Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Bullshit,” the gruff robotic voice echoed across the uneven rubble of the desolate cybertronian planet, as if responding to a bitter argument. “They ain’t doing anything different than what was going on before the war.” Large, oil-stained mechanical hands grasped a rusted metal plate, snapping it with brute strength. The piece tumbled down the hill that led out of the small artificial grotto, colliding with other piles of scrap outside, kicking up dust that settled onto the crimson frame of the first bot as he shifted debris aside.

Knucklebrass had been scavenging for metal scraps for some time now. Since the end of the war, the Decepticons had scattered, and survival was all he had left. As a low-ranking tech and occasional field medic, he wasn’t important enough to be hunted—by Autobots or by the broken remnants of the Decepticons.

His days were simple: find just enough energon to make it through, gather the scraps needed to repair his weapons or cobble together new ones. Longfuse, a hulking frontline bot, insisted on tagging along on these scavenging runs. He could have stayed behind, snoring in some half-broken shelter as usual, but instead he followed Knucklebrass everywhere.

And so the two of them wandered among the wreckage of war, looking for scraps—fitting, perhaps, since scraps were all they had become themselves.

”They act like they are on this… moral highground.”

“Well, that’s none of our business—for now,” the taller bot said. His lilac optics lingered on the remains of a damaged building, inspecting fractured steel and broken concrete for anything useful. “For now,” he repeated ominously, as if warning of a storm approaching.  
“Bullshit—that, too,” the first bot shot back, splitting a small scrap in two with surprising force. Despite his bulk, he moved with a flicker of agility, every motion driven by raw strength. “Even though I don’t want to get involved... we’re already in it, we always were” he muttered as he placed the scrap aside, narrowing his eyes as if reminiscing something unpleasant. The scars of conflict weren’t just on the planet—they ran deep in their circuits, a reminder that neutrality was a dangerous illusion in a world still trembling from war’s fallout.  
“You’re always so dramatic, KB,” Longfuse said with a relaxed exhale, settling onto a broken piece of metal. He stretched and smirked. “Maybe you should audition for the Cybertronian Theatre. You’d be a star, no doubt.” He chuckled at the unfunny joke, the sound faintly bounced around the scrapyard. Knucklebrass shot him an annoyed glare. “Shut the fuck up, Longfuse,” he aggressively snapped, though familiarity tinged his words.
Longfuse on the other hand seemed unbothered by the tone directed at him as if that was a common occurence.
Despite his irritation, he continued scavenging, the metallic scrape filling the tense silence. Then, suddenly, he froze, pistons tightening as his gaze fixed on something beneath the debris.  
Longfuse took that moment to speak again, not really paying attention to his partner’s actions. “I mean… not that we’re in that much trouble. We were lower-ranking in the Decepticons… we still kinda are… so, why should anyone come after us?” His words drifted into the air, nonchalantly.

Knucklebrass didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted a large, heavy piece of metal aside. The scrape echoed loudly as it was moved, revealing something buried beneath—pulsing faintly with an ominous glow.
Longfuse glanced and raised a brow, Knucklebrass flicked a hand to signal him to come closer. Slowly he got up and approached the other and leaned in, eyes narrowing. “What the hell is that?” he asked softly, his voice shifting from curiosity to caution. As they looked closer, the contours of the rectangular object became clearer—something akin to a massive spark chamber, almost destroyed but undeniably alive with a faint, residual glow coming from the cracks. The air grew heavier with the weight of what they might have uncovered.  
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They both knew this wasn’t just scrap—it was something ancient, something potentially catastrophic, buried deep beneath the ruins of Cybertron.

“Leave it-“ Longfuse words cut through the air as he stood beside the other but they were not heard by the other.

Knucklebrass hesitated, but his curiosity pushed him forward. Driven by reckless instinct, he reached out and fiddled with the mechanism on the chamber. Longfuse started to reach for the other’s servo but before he could stop him, the panel clicked open, exposing the hollow interior—seemingly empty,except for a small glowing spot.

A second went by as if time had stopped for both of them.

