#decision was made for me by primus | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lets-try-some-writing · 3 months ago

Note

I'm behind because you posted this like 6 days ago (when I write this ask) but when you asked if someone was asking you to make Smokescreen angst... I'm asking.

Idea: Cortical Psychic Patch. Screw with his mind and drive him insane. You may take that as you will.

Please and thank you

I know it took me like three months to answer this, but here is a 10K or so long fic to make up for the wait :D

Seriously be wary if you click read more because this is LONNNNNNG

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He shouldn't have tried to play the hero.

Strapped down to a medical berth with harsh clasps and half blinded by the lights above, Smokescreen regretted every decision leading up to the present moment. That wasn't to say he wasn't proud of himself for getting as far as he had, but he really should have listened to Arcee and Ratchet more. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have rushed to get the Omega Keys on the Nemesis of all places and promptly gotten himself caught at the last possible moment.

His plan had been to jump and use the phase shifter to escape certain death. But one wrong move later, and Megatron had him by the arm with no room for Smokescreen to squirm away. That was how he found himself in what he could only assume was either Shockwave or Knockout's workspace, strapped down and ready to be tortured, picked apart, or whatever Cons did to their prisoners.

He'd heard more than a few grizzly tales, so he was really putting his shanix on the hope that they would go for verbal interrogation over straight-up killing him. He'd gone through some basic interrogation training with the Elite Guard. He could probably hold out until the team found a way to get him out, or barring that, he might be able to squirm enough to escape. The clasps weren't impossible to worm his way out of. Sure, he would probably have to snap his thumbs to make it happen, but that's why it was a last resort.

What he was really concerned about was Megatron doing something to him. He could probably deal with Shockwave. Probably, at least if he made himself interesting. But Megatron? He doubted he would hold out longer than a few cycles. If he had to pick someone to torture and interrogate him, he was really, really hoping Starscream ended up in the same room as him. The Screamer was easy to rile up and just as simple to calm down with insults and compliments, respectively.

He could hear pedesteps coming closer. He couldn't really see because of the light, but he prayed to Primus that it wasn't the warlord.

"Smokescreen, that is your designation, is it not?" Slag it all. His luck was the worst.

A familiar, scarred face showed itself through the blinding light. Bright red optics bore down on Smokescreen with maliciousness and venom so strong it practically permeated the very air. If he lacked the training he'd gone through as a youth, Smokescreen would have crumbled under that gaze. As it was, he forced himself to frown, pushing up against his bindings in a show of rebellion and strength. He would not falter, not because of Megatron.

"What's it to you? Aren't you going to kill me now that you've caught me?" Bearing a bitter smile, Smokescreen sneered. Megatron was quick to grab his face, his cold and dangerous claws threatening to crush his jaw with strength hardly contained. Smokescreen tensed on instinct, and his well hidden fear only grew as the light was removed, allowing him to see just where he was.

Cords ran along the ground and up the cold steel walls. Purple lights flared periodically as a mech Smokescreen, recognized as Shockwave, prepared something on the other side of the room. Smokescreen was bound at a slanted vertical angle, giving him a solid view of the room while also keeping him from being able to work up the strength to snap his bindings. It was a minor form of physiological warfare that Smokescreen was familiar with.

Give a prisoner a taste of potential freedom, but keep them held on the edge, forever unable to escape but still hopeful enough to have some fight left in them. It was a method used to exhaust prisoners, keeping them more docile over long periods of time. Smokescreen was not thrilled to think about the possibility of being held captive for any length of time. But from the looks of it, Megatron had plans.

"I considered the idea, even indulging in the thought. But I believe I've found a better use for you." Megatron smiled, and by Primus, that set Smokescreen on edge. It was hard to keep up his rebellious outward appearance when the scourge of Cybertron was grinning like he'd just won a million shanix.

