found herself more often seeking out Ironhide’s crystal blue gaze rather than hiding from it. And nowadays, she caught him meeting her gaze in return, this time with a broad smile adorning his faceplates.

He really did have a nice smile. Good-natured, determined, bright. That’s why it hurt so much to see it fall unexpectedly from his face.

The jovial, amused expressions on his, Prowl’s and Ratchet’s faces had suddenly vanished, and their gazes had all collectively turned to the entryway of the training room. Chromia hesitantly followed their optics. What could have possibly caused them to freeze up so suddenly?

“Lieutenant Elita-One,” Prowl murmured, straightening.

The pink femme only glanced at him as she entered, her blue optics hard. “Prowl,” she addressed him curtly. She nodded to Ratchet. “Ratchet.” Then, her gaze fell on Ironhide, and her expression grew even colder. She didn’t even bother addressing him. “What are YOU doing here?” was all she said to him.

“Lieutenant Elita-One,” Ironhide managed, his faceplates drained of color. “We were—”

“I don’t need to hear it,” Elita-One said with such spite that it took Chromia aback. It was with a sort of detached recognition that Chromia recalled that Ironhide had been accused of treason, and that those accusations still hung over him. She had almost forgotten it—almost forgotten that the blast she had just misfired could have been for Swindle. She had forgotten that these were the ‘bots for whom she had once reserved her spite and indignation.

But they weren’t worthy of that spite anymore—perhaps they never had been.

And Ironhide least of all.

“He was only trying to teach me how to use this rifle,” Chromia piped up suddenly. Elita-One turned to her sharply, her optics widening with surprise.

“Chromia?” she asked disbelievingly. “From the Iacon 5000?”

“That’s right,” Chromia said, lifting her chin as she set the rifle down.

“What are you doing here?” Elita-One asked, her optics narrowing.

“I…” Chromia struggled to find an excuse that would make sense. “I’ve been wanting to join the Autobots,” she lied.

She heard Ratchet give a poorly-concealed gasp behind her, but she ignored him.

Elita crossed her arms. “And you think that a TRAITOR would be the proper mech to look to when pursuing that goal?”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Ironhide said softly, “I ain’t a traitor.”

“I don’t believe it,” Elita said firmly, jabbing a digit into Ironhide’s chest and making him wince. “Ever since we’ve kept you away from Prime, he’s stopped experiencing issues. You’re lucky that Prime holds you in as high regard as he does.” Her optics glinted. “Because if he didn’t, you’d already have been cast away from base by now.”

Ironhide opened his mouth to speak, but swiftly closed it again. He kept his optics averted even as Elita said, “You’re banned from the training room from now on. I’ll talk to Prime about having your access to weapons revoked.”

Ironhide’s optics widened with despair as he turned to Elita. “But, Elita—!” Elita shot him an icy glare, making him fall silent again for a moment.

‘A weapons specialist,’ Chromia recalled numbly. ‘He wanted to be a weapons specialist.’

Primus. This poor mech was really having his dreams torn away from him—all within the same week, too. Chromia felt electricity crackle furiously within her joints, but she didn’t dare speak up.

“Prowl, Ratchet, I would recommend avoiding negative influences,” Elita said flatly, spinning on her heel to leave. “And you too, racer.”

And with that, she was gone.

Chapter Text

“Hey.” Ratchet’s voice sounded distant—muffled, almost. “Are you okay?” It felt as though Ironhide had somehow chipped his audio receptors, distorting the voices with which he had become so familiar.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Ironhide silently thanked Primus that his voicebox hadn’t failed him too, though he couldn’t bring himself to lift his gaze from the ground. He wouldn’t be granted access to the weapons anymore? In a way, it made sense. But…he wanted to be Prime’s bodyguard one day. Even with the conspiracy nonsense, he had still had some sliver of hope that he could still achieve that dream. But this seemed to be the last straw.

