Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Stop it!” Heatwave yelped. He batted furiously at Bumblebee’s muzzle, though kept his claws sheathed. “Stop ruining everything!”

Bumblebee fluffed up his fur, though he resembled a cyber-fox rather than a fearsome warrior with his uneven spiked pelt. “Maybe you if you actually listened for once, maybe you’d actually be decent at training,” he growled back.

“Shut up!”

“Enough,” came Optimus Prime’s sharp reprimand, catching both younglings’ attention. The larger mech padded into their small living quarters, his large frame looming over his younglings. He regarded both with a pointed frown. “What are you arguing about?”

Heatwave wasted no time. He whirled back towards Bumblebee with an angry frown. “He called me weak in front of Ironhide!” he spat.

“I did not!” Bumblebee argued back with an exasperated look at Optimus. “I told Ironhide that Heatwave wasn’t ready for the double-leap-forward-slash training exercise today. But this idiot—” The yellow and black tabby added with a glare at his brother. “—went along anyway and ruined our training session.”

Furious, Heatwave shoved his muzzle in Bumblebee’s. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t,” he spat heatedly. This time, his claw unsheathed, causing Bumblebee to bare his teeth into a snarl.

“Enough.” Their guardian’s voice was firmer, and Optimus Prime’s used a forepaw to nudge the younglings apart. “Claws should never be unsheathed on your fellow warriors,” he scolded.

“Even when they deserve it?” Heatwave argued back, trying to sidestep the Prime’s large paw to leer at Bumblebee. The yellow-and-black mechling hissed.

His guardian’s paw was firmer yet still gentle as he nudged Heatwave back. Their guardian paused to think for a few seconds before beckoning them with his large tail. “Come, allow me to show you two something.”

At once, Heatwave froze, and he couldn’t help the flicker of fear in his spark. Was he in trouble? He glanced at Bumblebee and saw the similar worry in his brother’s eyes. But his guardian’s tone was even and calm, and Heatwave and Bumblebee dutifully followed the Prime out of their quarters. The blue, gray, and red mech led them down empty hallways, as if he knew which ones were secluded from prying eyes. After scaling a slim staircase, the door slid open to reveal a balcony near the top of the base. It was night, and Cybertron’s two moons shone brilliantly on the Iacon skyline in the distance. Only distant plumes of smoke alluded to the ever-present war that scared the planet.

Optimus sat on his haunches, and his two younglings sat on either side. Heatwave waited for Optimus Prime to say something, but as he glanced at his guardian, the Prime’s eyes were closed with his muzzle slightly upwards. The breeze was gently waving at his pelt, and it looked as if he were leaning into the wind’s comforting embrace. Heatwave swore he could see a faint smile on his guardian’s muzzle.

The persistent silence was apparently too much for Bumblebee. “What are you doing?” he finally asked.

Their guardian’s tone was gentle. “Rebalancing my spark,” he Prime merely replied without opening his eyes. His tail-tip flicked. “Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I remind myself of Primus’s presence in the breeze, in the moons and stars above, in every Cybertronian around us. At times, I can almost feel Primus’s spark beating beneath my paws.”

“No way,” Bumblebee gasped, his anger forgotten. His frame wiggled with excitement. “Can we do that?”

Optimus Prime’s golden eyes glowed in the darkness. “Try to feel every spark around you,” he instructed kindly, turning his muzzle back towards the night sky.

While Bumblebee eagerly closed his eyes, Heatwave was confused. He was expecting a reprimand for their argument, not a random lesson about mindfulness. But as his guardian glanced down at him, Heatwave obediently closed his eyes, scrunching up his face. He tried to focus on the silence, but the eager tapping of Bumblebee’s tail nearby and the sharp cold wind stinging his pelt caused him to grow irritable.

“I don’t feel anything,” he grumbled, his eyes still squeezed shut.

His guardian’s breath was warm on his ear. “Relax,” the Prime gently soothed with a low rumble. “Focus on the breeze.”

Stifling a sigh, Heatwave forced himself to relax, letting his posture limp. The Prime’s kind wisdom caused a sudden wave of calm to rush over Heatwave’s spark. His anger seemed to fade like twilight fading into night with each breath he took. He focused on the silence of the moment, his brother’s tapping tail and his guardian’s even venting fading into obscurity. For a split second, Heatwave swore he felt something against his paws. Or perhaps it was his own sparkrate tricking him.

“Heatwave.” His guardian’s voice was quiet. “Your spark burns as strong as the brightest flame. Bumblebee does not underestimate your capabilities as a warrior. Sometimes the wisest revelations come from listening to others.”

Instead of feeling anger, Heatwave felt understanding. His brother was just looking out for him, as always, yet Heatwave had interpreted it as an insult.

“Bumblebee,” his guardian went on. “Your greatest strength is your care for others. Be mindful of how others might interpret your assistance as judgment.”

Heatwave exhaled as he reopened his eyes. He felt better than he had in solar-cycles, and he felt impressed that his guardian knew of a technique to calm his anger.

Bumblebee was more visibly impressed. “Whoa,” he chirped eagerly. “That was amazing. I feel so much better! Do you know everything?”

Optimus Prime’s eyes glimmered with slight fondness. “Not everything,” he soothed, brushing his tail against Bumblebee’s slim flank. “But I do know this.” Regarding both mechlings, the Prime went on more seriously. “Anger can cloud even the wisest of judgements, clouding even what may be clear for the most logical of decisions.” He rested his gaze on Heatwave. “Your strengths will serve you well as you grow but never forget their inherent faults.”

The reddish mechling felt grateful for his guardian’s gentle wisdom. Despite the endless tirades of the war, Optimus always had spare time to educate his younglings.

Heatwave nervously shifted his paws, his guilt emerging in place of his anger. “…Sorry, Bumblebee,” he grumbled. “I know you meant well but I…” He wasn’t sure how to articulate how he felt.

“Insulted? Offended? Like I betrayed your trust by telling Ironhide that you weren’t ready?” Bumblebee finished.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “That.”

“I get it,” Bumblebee replied softly. “I should’ve told you directly instead of going to Ironhide. I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah.” Heatwave paused for a second. “Thanks for looking out for me.” He finally looked up at his brother, still sitting on the other side of their guardian. “Could…could you help me practice? Sometime?” It hurt to admit that he needed help, but Heatwave knew that Bumblebee merely wanted to help. As always.

Bumblebee’s smile was gentle. “Always.”

There was a faint hmm of approval from their guardian. Optimus Prime was watching them earnestly. “Well done, you two,” the red, blue, and gray mech praised mildly, though fondness continued to flicker in his golden eyes. “Never forget the bond you two share. It will outlast any fracture as long as you remember your kinship. As long as you have each other, you will be alright, even if I am no longer with you.”