Then, in a flash, a surge of electricity shot through Knucklebrass—violent, raw, shaking him uncontrollably and making him open his optics wide. The chamber pulsed again, releasing an uncontrollable wave of energy, a shock that crackled through the air and exploded outward, illuminating the debris with frantic flashes of light. Electricity arced across the wreckage, crackling and jagged, threatening to knock the two bots off their feet.  

Longfuse made two steps backwards with his eyes locked on the now empty chamber, his optics then darted sideways to his friend.

A quick gasp escaped his vents.

Chapter Text

Even before the war was truly over, Autobots’ headquarters buzzed with activity. People darted around, their factory-based routines fueled by Optimus Prime’s leadership and his council.

Yet, somehow, the sense of urgency had waned for Blaster since the conflict’s end.

His duties of frontline communication officer, once charged with danger and excitement on the battlefield, had shifted into more bureaucratic chores. This made the super active and energetic music lover into a quite miserable ‘office worker’. It wasn’t that he disliked helping his fellow Cybertronians—far from it—but sometimes, he wondered why that damned radar still hadn’t pinged anything more thrilling than another failed Decepticon plot. Today was no different. He sat in his familiar, slightly battered chair in the communications office, a small space cluttered with blinking consoles, tangled wires, and a shoreline of holo-logs displaying incoming data streams. The walls were lined with old photos of battles long past and autographed posters of legendary music groups—his personal sanctuary amid the quiet hum of servers and the steady flicker of status lights.   He listened to music at a volume that rendered the soundproof walls nearly pointless, the familiar melodies mixing with the constant rhythm of his monitors. Wrangling mostly useless reports from across Cybertron, he kept one optic on the flashing statuses, but his mind often wandered to days when the lines of communication felt more alive.

Plus his vibrant red and yellow plating was wasted in this tight office.

He stretched with a deep, weary sigh before whipping out his Comm link.

No new messages. Of course. Everyone was busy—either outside on patrol or tucked away in their own office studios, just like him. He would be crazy to think he missed the war days... but he did miss the days when he felt more connected—the comradeship, the chaos, the thrill of being in the thick of things. Now, it was all too calm, too routine.

He felt a bit ashamed to think such things… but it was true.

Then, suddenly, a ping. A fiery red exclamation point blazed on the radar’s interface, blinking insistently as if pleading for attention from the procrastinating bot at the Comm link. Several cycles crept by before Blaster’s side view flicked over to it. He jolted backward, then surged forward, nearly tipping his chair over in surprise. He slammed his fists down on the desk, causing the holo-logs and scattered tools to rattle.  

What triggered his reaction wasn’t the ping itself… but what the statistics revealed about it.  

All the way over in the med bay a notification chimed softly in the scientist’s audial, startling Perceptor. He’d already made it clear he didn’t want anyone messaging him during working hours unless it was absolutely necessary. His annoyance grew as he flicked on the Comm link’s interface, eyes narrowing at the sender’s name. It was Blaster.

And his stupid username.

In Perceptor’s experience, Blaster was the type to call for a quick chat—just to shoot the breeze. Ugh, he thought, rolling his optics inward. Not now. He had enough on his plate without dealing with idle chatter.

<Boombox> YO  

<Percy> Shouldn't you be attending your duties right now?  

<Boombox> thats what Im tryin to do

<Boombox> come over

<Boombox> please  

<Percy> My schedule’s already tight enough as it is, Blaster. I simply do not have enough cycles to lend you or any attention to spare. Not right now.  

<Boombox> its urgent  

Perceptor distorted his mouth at the grammar atrocities and lack of punctuation in the message, glancing at the screen with a mixture of annoyance. He remembered past pleas to come over that always turned out to be a waste of time. He sighed heavily, eyes drifting over his unfinished project for what felt like a long eternity—until another notification chimed.  

<Boombox> like SUPER urgent

<Percy> Fine.  