"You aren't well trained enough to bother recruiting. And unfortunately for you, the value you hold as an Autobot has proven less than spectacular. Optimus won't act as quickly because he knows that I know you aren't worth killing." Smokescreen wanted to be bitter over the statement, but logically, he was well aware Megatron wasn't wrong. Smokescreen was a rookie, and as it stood, his usefulness was limited. When push came to shove, he wasn't as valuable as the other members of the team, at least on the surface. Knowing Optimus, the Prime would be quick to try and get him back, regardless of his value.

"I could hand you back over in exchange for the relics I know your Autobots house. But I think this opportunity would prove far more valuable.” Smokescreen watched Megatron like a cornered animal. It took all his strength to not tense up or flare his plating as the warlord finally released his jaw, instead opting to stand with his slag eating grin proudly displayed.

“You can’t make me talk.” His voice wavered slightly, despite his best effort. The warlord in front of him merely grinned wider, his optics bright with mania.

“I don’t need to. In fact, I don’t want you to.” Smokescreen's fuel lines practically froze as Megatron chuckled, standing back to his full height with all the regality of a monarch. If he weren't the leader of the Decepticons, Smokescreen might have been able to find it in himself to appreciate the stance the warlord had.

“Shockwave. Begin preparations for the cortical psychic patch.” Fear roared in his spark as he tugged on his bindings. He didn't know everything about the patch, but he'd heard rumors. He wouldn't allow himself to give Megatron any information. He'd rather take his chances leaping off the edge of the Nemesis than let his mind be tampered with.

“You bucket helmed piece of slag! I won’t give you anything!” He struggles against his bindings, his wrists and ankles burning with the effort. He fought with all his might, trying to thrash. All it earned him were a few scuffs that ached with every movement.

“Good. Then you will have more to give to your new master.” No, no, no. He wouldn't serve the Decepticons. He wouldn't give them anything, not even the color scheme of Optimus's windshield.

“What?” His voice shook and his door wings, pressed awkwardly as they were against the slab, twitched in response to his growing fear. This wasn't what he was trained to handle. How could he fight against someone tampering with his processor? That sort of thing only happened before the war with the old Council of Cybertron.

“Optimus Prime, my ancient nemesis. He claimed he had no interest in accepting the Matrix. I remember quite vividly how he denied any desire to take it.” Megatron met his terrified gaze with a smirk worthy of Liege Maximo himself. Smokescreen could only watch in horror as Shockwave, now visible at the far corner of the room, prepared a series of needles and cords.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Keep him talking. If he could just keep Megatron talking, maybe he could still get out of this.

“Optimus claims he does not want to be seen as a god. He preaches that he is a mere mech, despite the relic he carries. He despises the worship of the faithful. Truly a humble mech to the bitter end.” Megatron's gaze felt like a hot iron against his plating. Smokescreen wanted to run, he wanted to phase through the walls and into the ground, where it was safe. And yet, he could do nothing except shake faintly as Megatron circled him, his clawed digits running along the slab that bound Smokescreen in a threatening manner.

“And yet, he took the Matrix anyway. He never even considered stepping aside so that real change could be enacted. We all would have been so much better off if he’d put down his arrogance and allowed those more suitable to step up.” The screech of Megatron's claws tearing through metal assaulted Smokescreen's audials along with the sheer venom in his captor's voice. For a moment, he couldn't vent. He expected white hot pain to overwhelm him, but when he worked up the courage to look, he saw that Megatron's claws were dug into his slab, not his plating.

“He took on a role he was never meant to fill, and now he heralds himself as a leader, a commander, and a vessel for ancient wisdom. And yet, he refuses to take responsibility for all he’s brought upon himself. He won’t accept the praise of the faithful like a good puppet-Prime. But he also refuses to silence the whispers about his supposed divinity.” One by one, those claws pulled out of the slab, leaving terrifying gashes in their wake. Smokescreen had to fight back the urge to cry out in terror as Megatron's voice edged into something even darker. He was practically seething as he ranted. Smokescreen could hardly understand all of it.