His guardian’s sudden sullen comment sent a shiver in Heatwave’s pelt. What could he mean?

Bumblebee was also worried. “But you’ll always be with us!” he insisted, his voice slightly raised with dismay. Bumblebee sought their guardian’s broad chest for comfort. “You’re not going anywhere.”

As Bumblebee snuggled closer, Heatwave felt the urge to receive physical reassurance from his guardian as well. Optimus Prime was always there, and the mere thought of him dying was enough to send shivers down Heatwave’s pelt. Not wanting to appear desperate, Heatwave gingerly nudged closer to his guardian’s flank, his fur barely touching the Prime’s. Their guardian rarely offered or allowed physical touch. If he did, it was always brief. But Optimus did not remove himself from their embrace. Instead, he curled his tail gingerly over Heatwave’s frame. “Even if you cannot see me, my spark will always watch over you two.”

Chapter Text

“We need to tell him,” Arcee whispered to him fiercely. She had cornered Optimus as soon as he emerged from the command center.

The large mech paused midway in the doorframe. He had a suspicion what Arcee was referring to, and something in her stern gaze told him it was a private affair. She left it vague for a reason. After a moment, Optimus sidestepped her, the door to the command center sliding shut behind him, and he padded down a hallway to avoid prying optics.

Arcee followed him, keep her mouth shut until her sparkmate stopped in an empty corridor to address her. Few optics would be watching them here. “Well?” she offered with a glare.

“Bumblebee is about to begin his training,” Optimus Prime whispered. “He does not need any distractions.”

“How is the truth a distraction?” Arcee shot back in a fierce whisper while Optimus avoided her gaze. He knew it was a faulty argument. Optimus could remember the day twelve years ago as I it was yesterday when he first laid eyes on Bumblebee cradled in Arcee’s paws. Despite being wounded, Arcee was beaming with energy as she relayed how her squadron rescued the newspark from the Decepticons. He knew immediately what she was asking at that moment.

“Our younglings are growing up, and both will be sent off for training any day now,” Arcee went on when he didn’t respond. He could tell she was frustrated by his silence. “Heatwave knows he’s adopted, but Bumblebee deserves to know the truth as well.”

“Why?” Optimus Prime asked, finally meeting his sparkmate’s eyes. “He is content knowing otherwise.” It felt selfish to even argue with her. Of course Bumblebee deserved to know the truth about his real creators. Yet Optimus Prime’s family meant more to him than he could ever put into words, and the Prime couldn’t imagine hurting his youngling’s spark with the reality.

Arcee lashed out her tail in frustration. “Because if I die on that mission next cycle, then I want to die knowing that we at least told Bumblebee the truth!”

Optimus Prime widened his optics in surprise as she winced and looked away at her sudden admission. Jazz had informed him about the secret stealth operation into the heart of Kaon. Casualties were to be expected, though the potential intel this mission could acquire was priceless. He had no idea that Arcee had volunteered for the mission.

“Before you argue,” Arcee put in after a few silent moments, noticing the look on his face. “I am a warrior first, and you know that.”

He knew that she was right. Arcee was one of the best stealth warriors in the Autobot resistance, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. After a few moments, the blue, red, and gray mech nodded. “Alright,” he replied softly.

Arcee noticed his forlorn expression and gingerly put her paw over his. “I’ll come back,” she meowed softly and gently pressed up against his pelt.

He touched his nose to her ear. “I understand,” he replied, knowing that it was a lie. They could never promise each other that they would survive the war.

In the middle of battle nearly a cycle later, Optimus Prime felt his spark sink at the sight of a familiar yellow and black mechling amid the fight. Bumblebee! What was his son doing here? Warpath oversaw training the newest recruits, including the young Bumblebee who was finally of age to begin his training, but the Prime thought the recruits were training elsewhere. The Decepticons had ambushed Tagan Heights in one of the safe neutral areas. Yet the Prime couldn’t help but faintly nod in approval as Bumblebee swiftly ducked underneath a Con’s swipe then attacked with a powerful front swipe of his own. His son had learned swiftly in the few days of his training.

Suddenly, a dark blue mechling slammed into Bumblebee, knocking the youngling off his paws. The mech—also a youngling but much larger and older—had the younger mech pinned down. Before Optimus Prime could rush into action, a memory surged up that he had long forgotten. The dark blue had distinctive yellow markings that were strikingly familiar.

Orion Pax walked briskly into Kaon’s largest gladiatorial arena, doing his best to ignore the shambling structure or the bots who scowled at him as he walked past. He clenched his jaws over the energon he carried, hoping no one would interrupt him until he made it to his destination. He promptly made his way to the quarters on the top level where only the most powerful gladiators resided. He turned the corner only to be stopped by a stocky black-and-dark gray mech.

“Pax,” the mech scowled at him. “What are you doing here?”

Orion Pax gently dropped the energon he’d been carrying on the floor. His golden optics met the angry mech’s own blue ones. “I am just here to drop off a gift for the little ones, Barricade,” he calmly insisted, not wanting to start an argument with the buff security guard. “I had informed Megatron I was on my way.”

Barricade growled. “No one is allowed entry, per Megatron’s orders.”

Before Orion could open his mouth to reply, a sharp voice came from behind Barricade. “Barricade, what have I told you about Orion Pax’s visits?” The large silver gray mech insisted with a frown as he strode up to the pair. “My friend is always welcomed.”

Barricade opened his mouth to retort but clearly thought better of it. The black-and-gray mech nodded his head and stepped aside to let Orion pass through. Dipping his head at Barricade, Orion Pax picked up his energon and greeted his brother in arms. “I just had to come see the little ones,” he meowed happily. “I brought fresh energon for Strikewire as well.”

Megatron dipped his head in respect. “Very much appreciated, Orion,” he replied with a small smile. “Come, I’ll show you the newsparks.” With a wave of his tail, Orion followed the large gladiator down the hallway.

“I am surprised that the tough and menacing Megatron decided to sire sparklings,” Orion retorted in good nature. He gave his friend a wry grin. “Who would have thought sirehood would be for you?”

Megatron slightly grimaced yet smiled at his brother. “Decided is a strong word for it,” he replied. “It sort of…just happened.”

“I see,” Orion replied with a fond twitch of his whiskers. Yet even Megatron wasn’t immune to the allure of femmes. “Still, newsparks are always a blessing.”