<Boombox> thx

Perceptor let out a weary sigh as he hurriedly packed up his tools and stowed the samples of syn-energon he had been testing. After the death of Ratchet—the head medic and his close friend—during the war, most of the scientific duties and research responsibilities had fallen to him and the small handful of others still holding on in his division. Not only did he have to continue research into synthetic energon and fuel, oversee technology projects, and manage repairs, but he was also expected to attend patients in the medbay and coordinate the remaining doctors and nurses. His responsibilities were split so thin that he often found himself performing laboratory work in the medbay itself—just as he was doing now. To escape the relentless pressure, he’d sealed himself inside this small office, burying himself in work, as if mere distraction could dull the ache of loss.  

When he finally pushed open the door that led from the lab to the busy corridor, the sight of passing autobots—each preoccupied with their own tasks—caught his eye. Some called out a quick hi, but he responded in kind, hurried and brief, not stopping long enough for more than a polite nod or a curt reply. They shot him curious glances, sensing the rare departure from his usual routine. He was heading toward the communications section, his hands free of paperwork or boxes. Just a lone figure walking through the hive of motion, immersed in memories that refused to fade, his mind far away from the bustling clutter of his surroundings. After a few doors and intersections, Perceptor arrived at Blaster’s office. The unmistakable thump of human pop-disco music seeped through the soundproof steel door.

He frowned, slightly bemused—how in Primus could this bot’s audio receptors still be intact after all these years?  

He hesitated a moment, then knocked—once, twice—and even rang the bell. Cycles followed, stretching out longer than he liked. Perceptor was about to turn away when a sudden rush of air hit him, accompanied by the booming bass of the music crashing through the sealed door.  

“YO!” Blaster’s voice erupted in a loud, energetic shout—completely normal for him, but for Perceptor, it sounded like a thunderclap. He winced, raising a servo in a plea. “Might I request that you attenuate the volume of that auditory output? At its current decibel level, it is quite sufficient to induce processor strain—and potentially cause lasting damage to my auditory receptors.” he called out loudly, worried that Blaster’s receptors weren’t quite as resilient as they looked.   There was a brief pause, then Blaster exclaimed “Right!” with an exaggerated enthusiasm. He bounced backward in his chair, pressing a flurry of buttons. A moment later, the music softened just enough, and Blaster chuckled as he plopped down in his chair, eyes gleaming. He beckoned quietly, urging Perceptor to come closer, the grin on his face faded a bit to give in to a slightly worried expression.

Perceptor entered Blaster’s cluttered office with a plain, unreadable expression. He wasn’t expecting urgent news from his energetic counterpart; in fact, he walked in with nonchalance, he followed with his gaze Blaster’s servo that was simply pointing at a screen that displayed the statistics of an energy surge. He approached slowly, eyes drifting over the holographic display—graphic lines, numbers flickering with data. As he studied the display, his eyes gradually widened, and he straightened his back in surprise.

“When did you receive this?” he asked, shooing Blaster out of his chair to make room for himself. Blaster hesitated, a slightly annoyed expression crossing his face, but he edged away, giving space for Perceptor to sit. The now standing bot leaned slightly forward, pointing at the graphic that illustrated the energy levels of the surge. “Not long ago, as you can see,” Blaster replied, his voice tinged with worrying excitement. “And when I saw it… these numbers were off the charts.”

Perceptor examined the data once more, his features shifting from curiosity to disbelief as he scrutinized the figures. “Such an energon spike is anomalous. Under standard conditions, no fluctuations of this magnitude should manifest without an external catalyst.” he muttered, transferring the information to his own database with swift, precise movements. Unlike Blaster his tone was far from excited and urgency was felt as he spoke “It has not been documented in several megacycles, which renders its reemergence particularly disconcerting.”  

Blaster, eager and a little jittery, nodded and gave thumbs up. “I’m calling the big boss to investigate.” The excitement in his voice made Perceptor’s optic twitch in unease. The scientist gave him a wary, focused stare—something about the way Blaster said it didn’t sit right with him.

“What?” Blaster asked, blinking with a confused look. Perceptor simply shook his head, eyes glued once again onto the holographic chart.  

“Yeah, inform Optimus Prime,” he said, voice steady as he said the full name out loud. “As soon as possible.” 