“He stole a station he was never meant to take. Maybe he did it to spite me and is now too devoted to back down. Perhaps he truly thought, in his naivety, that he was better suited for the role. Whatever the case, I will abuse his humility. I will make him pay for taking the place that was rightfully mine.” Megatron's arms rose to the skies, almost as though he were preaching to a crowd. His back was to Smokescreen, but his words were still just as cruel and wicked. He spoke Iaconian common for Smokescreen's sake, but it was so heavily layered with Kaoni subglyphs that Smokescreen could sense every last iota of emotion.

Megatron was truly bitter. It had been generations since the start of the war, and still Megatron was clinging to an ancient conflict. Smokescreen wouldn't dare claim to understand it all, but he knew for a fact that Optimus was a better Prime than the crazed warlord ranting before him. It didn't matter if Optimus got the Matrix through underhanded means, he'd long proven himself worthy of the title in Smokescreen's mind. The fact that Optimus refused worship merely showed his humility and devotion to the cause. He expected nothing, save for the cooperation of those around him.

A true Prime did not enslave. A true Prime was kind and commanded respect through actions, not words. Optimus didn't need to be worshiped. He had long since become a mech worthy of respect far exceeding the bounds of religious bindings.

“He will become the thing he sought to escape, and you, guardsmech, will be the key to all of it.” Smokescreen gawked as Shockwave began to gather up the cords he was working with. Megatron grinned in a convoluted fashion, almost as if he'd already won. What were they planning? What could they possibly want, if not information?

“I won’t do anything for you! Never!” He thrashed against his bonds again. It did nothing but prompt Megatron to laugh.

“Struggle as much as you want. It will yield you nothing. In the end, you will make Optimus squirm and drown in his guilt.” Megatron stood like royalty, but to Smokescreen, he looked like nothing more than a mad ghoul eager for its next hunt. Smokescreen would rather die than betray his team and Prime. Whatever Megatron had planned, it could not be allowed to succeed.

“The patch is prepared, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave approached the Lord of the Decepticons, a threatening series of cables in his servo. Smokescreen could see a needle on the end of one, likely meant to stab directly into his processor.

“Excellent. Begin uploading the simulation schematics. I want him fully engrossed in it until Optimus agrees to a conference.” A simulation? Were they going to try and turn him into a Con or something?

“Optimus won’t ever surrender to you!” He flailed, fighting desperately enough to tear his armor around his wrists as he fought to be free. He wouldn't become a weapon. He refused to become a tool for Megatron to use.

Despite how hard he tried to get away, it wasn't long before part of his slab was removed, leaving his helm exposed from the back. He tried to move, but he could do nothing except bite back a scream as something sharp and painful jabbed directly into the back of his helm. Coolant threatened to gather in his optics as his systems were thrown into overdrive, trying to find the source of the problem to little avail. All the while, Megatron continued his mad monologue.

“The Primes of old were heralded as gods. The Primacy was devoted to their every wish and fancy.” The warlord paced, his sickening smile still ever present. Smokescreen could feel a faint buzz at the back of his mind—the beginnings of the patch's work, no doubt.

“It is ancient history now, but before the war began, every Prime was given devotees who were meant to serve them.” Smokescreen's optics trailed the leader of the Decepticons, observing with growing horror how much emphasis Megatron put on the word, 'serve'. Just what was Megatron hoping to make him into?

“Mecha personally trained to meet their Prime’s fancies.” No. No, Megatron couldn't be trying to change him. Information fishing was one thing. But changing his mind?

“Warriors brought low through humiliation and submission so that their will could become an extension of their Prime.” This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't succumb to Megatron's twisted will. He had to keep himself composed.

“The most loyal and submissive servants. Just the kind of subordinate Optimus fears and despises in equal measure.” Megatron loomed over him, his gaze knowing and expectant. Smokescreen wanted to spit curses, but everything was starting to feel fuzzy, almost as though he were drifting into recharge.

“He fears becoming corrupt if given such devotion.” Twisted laughter bubbled in Megatron's vocalizer. His amusement rang out in the air as Smokescreen frantically tried to keep coolant from gathering in his optics. He couldn't show how scared he was, even though his shaking door wings betrayed him.