His friend’s next words shocked Orion. “I am not so sure if newsparks during this time are considered a blessing, my friend,” Megatron softly muttered. “Especially times like these.” He glanced at a nearby opening that gazed into the large gladiatorial pits where a few warriors were practicing for their next rounds of combat. Dark splatters of spilled energon permanently stained the arena. “Because of their class, my sons will grow up to fight and die in the pits. What kind of future is that?”

Orion Pax frowned as he considered his brother’s dilemma. He gently flicked his tail on Megatron’s shoulder. “Then that should give us more resolution to take our fight to the High Council to abolish the caste system. For a better future for our sparklings and future Cybertronians to come.”

Megatron nodded in agreement. “If my sons are destined to fight, they should fight for their freedom.”

The pair had finally reached their destination, and Megatron gestured for the guard to step aside for them to enter. The room was small yet lightly dimmed. The only occupant was a dark blue and gray femme, much smaller than Megatron and Orion, curled in a nest of plush. Two newsparks slept her flank, only a few days old. Strikewire awoke when the two mechs entered her room, lifting her head up from her nest. She appeared tired, and Orion Pax would rightly assume so after giving birth to twins.

As she and Megatron gently touched noses, Orion Pax dropped his gift at Strikewire’s paws. “Energon, for you Strikewire,” he politely offered in a soft voice.

The femme blinked kindly at him. Orion Pax only met the flier a few times prior, and she seemed nice. “Thank you, Orion,” Strikewire replied quietly.

As he gazed upon the two sparklings—one dark blue with yellow marking, and the other a faded green with gray stripes—Orion Pax let out a tiny purr. “Congratulations you two on beautiful sparklings. I’m sure you two are very proud,” he purred.

Megatron, in all his awkwardness around Strikewire, puffed out his chest in pride. “Dreadwing and Skyquake will make fine warriors,” he declared as Strikewire turned to groom her sons.

“Typical Kaon names,” Orion noted with a raised brow.

Megatron nodded in agreement, though his friend regarded him with a mischievous smile. “Though I suppose my sons won’t be expecting any cousins any time soon? You and Ariel have always been close.”

Orion Pax felt a rush of energon across his muzzle. “W-Well…it’s not something we’ve considered yet,” he insisted awkwardly as he shuffled his paws.

Megatron twitched his whiskers in amusement. “Just you wait, Pax,” Megatron went on good naturedly. “One day you’ll have sparklings with your special femme and you’ll know what it’s like to suddenly feel responsible for tiny lives.” He smiled. “Maybe our sparklings will fight alongside each other one day.”

As Orion gazed upon the two newsparks sleeping at Strikewire’s flank, the blue, red, and gray mech wondered what it would be like to have sparklings of his own with Ariel one day. He could just see it: beautiful pinkish-gray femmes and mechs like their carrier, Orion and Ariel gazing at their sparklings with love in their optics. What a day it will be.

Optimus Prime’s vision ended with a pang in his spark. Of course, that would never come true as Elita One, then Ariel, had perished long ago. Optimus had Arcee now and their two adopted sons. But the dark blue sparkling from his memory…

It was Dreadwing! Megatron’s son, now nearly grown into a powerful warrior. And he had Bumblebee pinned down. And unlike Megatron’s amicable vision, their sons were fighting against each other amid a long civil war.

He couldn’t let Dreadwing kill his son. But he also didn’t want to kill Dreadwing as to not harm Megatron’s spark. As much as Optimus Prime wanted to end the war, he refused to let Megatron know the spark numbing pain of losing someone close to you.

Optimus Prime raced over to the sparring younglings. He quickly yanked Dreadwing’s scruff, casting the older youngling aside as he stood between them.

Dreadwing’s amber eyes lit up in recognition. “Prime!” he snarled at the Autobot leader as he scrambled to his paws. The youngling had grown significantly since Optimus had last seen him. His ears were slashed and there were a few scars laced around his pelt. But his face still had the innocent frame of a young bot. Prime felt a pang in his chest; this youngling shouldn’t be fighting in a war.

Optimus Prime stood in front of Bumblebee, and he heard his son slowly get to his paws and recover from the shock of his sire rescuing him. “This is no place for younglings,” Optimus Prime commanded. He narrowed his eyes and loomed over the young mech. “Leave. Now.”

“I’ve been in this war since I was a sparkling,” Dreadwing growled and crouched down, preparing to pounce again. “And Lord Megatron’s told me plenty about you.”

Before the youngling could strike, Optimus Prime saw a blur of dark blue fur out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly he felt sharp claws heave at his throat. Caught off guard, the Prime was yanked to the ground by his throat, and he struggled to defend himself from the abrupt attack. Optimus felt teeth sink into his throat and claws dig deeper into his shoulders. The massive mech wiggled around, trying to throw off his attacker. He felt energon rush down his throat, and Optimus Prime flailed his claws in a desperate attempt to save himself.

His claws hit flesh, and he felt warm energon soaking his back, though not all his own. His attacker’s grip ebbed, and Optimus Prime quickly got to his paws to dislodge himself from their grasp. A ragged dark blue-and-gray femme fell to the ground. He saw recognition flare in his enemy’s red eyes before they faded into emptiness.

It was Strikewire, Dreadwing’s carrier. And Optimus Prime felt utter horror sink into his stomach. He’d killed her. As Dreadwing looked in horror, Optimus realized the femme was only protecting her son as he was doing with Bumblebee.

As Optimus Prime stepped away in shock from the Decepticon’s body, Dreadwing inched forward. “Carrier?” he tepidly asked, hoping she could hear him. He gently nosed her pelt. “Carrier?” his voice was louder now, almost a wail. “No! You can’t be dead!”

The battle was beginning to fade around them as a few Cons padded forward to stare in horror at Strikewire’s body.

“Sire?” Bumblebee’s quiet voice pulled Optimus Prime away from his thoughts. The youngling was looking up at him in horror at what he had witnessed.

Dreadwing sharply looked up from where he was grieving his carrier. “Sire?” he echoed in question, staring puzzlingly at Optimus Prime and Bumblebee. The Prime felt his spark sink even further; no one outside of a few Autobots knew about Optimus Prime’s connection with Arcee, Bumblebee, and Heatwave. As recognition flared in Dreadwing’s amber optics, Optimus Prime knew his secret was now in enemy paws.

Optimus Prime broke his gaze from Dreadwing’s hatred one. He gently pushed Bumblebee away with his muzzle. “Go,” he quietly tutted before letting out a yowl for the Autobots to retreat. No one had won this battle. His Autobots rallied around them as they raced away, though Optimus Prime felt Dreadwing’s menacing glare all the way home.