He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He had gotten his cog and he had put it to good use. He had done his absolute best to impress Optimus and prove to him that he was worthy of being his bodyguard. And all that effort had led to what? This? Being shunned by not only Optimus himself, but also Elita?

So what did he have left now?

His cog, he guessed. For all the good THAT had done him. Maybe, he thought bitterly, he was just as worthless with his cog as he had been without. He had done his best to stay determined and hopeful even during his time in the mines, but somehow this—not the hours upon hours of labor he suffered through as a cogless—would be what broke that hope.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Prowl asked, and in that moment Ironhide heard genuine worry in his voice.

He didn’t want their sympathy. Not now. “Yep.” Almost subconsciously, he spun, leaving Prowl, Ratchet, and Chromia alone in the training room. He didn’t want them to see him like this. He had kept it together for so long—he couldn’t afford to let them watch him lose his composure now.

What he needed now was to be alone.

He hadn’t gotten far along the hallway when he heard the persistent echo of pedes behind him. He hastily quickened his step. For Primus’s sake, couldn’t they leave him alone for two nanoseconds?

Despite his best attempts to flee the interaction, his quickened steps did little to help him when he felt a surprisingly firm servo catch hold of his arm. He immediately attempted to shake it off, but its grip on his arm remained unyielding. “Primus, mech, can’tcha take a hint?” he asked in blatant frustration, whirling to see who had stopped him.

Chromia’s blazing optics met his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Ironhide smothered his surprise at seeing that it was she who had stopped him, instead attempting to shake her servo off again. “Let go.”

“Not ‘till you tell me what you’re doing.”

Ironhide suppressed a sigh. He’d nearly forgotten that she was a racer—one who rarely lost, at that. There was no way she would let go until he told her the truth. He still gave a quick roll of the optics before replying. “I’m getting away from all this, ‘kay? Happy now?”

“No.” Chromia examined him carefully. “Because that doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Doesn’t it?” Ironhide asked dryly.

“No,” Chromia insisted, finally letting go and folding her arms across her chest. “The Ironhide I know would never flinch from a challenge. He would do something ambitious like aim to become a weapons specialist, or maybe something crazy like trying to become Prime’s bodyguard. By Primus, he’d try both!”

Ironhide looked sharply to her face, shocked. “How did you know that?”

“Because I know you,” Chromia replied simply, although to Ironhide it was abundantly clear that a CERTAIN MEDIC had probably been the one to tell her that information. Still, he was willing to let it slide—for now. At least until he next saw Ratchet.

“I know you, ‘Hide,” Chromia went on, “and I know that you’re not the type of mech to give up easily. I could see it in your optics when I first met you.” She caught the puzzled look on Ironhide’s face and hurried to clarify. “Remember? Back when you were cogless and were unloading energon with that friend of yours?”

Recognition finally dawned on Ironhide. Of course he remembered. A slight smile split his faceplates at the memory. “Yeah, I remember. But I wouldn’t say that’s how we MET…”

“It was absolutely how we met,” Chromia said stubbornly.

“We only locked optics—”

Chromia waved a servo dismissively. “So what if that was all? I may not have known your designation at the time, but I could still see in your optics WHO you were, and that was enough.”

Primus. What could he say to that? “Uh…” He felt stupid for being unable to think of an adequate response, but how could he when she was looking at him like that? Expectant, trusting…and beautiful. Really beautiful.

Usually Ironhide would push the thought away, tell himself it was nothing. But for some reason, this time…he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Chromia just continued gazing at him, as though waiting for a response to some unspoken question. At length she raised her optic ridges and said, “So what’re you gonna do? Let them crush the dreams you’ve always worked toward achieving? Or are you gonna get back up, dust yourself off, and try again like I’d always thought you would?”

Ironhide felt an unexpected surge of determination and drew himself up taller. Chromia was right. He had been SPARKED to keep going—to keep fighting no matter the circumstances. And he’d be damned if he would override that crucial part of his code now. He would keep going, keep fighting even if it killed him. He was meant to become Prime’s bodyguard and weapons specialist—he just knew it. He looked at Chromia anew, a grin splitting his face. Chromia needed look at his face only once to know she had won.