“Let’s see if his fears become reality.” Red optics glared down at him, demanding results. Smokescreen wanted to cry. Torture, interrogation, and suffering of all kinds—he could endure those. But changing his very core? His mind and his beliefs? How was he able to withstand that?

“The processor is a delicate organ. Despite how firmly sentient species claim to be unchangeable, a certain degree of stimulus can alter the very core of a Cybertronian’s personality.” Shockwave's clinical voice echoed in the space as Smokescreen's vision began to fade. He wanted to scream, to do anything. But his frame was sluggish, and darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

“I intend to test a few hypotheses and see how long you can withstand the conditioning I’ve prepared.” Shockwave's sickening statement was the last thing he heard before the world faded away, leaving Smokescreen in darkness.

----

“Smokescreen, wake up.” A gentle voice called out to him in the darkness. Deep, but soothing. Amidst the sensation of slow wakefulness, Smokescreen could hear what sounded like a choir, singing in Ancient Cybertronian. Their words were strange, but they worked with such skill that they sounded almost exactly how old recordings of the Primacy Temples made the priests out to be during services.

"Wake, my chosen." Smokescreen's optics began to come online, a cold stone floor greeting his frame as he groaned and pushed himself up. His processor ached, but he paid it little mind as he started to come to awareness.

He was... in a Temple. He'd never had the chance to go into one before coming to Earth. The Temples had long since fallen, leaving nothing but their ruins as a stark reminder of the glory of the old world. But this place was not in disrepair. If anything, it looked as though it had just been built. Blue and gold walls arched around him, grafting into shapes he could hardly comprehend as they turned into a domed roof. Pillars covered in ancient crystal growths towered high into a ceiling that faded into a sea of stars. It could have been painted, but Smokescreen honestly couldn't tell.

The entire place was warm, with light coming from stained glass windows along every wall. Each depicted a Prime, every one of them holding the Matrix with solemn expressions. Despite the gloom of the ceiling, the Temple was not dark. Not in the slightest. Instead, it was lit by a great stained glass window that took up the entire front wall. The mighty work of art was stunning. Each piece of glass carefully placed to create an image of Optimus Prime himself held in Primus's servos, the chosen of their world's god.

"Come, my chosen. Let not the darkness of your thoughts distract you." The voice called out again, and this time, Smokescreen saw the speaker. Standing on a dias just below the great window was... Optimus. The Prime was stunning. His armor was perfectly polished and his plating tended to with expert precision. He looked healthy, no longer weary from war. His red and blue paint stood out like stars amidst the hues of the Temple, drawing Smokescreen's attention.

The Prime was covered in gold markings, the script of Ancient Cybertronian. He was adorned in similarly colored ornamental armor, with accents that ran along his audials to give him small angelic wing shaped attachments. More such pieces crept along his chassis, emphasizing his open spark chamber where the Matrix shone, pulsing faintly. A cape fell from Optimus's shoulders, segmented and made of precious metals much like Alpha Trion, before his fall.

Optimus looked like a god.

And for that reason alone, Smokescreen knew that this being was not his leader.

“I call upon you to serve.” The fake Optimus held out a servo, a pleasant smile upon his perfectly sculpted features. He looked so gentle and yet so stern all at once, truly the embodiment of Primus's chosen. The fake was nothing like the leader Smokescreen knew. Optimus bore scars just like everyone else. He was weary, just like them. He was still just a mech, no matter the origin of the relic he bore. He was not a god, nor did he parade himself like one.

“You aren’t real.” He spoke softly, almost afraid that the moment he uttered his thoughts aloud, Megatron's plan would leave him in agony. Whatever all this was, it was the work of the patch. It wasn't real, no matter how real the cool stone felt beneath him or how warm the gaze of the fake Prime seemed.

“You deny me?” Optimus tilted his helm ever so slightly, a sad frown upon his features as he slowly began to descend from his place. Light emanated from him in such a way that it almost seemed as though he had wings as he carefully made his way down each and every step leading to his dias. His pedesteps were feather light, nothing like the heavy treads of his leader. Yet another difference to focus on.