Blaster gave a brief nod and took one final look at Perceptor before getting the data from the terminal himself. "You're not coming with?" The question lingered in the air for a while before Perceptor answered, “Not until circumstances dictate necessity,” he remarked, rising from Blaster’s chair. “I have little doubt Optimus will summon the scientific team should our presence be required on site.” After he spoke those words, he surpassed Blaster and stopped right before the door. “I am firmly of the opinion that this task falls more appropriately within the purview of the scout team… if not a larger deployment altogether.” At that, Blaster tilted his head and walked out of the door with Perceptor. Before parting ways, Blaster left a last statement: “I hope we don’t have to.” After that, he left the other to his shoulders and moved toward the council room.

With an urgent stride, Blaster approached a reinforced door and quickly pressed the button on the intercom. He waited for a few moments, foot tapping nervously on the floor, clutching the data chip in his hands as if it was going to disappear if he didn’t hold it tight enough.

Finally, with a beep, the intercom activated, and a robotic voice spoke. “What is it, soldier? We’re in the middle of a meeting.” The voice was deep and rough, laced with slight irritation—Commander Maelstrom.

A commander known for his formidable character—especially in battle. He had joined the ranks toward the end of the war and quickly made a name for himself by ruthlessly defeating multiple Decepticon battalions and even several high-ranking enemy officers. Many questioned why such an individual would stand at Optimus’s side, given that Optimus so openly disapproved of such violent methods.

“My bad, sir!” Blaster couldn’t help but adopt his usual carefree tone when talking to a superior. “But I have some important data that you need to see.” His tone shifted to a more serious one for a moment. Muffled chatter was heard briefly over the intercom before Maelstrom responded. “Come on in.” At those words, the heavy doors slid open, revealing the room beyond. It was spacious and brightly lit, thanks to a large window offering a stunning view of the partially restored Cybertronian capital, Iacon. At the center of the room stood Optimus Prime, Leader of the autobots and beared of the matrix of leadership, regal and commanding as always behind a semi-circular desk. As Blaster stepped inside, he saluted—the gesture crisp and formal. “Welcome, Blaster” Optimus said and nodded in acknowledgment, and the smaller bot’s hand fell back to his side. The two figures beside the Prime stared at Blaster in silence, as though judging his interruption.

Maelstrom, as imposing as ever in his dark purple, hulking frame, locked optics with the ex-Prime—now ground forces commander and his colleague—Hot Rod. The younger mech, all blazing orange, yellow, and red flame decals, did not look pleased in the slightest. He answered Maelstrom’s stare by folding his arms across his chest in open challenge.

It seemed like he interrupted something… important.

Feeling the pressure mounting, Blaster took a cautious step forward until he was in front of Optimus’s desk. “Sir—” he began, extending the hand holding the data chip. “Please take a look.” Optimus slowly reached out and took the chip, glancing at the two others—who promptly sat down at the sides of the semi-circular desk as if under orders without a word. In a smooth motion, Optimus inserted the chip into the holo projector. The statistics immediately appeared in front of the assembled leaders, causing them to blanch and exchange glances that lingered for a tense moment.  

“These statistics are the result of an energon spike detected in the northwest wasteland desert,” Blaster explained. “It's from what was once a battlefield territory and probably houses an abandoned refinery deposit.” Hot Rod broke the silence, eyes thoughtfully narrowing. “Not much structure around there other than the empty storage units… so this couldn’t be explained by an extraction point.” Maelstrom then added, his usual dry tone cutting in. “Indeed… but even a collapsed mine or power plant could produce such readings.”—“Although there’s not an outstanding mine in the vicinity,” Hot Rod interrupted, “That we know of.”

Optimus slowly clasped his hands behind his back as he studied the graph. One by one, all present bots subtly turned their gaze to him, waiting for a statement or a command. He let out a soft hum before speaking. “Prepare a scouting team… and ready backup, just to be safe,” he said as his eyes locked onto Maelstrom.  

The other bot responded with a nod and rose from his seat, standing to attention with his perfect, militaristic bearing. “Yes, Optimus-sir.” Hot Rod rolled his optics at the formality, but Optimus simply offered a courteous, “Thank you. We will continue later.” Without delay, Maelstrom promptly exited the room.  