Suddenly Ironhide was painfully aware of how close the two were standing. He’d never denied that she was pretty, but maybe before he’d been too prejudiced to really acknowledge her beauty. The silver lining on her chassis seemed to glisten in the light which bathed the hallway, and her eager blue optics seemed to see right through him.

He knew he should say something romantic, something clever. But he only smiled and said, “Thanks, ‘Mia.” He could only hope that his faceplates weren’t overheating. “For everything.”

Chromia hesitated before speaking. “And thank you.” Her voice was soft.

“Me? What for?” Ironhide asked, almost derisive.

Chromia tilted her head, a smile stealing over her face. “Well, for everything.” Somehow her grin was both bold and gentle—an expression Ironhide had never seen on her face before. It was one of the prettiest things he’d ever seen. She took a step closer, and Ironhide felt his voicebox contract as she neared him. Was she going to—

A sudden trill rang out from the comm bracelet Chromia always kept wound around one of her arms. Chromia stopped abruptly at the sound, and a flush stole over her faceplates. Ironhide ducked his head to hide his own shame. What had he thought was going to happen? Had he really expected her to kiss him? Primus, what a fool he was.

Chromia silently tapped the band, prompting a holographic screen to pop up in front of her. Her optics briefly ran over the lines of text displayed there, and after a moment she looked up at Ironhide again with her mouth hanging open.

“What?” he asked in alarm. “What is it?”

Chromia’s faceplates were deathly pale as she numbly gave him the reply. “It’s Swindle.”

Chapter Text

“What are they DOING out there?” Prowl asked, tapping a pede anxiously. “I need to—”

“Relax, Prowler,” Ratchet said, slinging an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “They’ll be back. Give them time.”

Prowl looked at Ratchet with a look of horror on his faceplates. “Oh no. What did you do?”

“Me?” Ratchet raised his optic ridges innocently. “I didn’t do a thing.”

Prowl narrowed his optics at the medic. “Right.”

“Come on, Prowl,” Ratchet snickered. “I know you’re itching for them to make a move just as much as I am.”

“What? No! A security officer doesn’t have time for…for…itching!” Prowl stuttered, his faceplates flushing pink.

“Right now, your job isn’t to be a security officer. Right now, your job is to be the best wingman you possibly can,” Ratchet said.

Prowl only sighed, turning his head so Ratchet wouldn’t see the stubborn smile creeping across his face. Maybe he did want them to get together—so what? That didn’t mean he had to ADMIT it.

But as he turned, Prowl was met with the unexpected sight of B-127 entering the training room, and he frowned. B-127—or Bumblebee, as he had now come to be called by his friends—rarely left Prime’s side. So what was he doing here now?

“Hey, Bee,” Ratchet said. “What brings you here?”

“What, indeed,” Prowl murmured thoughtfully, keeping his optics secured firmly on the cheery yellow mech in front of him.

“Oh, I just decided to drop by to visit you guys since Optimus is busy,” Bee said simply. “I checked in both your offices, but I couldn’t find you, so I figured you’d be here.”

A silent alarm chimed in the back of Prowl’s mind. “Optimus is busy?” he inquired, a bit more sharply than he had meant to. “Busy with what?”

Bee shrugged. “I don’t know what exactly, but he mentioned something about a recruitment thingy he had to attend to on the surface.”

Prowl’s mental alarm was blaring now. “On the surface?”

Bee nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Elita’s with him.”

“Elita’s with—Primus, I don’t care if Elita’s with him!” Prowl cried. “He’s on the SURFACE?”

Bee, thoroughly rattled now, took a cautionary step back. “Well…yeah. I thought—”

“Bee, that’s where Megatron houses his troops,” Ratchet said, his optics wide with worry.

“I know,” Bee said, “but he said it was an Autobot recruitment mission, not a confrontation with the Decepticons!”