“You aren’t Optimus. You aren’t my Prime.” Smokescreen got to his pedes shakily, unintentionally shrinking back as the light of the fake Prime drew nearer. It was intoxicating, but so very foreign. He wanted to flee, and at the same time, he wanted to bask in it. What the frag was wrong with him? It wasn't real. None of it was.

“Retract your declaration and come to my light. You need not be punished by the divine.” Optimus, still appearing saddened, paused a few steps away, watching Smokescreen with optics that glowed both blue and white, the hidden essence of the divine. He seemed genuinely upset, not angry, just... sorrowful.

Smokescreen bit his glossa softly, trying to give himself something to focus on aside from the being before him. The fake Prime wasn't threatening, if anything, he seemed loving. But that was what set Smokescreen on edge. It was so very wrong. All of it was wrong.

“You. Aren’t. Real.” He fought to force out the words, trying to not let the look of hurt on Optimus's face phase him.

“My chosen, how can you not see the light before you? Does my divinity blind you so much that you are incapable of reason?” The fake Optimus held out his arms, his optics sad and pleading. His field extended, wrapping around Smokescreen in a comforting manner that merely served to make his plating crawl.

"Stop it! You aren't, Optimus! He's like the rest of us! Not angelic or perfect! Optimus isn't a god!" Smokescreen screamed, desperately trying to step back but only managing a few steps as the fake Optimus allowed his arms to drop to his sides. The exposed fake Matrix pulsed, its light covering Smokescreen like some sort of mark. The chanting of the priests he hadn't even noticed began to die down as Optimus looked down to the ground, the winged audial attachments showing themselves as he did so.

"Of course I am not a god, I am merely a vessel for the one and only. How you see me now is only made possible through Primus's touch. Without him, I am made weaker, more weary." The fake Optimus traced his false Matrix lovingly, a faint smile on his face as the relic blazed with unnatural power. Smokescreen tried to activate his in-built blasters, but his frame would not obey him. He was trapped, watching as the fake Prime spread his arms wide, in a mockery of an embrace for all creation.

"Primus suffers under Unicron's tainted blood, and for that reason, I bear the marks of mortality." The fake Prime's form shifted for a moment, showing the Prime Smokescreen knew. World weary, tired, and so very wise. For a klik, Optimus Prime, as he knew him, stood in the light of the great window, no longer basking in the strange innocence of the fake Prime's false divinity. This Prime was exhausted—an angel who'd long since had his wings cut away.

"But do not mistake my outward appearance for my true essence. This is what Primus intended for me, and my will is his. I desire only to protect his precious children and bring them home." The Prime spoke, and the illusion was broken as the fake returned to its previous form, glittering and without even the slightest imperfection.

"Shut up! You are just a simulation!" Smokescreen tried to yell, raising his voice above the soothing buzz at the back of his mind demanding his submission. He shook, trying desperately to force himself to leave, to think, to do anything other than give in.

"Smokescreen, has the brokenness of my mortal frame deceived you so much?" Again, the fragging false Prime put on a facade of sorrow, his optics glittering with so much pain that Smokescreen could have momentarily believed that the fake truly did carry the weariness of an entire world. His servos were held out in a pleading manner, begging Smokescreen to return to him.

Smokescreen didn't so much as twitch. He glared. The false Prime sighed.

"Neverthematter, I will not abandon you, my dear chosen. Primus did not cast me away in my foolish unbelief, and I have no intention of leaving you to wallow in the shadow of lies woven by those of mortal make." The false Prime stepped back, allowing shadows to creep over the windows. The faint whipping of wind and the crash of thunder echoed throughout the Temple, all light dying, save for the glow the false Prime emitted.

"See that which awaits you. See a world without my light." The false Prime raised his servos, cupping the Matrix and meeting Smokescreen's gaze as everything grew darker and darker, leaving only Optimus to light the way.

Then, with a sad smile, the Prime stepped into shadow, vanishing.

Smokescreen was left in darkness, his optics were his only light.