Optimus Prime paced anxiously in the medical bay while Ratchet and the other medics treated the other wounded first. He was dimly aware of the dripping energon from his neck wound, but he insisted to Ratchet to treat the others first. Bumblebee was with the other trainees, having sustained only minor injuries to be cleared for duty.

It was only after the others had left did Ratchet finally approached his pacing leader. “I heard what had happened from Warpath,” Ratchet offered quietly. He gazed at his leader with kind optics. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I killed her, Ratchet.” His voice was mild yet tinged with anger.

“You were protecting Bumblebee. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t intervened?”

“No, if I had not intervened, Strikewire might still be alive. And Dreadwing would still have his carrier.” His mind recalled Alpha Trion’s warning so many eons ago when he first started seeing Arcee. Was his old mentor warning him about the future so long ago? Yet he did not listen. He didn’t want to. He wanted the closeness of a mate, the passion, the fire, all of it. His selfishness cost him Strikewire’s life, Dreadwing’s anger, and furthered Megatron’s hatred. Optimus Prime knew that Megatron and Strikewire were never close, that their conception of their twins was a one-time thing. But Megatron valued Strikewire as a loyal warrior and honored her as the carrier of his sons.

Now she was gone, and Optimus could only imagine what his former brother was feeling.

Ratchet looked like he wanted to argue further but thought better of it. Instead, he said nothing more as he treated the Prime’s wounds, only muttering under his breath. Ratchet was Optimus Prime’s eldest friend, one of the few remaining ‘bots who knew him as Orion before he became a Prime. He knew what Ratchet was thinking, how hypocritical Optimus was currently being.

“Megatron killed Elita, and this is how you react?”

Yet the thought only furthered his frustration with himself.

At last, Ratchet stepped away to analyze his work, satisfied with an approving nod. The white-and-orange mech glanced away to take a private communication, and he looked back at his sullen leader when he was done. “Arcee and Bumblebee are asking about you,” he whispered, though the old medic’s gaze was still narrowed. “Despite their misgivings, they are the best thing that’s happened to you. Don’t push yourself away.”

Optimus Prime couldn’t find the words to reply.

Arcee and Bumblebee were in their old quarters waiting for him when he returned. They rarely used it anymore, with both Heatwave and Bumblebee off for training and Arcee and Optimus busy with the war. Arcee comforted her sparkmate by touching her nose to his own. “I’m sorry,” she quietly whispered. Normally Arcee would celebrate the death of a ‘Con, but she knew her sparkmate regretted shredding his claws on Strikewire.

Bumblebee was gazing at him with somber optics. “Is it true? Are we kin with those bots that attacked us?”

The Prime exchanged a glance with Arcee. They still haven’t told him the truth about his parentage. It was mostly his fault for putting it off for so long before Arcee’s upcoming mission. Choosing his words carefully, Optimus Prime nodded slowly. “Strikewire was Dreadwing’s carrier, yes,” he replied. “And Megatron is his sire.”

Bumblebee looked away in shame. “So, we are fighting against kin.”

“Bumblebee,” Arcee began softly, padding forward to sit next to her son. She gently rested her tail on his shoulder. “There is…something we need to tell you.” As Bumblebee’s optics widened in mild shock, Arcee’s flashed to Optimus.

When he didn’t say anything, she went on carefully, “Years ago, there was this young couple who had recently had a newspark. A lovely newspark with a kind smile and bright blue optics.” She smiled at the youngling. “And they were very fortunate to have him.” Arcee briefly cast her gaze downward. “But…the Decepticons attacked, killing everyone in their sector…including the young creators. Their newspark survived and was discovered by an Autobot warrior who risked her life from the remaining ‘Cons. The Autobots were too late to save the civilians who were hiding from the war, but the femme was determined to save the newspark.” The navy-blue femme rested her paw on Bumblebee’s, who had grown quiet as he stared at his carrier. “Since they didn’t have sparklings of their own, the femme and her sparkmate raised the newspark. They loved him as their own son, and they wanted nothing but the best for him.”

“And they will never stop loving him,” Optimus Prime finished, stepping forward to sit by Bumblebee’s other flank.

The youngling was silent while processing all his creators had told him. Neither Arcee nor Optimus wanted to interrupt his thoughts. After a few moments, Bumblebee spoke. “I understand why you did it,” he quietly murmured. “And I understand why you didn’t tell me before.”

Arcee gently nuzzled his cheek. “We will always love you, Bumblebee,” she purred softly. “And we’ll always be here for you. You are our son, and that is a bond that cannot be broken.”

“I…I just…” Bumblebee broke off quietly with a sob. “I just always thought I was the son of Optimus Prime.”

Optimus shared a look with his sparkmate. Primus, this is what he feared would happen. “Bumblebee, your destiny is yours to follow, not a path that must abide to mine.” He gently touched his nose to Bumblebee’s ear in comfort. “And I am looking forward to what you will accomplish.”

Bumblebee had retired to his own quarters, and Prime and Arcee were content to let him rest in his own nest instead of the military training center. Once things were quiet, Optimus Prime sat next to his mate. “I suspect Megatron knows.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Arcee’s blue optics were widened in shock. “Dreadwing overheard Bumblebee refer to me as his sire. He has undoubtedly already informed Megatron. That means you are all in danger now. Because of me.”

“I knew the risks,” Arcee insisted firmly, resting her smaller paw on his giant one. “And we instructed Heatwave and Bumblebee about it, too. We all know the risks. It was bound to happen eventually.”

He hummed in response, musing on his own thoughts.

“And I’m still going on that mission, regardless of what you say,” Arcee added firmly with a frown.

“You will be a greater target now that Megatron knows our connection.”

“Who’s to say he knows about us?” she rebutted with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Megatron may know that Bumblebee is your son, but does that mean he knows about us? He’s never said anything about it.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps she was right; the pair made sure to take extra precautions in public. They never showed any types of affection towards each other outside of base, beyond expressions that the Prime would make towards any of his warriors. Their bondage isn’t located on any public record. Only a handful of ‘bots—Optimus Prime’s closest advisors—knew about his relationship with Arcee, and he trusted them to keep their word. Maybe Megatron was still oblivious.

“Perhaps,” Optimus Prime finally replied, though he was still privately skeptical.

Arcee seemed pleased with his answer. She got to her paws and gently gave his cheek a quick lick. “I’ve never regretted any of this,” she insisted firmly.

She was saying goodbye. Her squadron would leave in the early morning. A selfish part of him wanting to ask her to stay the night—they hadn’t shared a nest since their younglings left for training. Despite Arcee’s earlier reassurance, Optimus Prime was unsure if he would see her again. The thought of losing Arcee after Elita’s death felt like a void he could not survive. He wanted her warmth, her reassurance, her love one last time…but he couldn’t.