Ratchet started exhausting his entire repertoire of curses as Prowl spun on his pede and bolted from the room. Ratchet, although still swearing profusely, was close on his heel. As he continued sprinting, Prowl’s mind raced with all the horrific scenarios that could possibly happen—in fact, so preoccupied was he that he crashed headlong into another mech.

The black-and-white mech let out an explosive “oof” as he crashed to the ground. He was up again in two seconds, his pedes itching to resume their sprint down the hall. Even as he stumbled up, a grey servo shot out to steady him. “Prowl!” Prowl looked up, only to see Ironhide standing there looking at him apprehensively. “Are you—”

“Thank Primus,” Prowl heaved breathlessly. “Thank Primus it’s you. It’s…it’s about Prime—”

“Prime?” Ironhide cried in alarm. “What’s happened?”

“It must have something to do with—” Chromia began.

“We don’t know!” Ratchet said, swiftly cutting Chromia off. “But he’s up on the surface.”

“Where Megatron keeps his troops,” Ironhide murmured, his faceplates draining of color.

“Maybe if—” Chromia began again, annoyance seeping into her voice.

“Elita is with him,” Prowl interjected, “but Primus knows if that will actually help—”

“Primus, would you mechs just LISTEN?” Chromia exploded. “There isn’t much time! I just got a comm from Swindle. He wants to meet me on the surface, and I just know this involves Prime somehow. So if you would just STOP for a moment” —at this point she shot Ratchet, Prowl, and Ironhide each a glare— “we may just get there in time to fix this.”

Prowl felt as though he were about to short-circuit. Would he EVER get a break? Conspiracies, matchmaking, now this? What was next? He might as well have an evil clone at this point.

Still, he nodded sharply to Chromia despite the oncoming glitch he felt growing at the corner of his processor. “Right, let’s go then!”

And they were off.

…

It all went by so fast. One moment they were all running frantically down hallways, and the next they were aboard a train headed for the surface. Chromia couldn’t still the shaking which possessed her servos. They were trembling frantically, and there seemed to be nothing she could do to make them stop. No matter how hard she clenched her fists, the shaking persisted. She didn’t want to see Swindle. She didn’t want anything to do with the mech.

She felt his presence before she felt his digits curl around hers, soothing the uncontrollable trembling which had seized them. She met Ironhide’s stark blue optics, which, though confident and daring as ever, were now tainted with fear. He offered her a smile. “Relax,” he said, squeezing her servo gently. “We’re gonna kick their afts so hard they’ll be spotted orbiting Moon Base 2.”

Chromia offered him a bright grin in return. “Frag, yes.”

Yet when the train finally stopped at the outskirts of what had become Kaon, the now-sprawling Deception city, Chromia felt her spark seize up again. No matter how many comforting words and bright gazes he offered her, Ironhide would never be able to shake the frightening reality of the situation she was facing now—the realization that Swindle was waiting for her.

And not the mech whom she had come to know as Swindle. The monster which he had become.

He had asked her to meet him there, at the outskirts. Alone. So Chromia and the others had devised a plan which involved her confronting Swindle directly to try and probe from him the information they needed. They had decided that while she was doing this, Prowl, Ratchet, and Ironhide would stay hidden and watch to make sure nothing went terribly wrong during the interaction.

When Chromia at last spotted his flaking purple-and-gold frame lingering outside of a bar, she signaled to her friends to fall back. They immediately did so, ducking behind a stray hunk of debris which remained from what had once been wreckage of the city. Chromia, struggling to keep her frame from trembling, stepped forward and waved sharply to catch Swindle’s attention.

He turned to her, his purple visor glinting in the dull light. A smirk split his faceplates, and Chromia’s wiring suddenly felt knotted. “Heya, Chromes,” he said, righting his slouched position as he walked towards her. Chromia struggled not to recoil as he continued to draw closer. “How have you been?”

“Alright,” she replied shortly. “And you?”

“Better,” he said with a dark sort of conviction Chromia didn’t like. “Far better. I love it here. This is my kind of place.”