He took shaky vents, trying to stay calm and reminding himself that the whole scenario was fake. Megatron was just trying to mess with his mind. So long as he kept calm, he was going to be fine. He just had to vent and walk, keeping his focus on his mission.

Stay sane. Stay focused. And keep Megatron from winning long enough for the team to get him. Simple enough, right?

He walked carefully in the gloom, expecting to hit pews or to see even the barest hint of the Temple windows. Instead, he walked through rubble and destroyed structures. It was almost pitch black in many places, but in others, he caught sight of a world filled with gray. Not a hint of life was to be found anywhere, although more than once he saw what remained of corpses, long since left to rot.

He liked to think he had a firm resolve, but as he walked, he found himself growing more and more... lonely. It never seemed to end, the gloom just continued on and extended into the void. He almost purged when he came across the corpse of a youngling, perhaps no more than a deca-cycle old, crushed beneath a building. Their expression was agonizing, and Smokescreen was only able to continue walking along in growing unease.

The dark was suffocating, and no matter where he wandered, it seemed to grow denser. Towering buildings lay in ruins. Great statues were brought low and left to be claimed by the shadows all around him. Smokescreen was the only living being left, and no matter how much he called out, nothing ever met his cries. More than once, he thought one of the corpses might have still been a living person, but each time, he was met with disappointment.

He didn't know how long he wandered in the dark, moving through cities inhabited by the dead. But eventually, his limbs began to burn and his mind started to unravel. He was alone, so very alone. He knew it was fake, but there wasn't anything for him to cling to. No plants, no animals, not even stars. All he had was the gloom and the bodies of mecha long since left to be taken by time.

Kliks, groons, cycles... he wasn't sure how long he wandered. He tried lighting a fire, but he had no kindling, and when he tried to cut his digit and use his own energon to create a temporary burst of flame, he found it wouldn't light. The energon glowed, taunting him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, clutching the ash and dust beneath his pedes. He hated to admit it, but he missed the fake Optimus's light. He missed the warmth and the kindness shown to him. He despised the creeping cold and the eternal gloom.

“Smokescreen, you need not linger here. Come with me, enter my light, and be free of this grim place." Light entered his vision, a blessed light breaking the never-ending darkness. The fake Prime stepped forward, glittering and perfect as always. His expression was soft, like a mentor looking upon their foolish student. He did not kneel, but he leaned down, offering his servo with a hint of a smile.

It was welcoming, almost like being brought home. But Smokescreen could not falter, he had to remind himself again and again that none of it was real. This fake was not his Prime, no matter how kind he seemed.

“You aren’t real!” Smokescreen covered his audials, not wanting to listen for fear that his resolve would crack. He could handle the darkness. He had to. Just until the team saved him from this wretched place...

“This you proclaim with such dedication. Why must you stay in this world of darkness and gloom? This place is for those who turn away from Primus. I know you are capable of returning to him. I know you can still change.” The fake Optimus reached out, cupping Smokescreen's face with servos so strong and yet so kind. It made him sick, but he didn't have the will to pull away. It was so warm, so bright and safe.

“Shut up.” His voice shook, his servos clutching his audials tighter to drown it all out. He couldn't succumb. He had to be strong.

“It will only get worse. Let me guide you. Come into my light, come unto the divine and I shall protect you from the darkness.” The fake Optimus leaned closer, his light wrapping around Smokescreen like a shield. He almost sobbed in relief as the chill of the dark, which he hadn't even noticed, began to flee his limbs. He wanted to beg the fake to stay with him, to keep him warm and away from the gloom.

But he couldn't. The fake wasn't real. None of this was real. There was no salvation to be found in Megatron's curated dystopia.

“Leave me alone!” He tore himself away from the false Prime, throwing himself onto the ground in an attempt to keep from giving in. His body ached, the cold seeping back into his tired limbs. Looking back, the fake Optimus stood there sadly, his perfect face contorted into something worthy of tears if the false divine had the capacity to cry.

“Very well.” Turning away, the false Prime vanished into the gloom once more. Smokescreen was, once again, left alone. But before he could act, his vision faltered and the world fell into a mess of code and pixels.