Instead, he nuzzled her cheek fondly. “Good luck,” he whispered. He lingered longer than he should have before breaking apart.

Arcee would survive the mission, though when Bumblebee’s voice box was destroyed cycles later, Optimus Prime knew Megatron had inflicted it to personally hurt his former brother.

Chapter Text

“Hey, I heard your sire died.”

Heatwave tripped over his own paws, and he nearly tumbled face-first onto the treadmill before he quickly regained his balance. Biting back a snarl, Heatwave haphazardly turned off the machine, and the treadmill began to power down.

Fireshadow was doing his stretches a stone’s throw away. The Fire-Bot cadet was arching out his forelegs, most likely preparing for his own exercise routine. The mechling’s gaze was unreadable, but he kept his bright amber optics locked onto Heatwave.

Fortunately, Smoke Tap was quick to retort on Heatwave’s behalf while the cadet struggled with how to respond. “Fireshadow!” the silver femme scolded. “Have some tact!”

“Well, clearly no one told him yet,” Fireshadow sneered at their classmate. “Might as well tell him now.”

Heatwave finally found his voice. “Where did you hear that?” He tried to muster all his courage into his tone, but judging by Fireshadow’s amused expression, it didn’t work.

“My sire told me,” he mocked.

Heatwave doubted the leader of the Rescue Bots would reveal any classified information to his son. “You mean you spied on him,” Heatwave shot back. Inferno was one of the few ‘bots who knew the truth about Heatwave’s guardianship. Was it possible that Fireshadow overheard Inferno speaking about Optimus? Maybe. Maybe if Inferno was told that—

Fireshadow shrugged. “Does it matter? Anyway—” The orange-and-black splotched mechling bore a concerned expression, though Heatwave knew he was faking it. “—you might want to ask the admin’ for a leave of absence. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Heatwave’s paws felt like they were welded into the floor. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even think. He couldn’t even fathom Optimus Prime being dead—

Why didn’t anyone tell me?! He felt a rush of anger crash into his sorrow, creating a torrential storm in his own spark. Was their secret that important that Arcee and Bumblebee couldn’t even meet with him face-to-face?

Smoke Tap must’ve seen the panic on his face because she gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s alright, Heatwave,” she soothed. “You should go.”

Her words finally uprooted his paws.

As he headed towards Iacon, Heatwave could barely recall stumbling from the gymnasium, ignoring the concerned looks from his peers, and muttering an excuse to Voltswitch, who was on duty in the administrative building.

Heatwave’s mind was tumbling with a million different thoughts on his journey to Iacon. Surely Inferno would make an announcement if the leader of the Autobots was dead? Optimus was their divinely appointed leader—surely his passing would at least warrant a mention?

There was also the problem of Fireshadow learning his secret. Primus, now he has another reason to hate me! It was bad enough that Fireshadow scorned Heatwave because Inferno was his mentor. Now he had to deal with the public knowing that Optimus Prime was his guardian!

Fortunately, it was a short drive from Polyhex to Iacon, though despite his rushing, Heatwave was delayed slightly due to the numerous military checkpoints. His credentials were wiped clean from any reference to his guardians, resulting in the guards’ painstakingly examination of his public DataNet file for any indications of malintent. The last time he hurried to the Autobot HQ, Bumblebee’s voice box was ripped from his throat. He tried not to dwell on that memory…

Regardless of his racing spark, Heatwave couldn’t help but feel stupid. By Primus, he was nearly an adult! Soon he would advance to one of the final stages of his training and eventually assigned to his own team. Despite his grief, he felt a shudder of excitement through him. Soon he would no longer be a recruit or a trainee, but a yearling—a graduated, fully-qualified Rescue Bot. Apart from the elevated status and freedom from mandatory coursework and training exercises, Heatwave knew his instructors would still be monitoring him and the other unassigned Rescue Bots for the next  several cycles. He hoped to impress them enough to be assigned to lead his own team. To be a leader of his own team…Heatwave wanted that more than anything. All the extra coursework and arduous training sessions would’ve all been worth it.

He finally arrived at the Autobot HQ, looking none the worse than he had last seen it. The guards bore their usual bored expressions as Heatwave walked by, though the youngling assumed that they could’ve looked a little unhappier about the passing of their leader. His paws automatically led him through a waiting room, down a corridor, around a corner, and through another waiting room. He mechanically lifted his credentials to the scanner, though Heatwave nearly ran head-first into the locked door when it refused to budge.

The reddish mechling paused. Huh? He tried scanning his paw again. Maybe the system was faulty? He looked closer at the screen.

Designation: Heatwave

Rank: Rescue Bot cadet

Status: Alive

Access denied. Invalid security credentials.

What? Heatwave had entered through this very door nearly his entire life! Beyond the door was the rest of the Autobot HQ, including the military barracks, the command center, the medical center, and the rest of the confidential Autobot administration. He always had access to this area. Why was it suddenly dismissing him?

Heatwave felt a chill run through his spine. Was Optimus Prime’s death occurred long enough for new leadership to arise?

“Hey kid, move it.” A gruff voice broke Heatwave from his stupor. A paw roughly shoved him to the side. Even though Heatwave was just about fully grown, this Autobot loomed over him, and they didn’t look pleased. “No loitering,” the larger ‘bot snapped. “Authorized Autobots only.” They swiped their own paw, causing the security door to obediently slide open.

Part of Heatwave was tempted to dart right through. He was fast and nimble enough. Perhaps he bore that thought on his face because the larger ‘bot swerved in front of him before Heatwave could make up his mind. “Get out,” they barked. “What are you, some sort of ‘Con spy?”

Heatwave was flabbergasted as the accusation. “Of course not!” he argued, gesturing with a forepaw to his collar. The Rescue Bot trainee symbol was etched onto his tag indicating his rank and affiliation. “I’m a Rescue Bot.”

The larger ‘bot scoffed as if Heatwave’s response didn’t validate anything. “Everyone knows they help both sides,” they derided and suddenly loomed over Heatwave’s smaller frame. “’Con sympathizer!”

Heatwave bristled his fur. The ‘Cons tore my brother’s throat out and left him for dead! He wanted to yowl at the warrior, but he knew Optimus Prime—wherever he was now—would never appreciate Heatwave lashing out in anger.

“Soldier, that’s enough.” The sharp command caused both ‘bots to jolt. Ultra Magnus was observing from the other side of the doorway. As always, he bore an unamused expression. His tail-tip was flicking irritably.