“Is it, now?” Chromia glanced around at the rotting buildings and scummy ‘bots which roamed the streets. “Why?”

Swindle shrugged. “They’re like me, Chromia. Smart, cunning, quick on their pedes. I’ve found my ‘bots.”

“But what about your friends? Mechs like…like…” Chromia racked her processor for other mechs Swindle had befriended. “Slambrake? Or Trigger? What about them?”

“That’s the best part!” Swindle crowed, rubbing his servos together. “They’re here, too. Because, like me, they’ve found their place here among the Decepticons. Now the only friend I’m missing….”—his visor glimmered as his lips twisted—“…is you.”

“Swindle…” Chromia shook her head firmly. “My place isn’t here. You know that.”

“Then where IS your place, Chromia?” Swindle hissed. “Back at the empty raceway, wallowing in the dust and dormant thrill of a life long gone?” His next words were dripping with raw contempt. “Or is it with the Autobots?”

Chromia didn’t want to hear this. Not now, not ever. “My place,” she said, “is wherever you’re not.”

“You don’t deny it,” Swindle snarked. “So you ARE with them.”

“Where is Prime, Swindle?” Chromia demanded, her spark hammering now not with fear, but with anger. “What have you done with our Prime?”

“Not MY Prime,” Swindle corrected darkly. The taut silence between them was suspended for a moment longer before Swindle spoke again. “I respected you, Chromia,” he said softly in a swift change of tone. “Your determination, your raw talent, your ruthlessness. The ease with which you won every race. Do you remember the Iacon 5000? When D-16 and Orion Pax interfered, you didn’t stand down. You didn’t give them the chance to win because you felt sorry for them. I had known you would win from the start; for you, there was no other option. But you are not the racer I once knew.”

“And neither are you. You’ve become a monster—”

“I am not a monster. I’m an opportunist—always have been. It’s as simple as that. And I won’t stop here, not when what I want is right within my grasp.”

“What is it you want, Swindle?”

“What is it I WANTED, you mean. I have all I could want now,” Swindle said, gesturing to the rotting city behind him. “That is, except…” He hesitated.

“What?”

“This.”

Before Chromia could even take a step backward, Swindle’s servo had already shot over and, with a few quick jerks, ripped the transformation cog straight from her chest.

Panic raced anew through Chromia’s code as she watched her cog disappear into Swindle’s grip. “SWINDLE, NO!” she screamed frantically, swiping desperately at his servo. He sniggered, shoving her back and sending her toppling heavily to the ground.

“I don’t think so, Chromes,” he snarled as he dropped the cog to the ground. “Not this time.”

“NO!”

And with that, Swindle’s heel came bearing down on the cog, sending small fragments of light and metal hurtling in all directions with a sickening crunch.

Chapter Text

“NO!”

Ironhide sprang forward from his spot behind the rubble, and Swindle looked up just in time to watch as he, Ratchet and Prowl all ran forward to confront him. Swindle shot them a quick sneer before giving them a snarky mock salute and transforming. Prowl lunged at him, and for a moment all that was visible were chaotic flashes of black and purple.

Prowl was suddenly upended as Swindle put on a sudden burst of speed, leaving nothing behind besides a few minor dents in Prowl’s frame and a sobbing, distraught femme.

Ironhide was the first to reach Chromia, with Ratchet and Prowl close on his heels. “ ‘Mia!” Chromia didn’t look up, and when Ironhide stooped beside her, he saw that she was disbelievingly cradling the shattered fragments of the cog in her servos. She didn’t look up when he called her name, just continued looking dully at the broken t-cog, her crystal optics glittering with tears. “Chromia, are you alright?”

Chromia raised her head but didn’t make optic contact with any of them. She opened her mouth in an attempt to speak, but shut it again and shook her head instead. She couldn’t find the words. None of them could.