Once the door closed behind him, Optimus turned back to Blaster. “Thank you for showing us these readings, Blaster.”  

The smaller bot stood in silence for a moment, pondering. Optimus was truly a prime, Blaster thought—treating everyone with unwavering respect, without exception, even enemies. That was why many newer and older Cybertronians, especially those with less pacifist leanings, disliked him. They didn’t want to extend second chances to everyone—especially not to dangerous figures like mercenaries, rogues, or ex-Decepticons. They in fact thought that Optimus was polluting the new cities with such people.

Blaster sometimes shared those thoughts, but that was also why he admired Prime’s ideology so much. Because, in the end, Prime was above everyone else in his eyes—that sense of conviction made him noble, but also different.

That is why he was a Prime, after all.

“Ahem,” Hot Rod awkwardly cleared his throat, leaning on the desk. “You are excused,” he said, addressing the daydreaming Blaster. The smaller bot jumped in surprise.

“Oh—yeah! Bye,” Blaster replied, an embarrassed blush in his tone. Hot Rod scoffed in return, it seemed like today was the wrong day to interrupt a meeting huh? Or speaking to him at all.

He quickly scurried out of the room, not particularly eager to return to his office but definitely eager to get out of this situation. He trotted down the hallway as he headed back towards the communications section, shaking his head to not think about the situation earlier.

<Percy> How did the meeting go?

The message’s notification rang in Blaster’s Audio receptors, he blinked a few times before coming to a stop in the corridor. It was rare that Perceptor messaged back or at all. Blaster stopped in his tracks for a second to answer the message.

<Boombox> fine

<Percy> Fine?

<Boombox> well yeah they sent a scouting team like we said

<Boombox> how did you know i was done?

<Percy> Optimus has just transmitted the statistical data set to the laboratory via my intercom.

<Percy> At present, we are conducting a review of the terrain surrounding the disturbance utilizing the available topographic schematic.

Blaster let out a long exhale at Perceptor’s typically scientific jargon as he started walking back to his office. He didn’t quite grasp what was going on, nor did he really want to—something about all of this made his circuits tingle with unease… as much as he wanted action. A big event was looming, or perhaps it had already unfolded, and he had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it wouldn’t bode well for any of them.

He opened the door to his office as he finally reached it and walked inside after leaving a message to the other. 

<Boombox> good luck with that.

Chapter Text

Dust billowed into the air, settling on her angular metal surface and cloaking the chameleon finish of the slick sport vehicle in a dull, white-gray layer.

The low rumble of her engine blended with the sounds of her teammates beside her—they were all in vehicle form, hurtling at high speed across the desolate landscape of the northwest ex-battleground.

The roll call had been issued just a few hours earlier, and they had swiftly departed—an eclectic mix of recruits and a handful of familiar, older faces: 3 in total.

Ultra Magnus, frontline commander, led the team; he drove a few meters in front of them in silence with his powerful red-and-blue convoy alt mode. Unlike the others, he took the report very seriously, as always. Most of them treated this simply as another uneventful scouting mission; soon enough, they would find out they were deeply mistaken.

Flicker herself was not particularly worried. She was a very new recruit to the Autobot scouting teams. Having joined practically after the war’s end, she had only trained with Mirage — a former Autobot spy who was now relegated to scouting and reconnaissance missions — and who was driving right beside her in his blue-and-white racer car alt mode. So far, they hadn’t encountered anything more than small groups of stranded Decepticons trying to stir up trouble across the planet. Flicker hadn’t experienced much of the war herself, and like many Cybertronians of her generation, she was still quite naïve.

“Approaching Coordinates” Ultra Magnus’s voice was low and firm as always—it didn’t surprise Flicker that he was the right hand of Optimus. He was always so stoic and serious about following protocols, but unlike Maelstrom, he was actually somewhat likable outside the battlefield.

Let’s just say… Maelstrom was too much.