Heatwave winced inwardly. Does he recognize me? He’d only met Ultra Magnus a handful of times, but the second-in-command always looked unimpressed every time he encountered Heatwave. Or perhaps Ultra Magnus was like that with all ‘bots.

The other Autobot immediately stood at attention. Ultra Magnus’s icy gaze then flickered to Heatwave, causing him to inwardly panic. Out of all of Optimus Prime’s seconds-in-command, Heatwave knew that Ultra Magnus was the one to most likely succeed him. Was Ultra Magnus already the leader of the Autobot resistance?

“Given the circumstances, I’ll permit this infraction to pass,” Ultra Magnus began. His firm tone indicated he was slightly annoyed at Heatwave for not following appropriate protocol. “However, I assume you are here because of your sire.”

Heatwave blinked. Did Ultra Magnus learn Optimus Prime’s secret after his passing? Jazz was the only second-in-command who knew the truth about Heatwave and Bumblebee. Ultra Magnus arched a brow at Heatwave’s silence, causing the youngling to quickly stammer a reply. “Uh, yes—" Ultra Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

The large mech seemed content with that response. He indicated with a forepaw down a corridor to the left. “I assumed as much. Arcee is in the medical bay, though I’m sure Ratchet will inform you about the rest.” The silver, blue, and maroon mech’s gaze softened slightly, much to Heatwave’s disbelief. “He was a good warrior.”

Heatwave nodded his thanks, making sure to lower his head far enough to appease the second-in-command’s pension for protocol, before scurrying down the hallway. His paws couldn’t move fast enough. Ultra Magnus knew the truth, of course he did. It only made sense that Optimus Prime’s top advisors were informed of that after his demise. Did Heatwave imagine the look of disdain in Ultra Magnus’s gaze when he saw Heatwave just now? Yeah, I’m the sorry scrap of fur that Optimus Prime decided to raise, he bitterly thought.

In the medical bay, Heatwave immediately scanned for Ratchet, the chief medical officer, but the old mech was nowhere to be seen.

Rustblade, a junior medic who was a few stellar cycles older than Heatwave, was the one who noticed Heatwave’s arrival. “Ah, Heatwave,” the slightly taller ‘bot greeted and padded over to meet him. “I’m afraid Arcee isn’t accepting any visitors, but I’ll let her know that you stopped by,” they explained before Heatwave could say anything.

“I need to see her,” Heatwave insisted regardless. He couldn’t bear the thought of Arcee managing her grief on her own. Primus, what must be going through her spark right now? She and Optimus had their disagreements, but Heatwave knew their love for each other could outlast any trial.

Rustblade grimaced. “She’s rather…adamant, at the moment,” they explained. “She…just needs time to recover.” The medic gave Heatwave a commiserating look. “I’m truly sorry about your sire. I know how close your creators were. Tailgate will be missed by us all.”

Tailgate.

He swore his spark stopped for a single beat. He felt a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. Tailgate. Tailgate is dead, not Optimus.

The world seemed to freeze around him. Optimus Prime wasn’t dead. But Tailgate was. Heatwave felt a mixture of relief and grief simultaneously. He was reassured that his guardian was still alive, but he also felt tremendous sorrow about Tailgate’s death. Tailgate, the friendly mech who always had a jovial smile every time he saw Heatwave. Tailgate, who readily played with Heatwave and Bumblebee when they were sparklings no matter how exhausted he was. Tailgate, who gave him rides on his back and affectionate nuzzles during his youth. Tailgate, the mech who Heatwave sometimes guiltily wished was his real sire.

He was gone.

While no one specifically claimed that Tailgate was Heatwave and Bumblebee’s sire, everyone knew he was close with Arcee, his work partner. Arcee never openly claimed Bumblebee and Heatwave as her own. She was occasionally openly affectionate with both younglings, unlike Optimus who purposefully kept his distance. Heatwave knew that Arcee and Tailgate were close partners and their relationship never strayed from work. Without any clear statements from either party, ‘bots must have put two-and-two together after noticing Arcee’s sporadic affection towards the two mechlings.

Rustblade must’ve interpreted Heatwave’s apparent silence as grief, because the junior medic gently rested a tail against his flank in comfort.

Heatwave eventually found his voice. “What…what happened?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Rustblade shook their head. “It’s…it’s not my place to say.” They sighed. “She just needs time, I think. She wouldn’t even accept Optimus Prime’s visit earlier.”

Heatwave perked up. “Optimus was here?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice. Maybe his guardian was still around.

“Yes, he visits the wounded occasionally for moral support,” Rustblade explained thoughtfully. “Primus knows that it certainly helps.”

Makes sense, Heatwave thought. Optimus was most likely using it as a cover to check-in on Arcee without showing any favoritism. “Is he still around?” he asked.

Rustblade shrugged. “Not sure. I see him occasionally throughout the base, but I’m certain he’s busy as always.”

The red mech felt conflicted. Part of him longed for reassurance from his guardians. He felt like a sparkling again, yearning for their voice and comforting spark-beats to ease his own worries. Despite his intentional distance, Heatwave always felt consoled by their presence.

He erased those thoughts from his mind. Primus, he was nearly an adult and here he was, yearning for his guardians like a sparkling! Graduation was approaching, and he wasn’t a sparkling anymore. What was his mind even suggesting? That he ask around the base for their leader, Optimus Prime? Utterly ridiculous. Their leader was obviously busy, as Rustblade mentioned. He’s always busy, Heatwave sourly gloomed.

“Alright, thanks,” Heatwave contumely huffed out. He tried and failed to hide the bitterness from his mew. This is a waste of my time. He began to turn to leave the medical bay when Rustblade stopped with him a forepaw on his shoulder.

“Heatwave.” The junior medic appeared nervous. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your sire died defending the Autobot cause.”

He thought back to Rustblade’s earlier words. “…and Arcee witnessed it, right?” The medic didn’t say that she was injured. Heatwave only assumed that the reason his guardian was refusing visitors was because she was drowning in her own despair. They were both similar in that way, both preferring to deal with their emotions alone. Rustblade didn’t reply, but their sullen expression gave Heatwave all the answers he needed.

As he walked away, Heatwave tried to recall his memories of Tailgate. The Rescue Bot cadet would mourn the warrior’s death. Even if his guardians were busy with the war, Tailgate always spared a moment to play with Heatwave and Bumblebee. He wondered if Arcee and Optimus were aware of that open assumption. Did the silver-and-blue mech know the truth about Arcee’s relationship? If he did, was Tailgate purposefully posing as their sire to protect them?

He felt a chill rustle through his pelt. Was that why Tailgate was killed? To purposefully hurt Arcee?