In her cogless form, Chromia remained the same brilliant blue, although the silver vents which had adorned her helmet had shrunk drastically, as her frame had become smaller and more brittle-looking. The body of a miner. Seeing her like this made Ironhide’s spark twist. He would get Swindle for this, even if it took every last spark of energy left in his body.

“Chromia…” Ratchet began, fighting through the words. “Are you hurt?”

“What does it look like to you?” Chromia exploded at him, turning on him with optics blazing. “Do I look…do I…” Her voicebox seemed to glitch out as her voice faded into faint sobs again.

Ironhide glanced around sharply. Brief altercations seemed common here in Kaon, but a few Decepticons had turned in their direction and were eyeing them suspiciously. They had to get away from here before something even worse could happen.

But Prime and Elita…

“Chromia, we ought to leave,” Prowl said as comfortingly as he could. “It’s not safe here.”

“Hey!” one of the Decepticons shouted over, approaching rapidly. “Who’re you guys and what’re ya doin’ in Kaon?”

Ironhide’s servo sharply flew to his chest, obscuring his Autobot symbol from view. He stepped slowly in front of Chromia, narrowing his optics at the Decepticon. “I dunno. What’re YOU doin’?”

“We’re—tourists!” Prowl blurted, offering the Decepticon a wobbly smile. “Yes, we’re tourists.”

The Decepticon frowned. “Y’are?”

Prowl nodded, perhaps a bit too violently. “Yes. Lovely, uh…lovely scenery you’ve got here.”

“Lovely…scenery?” The Decepticon seemed more puzzled than anything else.

“Well, the architecture is very nice,” Ratchet added quickly, “and you mechs seem friendly—”

The Decepticon barked out a harsh laugh. “Hah! Hey, boys, c’mere! These ‘bots say we’ve got nice ark-uh-tek-cher!”

A few other Decepticon mechs ambled over, grinning from audial to audial. They continued to grow closer and closer, and Ironhide braced his servos in front of him to prevent them from advancing any further. “Hey, fellas, back up,” he said abruptly.

“Personal bubbles, you know. I’m sure you understand,” Ratchet agreed as they inched nearer.

“Oho, we understand, all right,” the first Decepticon snarled, the smirk never leaving his face. “We understand what you are, Autobots.”

“Autobots?” Prowl asked nervously. “Now who said anything about—”

“Get ‘em!” the Decepticon barked out to his comrades. They immediately surged forward, weapons brandished, and Ironhide acted without thinking. His cog had given him many new and incredible abilities, but there was one in particular which he saved especially for situations such as these.

He held out his servos, and from his digits sprayed something freezing and white—liquid nitrogen. The stream of freezing liquid latched itself onto the first Decepticon’s face even as he lunged at Ironhide. The Decepticon staggered back with a guttural scream, clutching his frozen face. Prowl wasted no time in winding up and landing a solid punch to the Decepticon nearest the first, who had been standing lamely watching as his comrade fell back screaming. Now he, too, fell back as Prowl’s clenched servo made contact with his brittle faceplates.

“Ironhide!” Ratchet shouted over to his friend as he violently shook a Decepticon attacker off himself. “I need you to try to snap Chromia out of it somehow!”

Ironhide didn’t need any second bidding. He quickly whirled and, taking Chromia sharply by the servo, tugged her over behind the debris which he had been crouching behind moments before. Prowl and Ratchet seemed to have the other Decepticons under control, at least for now.

“Chromia, I need you to listen to me,” Ironhide said firmly, turning the femme’s head towards him. “You are so much more than your cog.”

Chromia only looked at him, her blue optics moist. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “My cog didn’t make me who I am: it IS who I am. Or….it was.”

“No, that’s not….that ain’t true,” Ironhide said stubbornly. He knew how she was feeling. Somehow it was so much more obvious now, when he was confronting her and not himself. She was so much more than her cog, and he knew it. He had SEEN it. She was determined and kind. She was Chromia, not just the racer into which her cog had transformed her. “You’re so much more than that, ‘Mia.”

“Says who?” she asked, gazing up at him defiantly.