Finally, they reached the proximity of the coordinates that were given to them. The tall ruins of pre-war Cybertronian buildings lay against what was the start of a mountainous range that stretched for some kilometers sideways, an old abandoned base or refinery probably. The whistling of the wind through the cracks was loud and was soon joined by the mechanical noises of Magnus’s transformation.

He truly was a sight to behold — broad and bulky, with turret-mounted shoulders and a face of sharp, blocky angles, his cold blue eyes capable of putting even the most rebellious cadets in line.

“It’s on foot from here.” His order cut through the air, clear as day. Soon after, both Flicker and Mirage followed with their transformations; soon after, Flicker stretched her joints.

Her form really screamed speed and flexibility; it was medium-sized, maybe a bit smaller than Mirage, with a mix of curves and sharp angles. To top it all off, she had a very strange chameleon paint job that changed tints every so often, adapting to the surroundings. Ultra Magnus glanced behind him to assure the two were ready to go forward.

With a tap on the forearm, he opened a small hologram radar that started beeping in an approximate direction that seemed to lead to an upward slope towards the mountainside.

“Eyes open.” He said, “Yes, sir.” Mirage and Flicker responded in unison. They exchanged a glance between each other as they followed Magnus’s lead.

Slowly Mirage came closer to her side and whispered, “When we get back at base, we're going to get drinks with the team. What do you think?” He smirked widely after that… Yeah, Mirage didn’t really care for this patrol; most of the time he wasn’t really the guy to get involved on the battlefield or to be serious about it, but when push came to shove, he was quite decent.

“Hmm… dunno, teach. I don’t want to clean up after your messes tonight too.” Flicker playfully responded; they did this often with the others from the scouting teams, especially after he became her mentor.

“Oh come on, we have nothing to do tomorrow, right? Other than training.” He said that with a hint of annoyance.

“Hmm… that is true, but—”

As she was finishing her sentence, they both almost crashed into Magnus’s back; it seemed like he came to a sudden halt. “If you won’t take this seriously, I will send you back, and I will add more duties to your schedule. Both of you.” As he said that, he did not turn around, but both of them could imagine his expression.

“Yes, sir.” They said it once again before following Magnus once he resumed his marching.

The more they went on, the steeper the terrain became and the narrower the alleyways between the buildings became. It seemed like this place was quite packed, and the fact that half of it was destroyed didn’t make it easier to navigate, especially for Magnus. In fact after a while he started slightly bumping his shoulderplates into the surfaces around him.

No activity was detected, as usual, and it was like that until they reached a small clearing that had a hill against the side of the mountain. The bottom of the hill was cluttered with metallic scrap that seemed to have rolled to the bottom on the dusty ground.

Magnus switched off his hologram radar that had been beeping insistently until that point, then he stepped forward with a vigilant eye. He especially looked at a particular spot: a small grotto that was partially hidden by the mountain's shadow.

Flicker would instead focus on the scraps on the ground; it seemed like someone split the bigger ones into smaller pieces, then tossed them on this particular side of the hill. The trails left by the scraps that rolled down from the grotto on top of the hill were still very defined and clear; that meant someone was there not too long ago and moved them, or something made them roll down the hill. That was enough to make her hand slowly slide over the blaster’s handle.

Mirage, in the meantime, would glance at the surroundings, not really engaged until he saw Flicker tense up. He raised a brow for a moment then he too shot a glance at the scraps, then at the grotto. 

Their suspicions were confirmed: they were not alone. A metallic sound of a small bolt or piece of scrap was heard from the small grotto, and the tip of a robotic foot could be seen peeking from behind one of the bigger boulders beside it.

Magnus would swiftly take his blaster in hand and point at the rock; he did not shoot, instead he stood there in silence for a moment. The other two also unsheathed their blasters.

“Come out with your servos visible; we won’t harm you otherwise.” Magnus’s voice was firm and deep as he commanded the stranger that remained silent as if pretending to not exist.

“We know you’re there.” The commander added, his finger slowly beginning to approach the trigger and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Reveal yourself.” His words floated in the air. Flicker and Mirage stood in standby, still and with their optics fixed on the target, floating in that never-ending moment.