The questions plagued Heatwave’s mind as he returned to Polyhex.

Chapter Text

"Quickshadow?" It was Heatwave, and Quickshadow berated herself for not realizing that the Rescue Bot leader was missing from the group. He must have arrived separately on his own from the rest of the team from the mainland training center.

The red mech stopped a pace away, his eyes questioningly flickering between her and the rest of the group. Around the corner, the rest of the Rescue Bots were happily mingling with the Burns family for their weekly Sunday get-together. Already she could hear hearty laughter and pleasant chatter from both ‘bot and human alike.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Everything is fine," Quickshadow succinctly replied, perhaps a bit more sharply than she intended. Heatwave’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Blast, he noticed. "Just taking some time to mentally catalogue that everything is as it should be." Her excuse flowed easily over her tongue. Masking herself felt like second nature.

Unfortunately, Heatwave didn’t look convinced. Her pelt prickled with apprehension. She only joined their team a few months ago and still wasn’t quite sure about Heatwave and the others. Sure, they were nice and friendly, but she would consider them pleasant acquaintances. Amicable teammates, as they worked together to build the training center’s final structural details and curriculum.

"Sorry for being blunt, but I’m not buying it," Heatwave insisted as he sat down. "What’s wrong?" he asked again, his tone gentle yet firm.

She felt a flicker of irritation wash throughout her pelt, both at herself and at Heatwave. "Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong for you to worry about—"

"Quickshadow, you’re my teammate, and I’m your leader," Heatwave interrupted resolutely, though there wasn’t a trace of anger in his mew. "It’s my job to worry about everyone."

There was an uneasy silence between them as they reached a stalemate. After several long moments, Heatwave glanced at the rest of the team in the distance. They were still chatting harmoniously and hadn’t noticed them yet. "Is it about them?" he quietly asked.

She felt her pelt burn with shame and frustration at his correct guess. She huffed, looking away from his earnest gaze indignantly. Quickshadow paused, and slowly her scowl morphed away. "It just seems so…" The words tumbled out of her before she even realized it. Quickshadow trailed off before she could say much more. Primus, who was she even to confide in him? She felt like a fool that Heatwave saw through her illusion.

Yet she was utterly shocked when Heatwave seemed to guess her exact thoughts again. "Nice?" he offered gently. To her relief, there wasn’t concern or pity in his amber eyes, merely a kind understanding that caught her off guard. "Domestic, almost?" He paused again, as if reconsidering his words. "Something you think you don’t deserve?"

Her shock must’ve been obvious, because then the Rescue Bot turned his gaze back towards the others. Cody, Dani, and Blades were laughing over something while Blurr stuck out his tongue at Salvage, who gave a cheeky grin. Even High Tide looked amused from where he rested nearby, his tail-tip twitching as he watched.

"Yeah, I get that," Heatwave finished.

Quickshadow wanted to retort. Who was he to assume what she’d been through? The horrors that she’d accomplished with her own claws? The struggle between saving lives and eliminating them? Heatwave and his team spent the dwindling days of the war in stasis and perched safely in Griffin Rock! They never knew the brunt of the war like she did.

Before she could open her jaws to argue, Heatwave spoke again. "I’m not gonna pretend like I know what you’ve been through," he insisted, his voice soft yet firm. "I’m sure you have your own demons, and I know better than to even think about pressing you about them."

The red mech looked at her again. Instinctively, her mind began to whirl with possible counters to defeat him. Her stellar-cycles long training regiment kicked in without her realizing it: he was within arm’s reach. A swift kick to his forepaw which he favored—an old injury?—followed by a succinct swipe to the exposed jugular. He could be easily apprehended by then due to the drained energon—

Quickshadow mentally shook herself. No, this was Heatwave, her leader and teammate. He and his team had proven that they could be tentatively trusted.

"But to those who’ve said that you don’t deserve to be happy," Heatwave went on, "when has their word ever meant anything?"

She opened her mouth to riposte but her words died on her tongue as she reflected over his words. Her captors, her tormentors, her superiors who treated her like a weapon…she frequently dismissed their opinion, their attempts at berating her, to entice a reaction out of her, as nothing. She ignored them—every single time.

So why should this specific taunt matter?

Heatwave got to his paws, preparing to join the others. "Well, we all deserve to be happy," he said after letting her scramble with her thoughts in the silence, a curious thought on his muzzle. "That includes you too." He waited.

She rolled her eyes. Quickshadow had a feeling he wouldn’t budge on this. Without a word, she grumpily got to her paws. She expected a smug expression on his muzzle at his victory, but Quickshadow was surprised yet again by his sincere and warmth-filled smile.

"There’s more to you than it seems on the surface, Heatwave," she quietly mused as they approached the others. Blades at noticed them first and raised a paw in greeting at their imminent arrival.

"Well, it takes one to know one," Heatwave softly replied. Quickshadow wanted to ask more, but their conversation was cut short when they joined with the rest of the group.

She noticed Heatwave’s usual scowl return on his muzzle the second they arrived, a retort for Kade ready to fire without a moment to delay. His mask had returned, and the moment was over. It took her a second later than usual to slide comfortably into her own façade. She spent the rest of the evening quietly observing Heatwave, who gave no indication about their quiet conversation. She was touched yet puzzled by his display of vulnerability with her. Perhaps they were more alike than she originally thought.

Chapter Text

"That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard," Heatwave bitterly growled. He knew better than to curse at the High Council, but by Primus, this was utterly foolish! Optimus, being blamed for the Great War? His guardian had spent his entire life fighting to save Cybertron from the Decepticons. He’s heard more logic coming out of Blades and Dani when they were gushing about their latest television drama show that Heatwave didn’t bother to comprehend.

Cyberwarp took a step forward. "Be mindful of your tone, Heatwave," she warned.

He glared at her. "You dragged me all the way from Earth to hear my opinion then berate me when I give it to you," he argued. He turned his attention back to Sigil and Cyclonus, the heads of the new High Council since Cybertron’s restoration. "Optimus Prime gave up everything to save our planet. I was there. I witnessed it firsthand. Blame Megatron and his followers instead but attempting to blacklist Optimus Prime’s name is insane."

Treadshock flicked their tail. "Not everyone shares your opinion, Heatwave," the councilmember began stoically. "A majority of Cybertron’s refugees were neutral in the war. They never distinguished between Autobot or Decepticon. Well." They shrugged as if that was a minor inconvenience. "Someone has to be at fault, in their eyes."

"You want him to be a public scapegoat?" Heatwave growled, his pelt bristling. At the councilmembers’ visible confusion, Heatwave quickly prattled on. "Earth term, sorry. Point is, it’s immoral to place the blame on Optimus Prime and the Autobots!"