“Says me,” he said. “I know you’re more than what your cog makes you.”

“Maybe so,” she whispered, “but I needed it.”

“For the races?”

Chromia shook her head weakly. “For Prime.”

For Prime? OH. Of course—she would have needed her cog in the case that Prime was in danger and someone needed to be able to reach him quickly. Ironhide let out a sudden gasp. He had an idea.

“Chromia,” he said urgently, “there’s still time to find Prime. Here.” He watched as Chromia’s optics grew wide.

“Ironhide, what are you doing?” she murmured.

“This.” He held out his servo, in which rested his own transformation cog. His chest compartment slid shut again as his body began to reconfigure itself to accommodate the absence of his cog. His head crest became subverted once again and his frame became slimmer and more frail looking. “Here.”

Chromia looked at his outstretched servo blankly for a moment. “Ironhide….”

“Do you think less of me when I’m cogless?” he asked her suddenly.

“ ‘Hide, I—”

“Do you?” he persisted.

“Of course not.”

“Then I don’t think less of you without yours, either,” he said stubbornly. “And before you take the cog, I want you to know that.”

“I couldn’t possibly take your cog—”

“Prime needs you,” Ironhide said, holding her gaze. “I’m not a racer. I can’t get there in time.”

Chromia reached out slowly, her servo carefully taking the cog. “Are you sure?” she asked softly.

Ironhide only nodded. “But with or without it, you’re still you. You’re still the strong-willed femme you were when I first saw you.”

“Strong-willed?” Chromia asked, a faint smile cracking her faceplates. “That’s all?”

“Nope.” Ironhide held up the digits of his servo and started counting down on them even as his spark hammered nervously in his chest. “Clever, brave, beautiful—”

He never did get the chance to finish the list.

Because there, crouching behind a slab of rubble in the Decepticon city, with the sounds of the brawl still persistent behind them, Chromia kissed him.

The sounds of the scuffle vanished as promptly as they had begun. Ironhide forgot he was in Kaon, trying to save Optimus. He forgot he was currently cogless. In that moment, all he knew was her. Eons seemed to pass in the time they crouched there together with their optics shuttered, lips interlocking, time itself seeming to bow to them.

When Chromia finally pulled away, she was smiling, and her optics had regained their daring glow. “Now. Let’s go find our Prime.”

Chapter Text

By the time the pair of them was ready to reenter the battle, Prowl and Ratchet had already scared off the remainder of the Decepticons. As soon as Ironhide stepped away from the concealing slab of rubble, his optics locked with Ratchet’s.

It didn’t take long for the medic’s glance to flick to his friend’s chest. When Ratchet’s optics widened, Ironhide was mildly surprised to find that his friend appeared to be more worried than surprised. “You…your cog?” The question was hardly necessary. Ratchet already knew exactly what had happened.

Ironhide only nodded firmly, and understanding dawned in his friends’ optics. “Chromia’s faster than me,” he said. “She’s our only chance of reaching Optimus before it’s too late.”

If Prowl and Ratchet understood the other, more personal reason why Ironhide had offered Chromia his cog, they didn’t mention it. Prowl—ever the strategist—nodded in understanding. “Go,” he said. “Swindle can’t be too far. With any luck, he’ll lead us right to Prime.”

Chromia’s stare flickered between the three mechs beside her, and suddenly they were glistening with unshed tears. She knew she didn’t have time to thank them properly, so she only bowed her head appreciatively before transforming. Even as she sped away, she could hear the faint reassuring words in her wake, “We’ll be right behind you!”

And never before had she felt so free.

…

Prowl and Ratchet both transformed as abruptly as Chromia and took off through the streets, determined to catch up with the Decepticons who had retreated deeper into the city. Ironhide, even in his cogless form, knew that he could keep up speed with them running for about five minutes—possibly longer with the newfound surge of energy Chromia had lent him.