Within a moment the figure slowly shifted; his head was very rectangular, and his face was completely covered: only a dark green visor and a metallic mask over his nose and mouth defined his features. It was Longfuse.

Without hesitation he aimed at Magnus. Before he could recognize who it was, he had already shot the bullet from his plasma revolver and could not take the choice back. That moment of indecision made his aim waver as the shot caught only one of Magnus’s turrets and not a vital point.

Big mistake.

Magnus grunted as his turret was damaged, but soon after, his blaster aimed at the Decepticon’s servo with scary precision, forcing him to let go of the revolver.

”FRAG-“ Longfuse shouted as he crouched behind the rock once again with his damaged left servo. Since the war’s end he had lost his precision… And now he found himself in this shitty situation, against an Autobot patrol group with that hunk of Magnus in the lead. He grunted as he looked to his side; the limp body of Knucklebrass lay still and face down on the ground. He had not woken up for quite some cycles. That was bad news. For sure.

“What the hell am I going to do now?!” He whispered and kicked his partner’s arm, and it bounced to the side; still nothing. “Wake up for Primus’s sake!”

Before he could react, fire tore through his sensory systems, and he collapsed—conscious, but immobile—beside Knucklebrass.

Both of them were slowly dragged out of the grotto by Flicker and Mirage and brought to Magnus's feet. He looked at them with a furrowed expression as his blaster was put back in its place.

”Identify yourselves.”

Longfuse’s faceplate curled under his facemask before he spoke. “Like I’m going to tell you—”

Magnus remained silent, then he glanced at Mirage, who quickly nodded, and started cuffing the unconscious Knucklebrass, his limp body was easily restrained; Flicker flipped Longfuse on his stomach and started to cuff him too.

“Hey! The hell are you cuffing us for!” He shouted with his cheek pushed against the ground, “Come on—”

“Ugh—shut up!” Flicker grunted as she struggled to keep the much bigger Longfuse down as he thrashed about. “We aren’t doing anything!”

Magnus crouched beside Knucklebrass and slid a hand on the Bot’s chassis, revealing the ruined Decepticon insignia under the thick layer of dust. “Of course you are… Let’s bring these two in for questioning.”

“Questioning what?! Get your hands off of him! We got nothing—ugh!” Flicker shoved his bulky head against the ground as Mirage came closer to the two. “Stay still!” Flicker shouted, “Before I have to put you in stasis!”

Magnus lifted a servo, signaling Flicker to release her grip on Longfuse. She sighed and nodded before letting him sit up.

“You can’t do this to us! We were just gathering scrap — for Primus’s sake!” Longfuse protested. Magnus stared at him for a long moment before adjusting something on his forearm. “Other than the illegal loitering in ex-battlegrounds…” he began, as a hologram flickered to life, displaying data on the energon spike. “You must have an explanation for this… then?”

Magnus’s inquisitive tone silenced Longfuse; he opened his mouth in surprise, then closed it again without a word.

The sudden silence was broken by the sound of the mechanical gears of Magnus’s transformation; Longfuse jolted once more as he saw Mirage approaching Knucklebrass to load him onto the trailer, he was blocked from Flicker promptly. 

As soon as Mirage grabbed the unconscious Decepticon, he grunted as he struggled to lift him up.

“Scrap is he heavy—what the frag is he made of?!” Mirage exclaimed before being interrupted by Magnus's slightly altered voice, “Language.”

Once Knucklebrass was fully loaded, Flicker turned her attention to Longfuse again. “Your friend looks injured; if you come with us without opposing resistance, we will make sure he gets the medical attention he needs.”

Longfuse stalled for what seemed like a long time. He felt humiliated — to have to bow to Autobots like this… to be abandoned by the Decepticons like useless scrap. That’s what they were to the failed Decepticon cause: useless. And to the Autobots… probably worse.

Against his will, he nodded silently. Flicker exhaled before loosening her grip on him and helping him to his feet.

“Glad we’ve come to an understanding, mister…” she trailed off as she looked at him.

Longfuse rolled his eyes in resignation.

”Longfuse.” He said before being put in the trailer next to Knucklebrass.

”Flicker.” She smiled before shutting the doors on his face.