Sigil raised a forepaw to stop Heatwave’s tirade. "We understand your concern, Heatwave," the eldest ‘bot began. "But we speak for the will of our people, and this is what Cybertron wants. His statue that was recently erected in the memorial gardens will remain to commemorate those lost in the Great War. Other than that, there must be limited mentions of the factions that split our world apart." He exchanged a look with Cyclonus. "As the Prime’s son, we needed to know your stance on this matter before we proceed."

Heatwave’s pelt bristled again. I’m not his son! "If you think I’m going to stand in your way as his supposed heir, then don’t worry. You have nothing to worry about." He turned on his heels and began to leave the council chambers.

However, Skyjack stood in his way defiantly. "You’ll be exiled from Cybertron," she warned. Her blue eyes narrowed cautiously at the gravity of her words. "What if we need the Rescue Bots?"

"Not a problem for me. Earth is my home now," Heatwave insisted indifferently. "And we’ve been dead for thousands of years, what’s a few more?"

The blue-and-white femme refrained from moving, even as Heatwave towered over her. She glared at him. "That includes all of your teammates," she pressed.

"I’ll send you the full roster," he quickly replied. "Helper ‘bot included." He bore his teeth when she still didn’t step aside. "I’d rather extinguish my own spark than renounce my loyalty to Optimus Prime," Heatwave lowly growled.

"Let him pass, Skyjack," Cyclonus commanded from behind Heatwave. Skyjack shared a look with Cyclonus over Heatwave’s shoulder and bitterly scowled at him as she stepped aside. The red mech glared at her one final time as he left the chambers. "Let it be on the record that Heatwave and the Rescue Bots under his command are hereby banished from Cybertron—" Cyclonus’s words cut off as the door slammed shut behind Heatwave.

Heatwave felt his anger roar into an inferno. How dare they? He wanted to yowl, to scream, to loudly curse at the council for even thinking about dishonoring Optimus Prime’s name. He desperately wanted to break something, but he fought to keep his anger in check. Instead, his claws clicked as he padded away. The Elite Guard members stationed along the hallway kept an ominous watch. Heatwave knew he was on thin ice for berating the High Council. He didn’t want to give them any excuse to actually arrest him.

To Heatwave’s shock, he found Ratchet waiting for him in an empty lobby. He hadn’t seen the medic since the dedication of Optimus Prime’s statue in Iacon a few cycles ago. The usually irritable and wry chief medical officer instead looked sullen. He looked old, and that realization surprisingly worried Heatwave.

"Ratchet," Heatwave greeted. "I didn’t expect to see you here." Ratchet was a member of Team Prime and one of Optimus Prime’s closest advisors and confidants. Heatwave’s known Ratchet his entire life, and the medic was the primary physician for both him and Bumblebee as they grew up. He was family.

"The High Council requested my attendance earlier," the white-and-red mech elaborated. "I noticed you were being escorted in as I left and decided to wait."

Heatwave briefly nodded his thanks. Judging from Ratchet’s sullen expression, Heatwave could easily guess what the High Council spoke to him about. He shook his head in disbelief. "Ratchet, they’re…" He broke off. "They’re trying to erase Optimus’s legacy."

Ratchet merely gave him a pain-filled expression. "I know," he uttered. The old mech sounded defeated. "I’m assuming they gave you the similar lecture they gave me. I am prohibited from speaking about the Autobots’ role in winning the war, for myself and so many other veterans."

The red mech’s anger faded. He slumped his shoulders. "They…they can’t just do that," Heatwave argued softly. "After everything you and Team Prime did to save Cybertron? After Optimus sacrificed his spark?"

Ratchet shrugged indifferently, though Heatwave could tell how much it was bothering the older mech. "Optimus would say that it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that Cybertron is restored again."

"That’s foolishness," Heatwave scoffed.

Ratchet gave him a look that Heatwave couldn’t quite decipher. "We don’t have a Prime anymore," he insisted. "Optimus departed without naming a successor. The High Council can do as they please, just as they did before the Great War."

"Then what’s changed?" the Rescue Bot pressed.

"We are free to choose our own destinies," Ratchet went on more firmly. His blue eyes narrowed, as if Heatwave openly criticized Optimus Prime’s sacrifice. "No more caste systems. No more pre-determined livelihoods. Newsparks will no longer prematurely extinguish due to lack of energon just because of their social status. Lower ranks will no longer have to risk their lives in the pits just to feed themselves. We have a greater say in our government. We are a liberated Cybertron."

Heatwave scowled, though his frustration wasn’t at Ratchet. "Doesn’t feel like it," he huffed.

Ratchet frowned. "You could change that."

His head shot up with a snarl. "Drop it," Heatwave growled.

Instead, Ratchet went on. The older mech’s frown remained. "That’s why the High Council personally requested you, Heatwave. You and Bumblebee have every right to claim the title if you so desire. They wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t interfere."

"Stop it, Ratchet," Heatwave rumbled again. "I know that already. Don’t put the blame on me for any of this. My place is on Earth with the rescue team, and that’s final."

Ratchet held his gaze, though Heatwave could tell that the medic still quietly disproved. Heatwave looked away bitterly, not wanting to argue any further with the older mech. After a moment, the red mech softened. He didn’t want their conversation to end sourly. Heatwave gently rested his tail on Ratchet’s shoulder. "You’re always welcomed on Griffin Rock, you know," he gently offered.

The Rescue Bot was pleased to hear Ratchet’s signature scoff. "Please," he huffed good-naturedly. "As if Blades would tolerate my presence in his medical bay. At least now with Cybertron restored, you’ll finally have some proper medical equipment." His face became solemn. "No, I already have a place for me on Earth."

"With the human children?" Heatwave asked, recalling his quick visit to Team Prime’s hanger base on Earth when the war ended. At Ratchet’s nod, the Rescue Bot went on, "well, stop by for a visit then anytime. I’m sure it’ll be a lot quieter."

Ratchet abruptly sneered. "Are you trying to get me to retire?" he snarled.

Heatwave raised a paw in mock surrender. "No, of course not," he quickly insisted with a fond chuckle. "Griffin Rock is far from uneventful, but it’s…" He paused to find the proper word.

"Home." Ratchet finished for him. They shared a fond, knowing look. "I understand."

Heatwave gently nuzzled Ratchet behind the ear in a rare embrace. So much has changed in the past few cycles, but Heatwave knew that he and Ratchet would remain firm. They would honor the truth of Optimus Prime’s sacrifices to save their world.