The pursuit through Kaon started off well, and no civilian dared try to interfere. The mechs were moving too fast for them to even get an idea of what was going on, let along actually join the chase. Ironhide may not have gotten a good look at the Decepticons’ alt modes, but Prowl was fast and Ratchet could keep up high bursts of speed for a time, so he was confident they would be able to intercept them.

It only took a minute or so for the wounded Decepticons to come into Ironhide’s line of sight, and the one lagging at the back showed icy white marks along his frame—remnants of the liquid nitrogen. Shouldn’t be too hard to get him off the road, then.

Ironhide forced himself to move a bit faster, surging ahead of Ratchet and Prowl just for long enough that he was running alongside the Decepticon at the rear. Almost without thinking, Ironhide thrust a servo through the car’s window, shattering it easily. The Decepticon immediately slammed on his brakes, allowing Prowl and Ratchet to speed past him and Ironhide, who were now left on the side of the street.

The Decepticon transformed with a snarl, pain and anger merging to form the guttural sound. His plated face was horrifically mangled and frozen, and Ironhide couldn’t help but wince a little at the sight. Still, he needed to take him down if he wanted to keep Chromia and the others from having one more troublemaker to deal with. “Sorry, mech,” he muttered, “but it didn’t have to be this way.”

Despite being cogless, Ironhide still packed quite the punch. Before the disfigured Decepticon had time to react, he had already wound up and sent his clenched servo flying towards his face.

It all happened so fast, the Decepticon probably hardly felt it. He only had time to let out a single strangled groan before staggering back a few steps and eventually toppling heavily to the ground.

As much as he was aching already, Ironhide pushed himself into a run again in an attempt to catch up with his friends. And despite all the fevered thoughts which entered his processor as he began running once more, one overcame all the rest.

Chromia.

With the thought of her name came a new rush of about fifty more confusing emotions. Joy, worry, pride. Primus, Ironhide hoped she could catch up with Swindle in time to find Optimus. If not for Prime himself, then for her. But she could do it—of course she could. From that first day he had seen her at the station, he had known she could do just about anything.

Cogless, or not.

And with this last thought, Ironhide pushed himself forward again.

…

Swindle was FAST.

Chromia had almost forgotten that he was a racer—after all, in her optics, he had lost any title besides a monster. But although he had never placed first in any of the races, he was always up there on the leaderboard. And now, with the threat of the Autobots lingering behind him, the onset of panic made him even faster.

Chromia had never been to Kaon before, but the buildings were growing denser, meaning that Swindle was probably nearing wherever Megatron had decided to make camp. He didn’t seem to be worrying too much about Chromia discovering the location, which in turn was concerning to Chromia herself. What if Swindle’s reinforcements were so powerful that they would force her back—or worse?

‘No, stop it,’ Chromia scolded herself as she sped along behind Swindle. ‘Think of ‘Hide.’

Primus, he had been so brave to believe in her. And the fact that he was willing to give her his cog…it was everything to her. So in that moment as she finally, FINALLY reached Swindle, it wasn’t the thought her own capability which pushed her forward: it was the thought of
Ironhide, who had believed in her from the start.

And just as she was so close to Swindle that she was nearly touching his tailpipe, he took a sharp turn. Chromia gave a sharp gasp, barely managing to wrench herself into the proper position so as to continue tailing him. She heard Swindle swear loudly before she watched him put on a burst of sudden and desperate speed which she hadn’t known him to be capable of. As she watched him charge forward, she realized that what she had previously seen as a simple warehouse was…flickering?

Meaning…it must be holographically cloaked!

Chromia watched in despair as the shuttered door to the false warehouse slid open to allot Swindle entry before beginning to close again—far more quickly than she would have liked.

But she could do it.

If he believed in her, she could too.

In a flash, Chromia called upon her cog, and she felt her joints reconfiguring frantically as she stumbled towards the entrance. Her legs barely came into their own as she ducked into a slide, and the sound of metal scraping metal grated upon her audio receptors.

The door slid shut with a BANG.

Chromia let a small grin slip over her face. She was in.