-----

“The subject is showing surprising levels of resistance.” Smokescreen gagged, his helm ached and his optics couldn’t properly process the visual data around him as he was dragged from the world of dark he had come to know. Everything was hazy and his entire frame felt distant, not quite painful, instead like an unbearable itch was crawling along his plating in waves.

The light above him was blinding and cold as he struggled momentarily against his bindings. He tried to cycle his optics and see, but all he could pick up with the warped forms of Megatron and Shockwave working away on the other side of the room.

“Integrate an external threat. Some warriors can withstand solitude, but I doubt the guardsmech can endure being hunted while entirely alone.” Smokescreen could almost hear Megatron’s cackle in his words. He wanted to act, but everything felt sluggish and out of place, almost like he’d just woken up from stasis lock all over again.

“Very well. Artificial fear response protocols will be injected into the subject and the Prime simulation will continue when the subject shows sufficient mental weakness.” What was going on? Smokescreen’s optics burned and all he had the power to do was shutter them as he heard Megatron approaching. It was all a simulation. He had to keep being strong. He didn’t want to think, he only had to act.

“Fight as much as you like guardsmech. It will make your fall all the sweeter.” He didn’t see Megatron’s expression, but he could feel claws running along his chassis in a threatening manner. It took all his power to not cry in fear as his senses started to fade and the patch again activated.

-----

Smokescreen awoke with a gasp, his frame shaking as he frantically felt the ground. It was dark, with only his optics lighting the space around him. He tried to process what Megatron had said when he was momentarily pulled from his living nightmare, but the knowledge faded away like a distant dream as suddenly, he heard things in the gloom with him.

He heard creatures that scuttled in the dark, dozens of terrifying legs clattering over lifeless ground. He was no longer alone. Now... he was being hunted.

“It's not… real.” He tried to comfort himself as he walked, tripping and stumbling over obstacles as his exhausted frame struggled to keep going. Every time he faltered, the things in the dark drew closer. Even with the light of his optics, he could never see them for long, always obscured by the gloom.

He couldn't help it when coolant finally fell from his optics, rolling down his cheeks as he frantically tried to keep moving. The things kept getting closer and closer, sometimes so close he could feel them running past his pedes or caressing his legs as he stumbled along. He was terrified, and his terror only grew with every passing moment.

It didn't feel fake anymore. He was scared and no matter how much he tried to remind himself to be strong, he couldn't help but sniffle and wish that the false Prime would come back and take him away from the things in the dark. He didn't dare utter his silent wishes aloud, at least not until the monsters in the gloom started to become more bold.

He could never see them, but soon enough, they began to claw at his plating. It was never anything serious, a cut here, a scratch there. They whipped around him, hissing, growling, and laughing as they prodded at him, toying with his mind. Smokescreen tried to find high ground and activate his blasters. But no matter how hard he tried, the creatures always followed, and his frame refused to obey him.

He cried in the darkness, finally tripping and falling to the ground shaking like a sheet of tin. The creatures crept closer, threatening to have their fun before even giving Smokescreen the mercy of death. He sobbed, clawing at the ground as he tried to pull himself along. He crawled, lighting his path with his coolant-hazed optics, as the creatures nipped and bit him.

“Primus, Lord below, to you will give our sparks and sight. May our optics bring forth your light.” Desperation left him singing an old prayer from his time with the Elite Guard. He was never particularly faithful, but left alone in the dark with things that hunted him, he wanted to have faith; he wanted to believe. His helm buzzed and his mind felt like it was made of static. All he had was his terror and his frantic pleas to a god who may or may not have been listening.

"Primus, please, save me from this place." His words were choked as prayers made way for a desperate plea. He curled up, clutching his helm as he cried into the void, dust and ash seeping into his vents and seams. He wanted it all to be over. Why couldn't the team save him? Why weren't they faster?

“I am here, my chosen. You only needed to call for me.” A soft warmth entered his tired limbs. Light filled his vision, and the creatures of the dark fled before the divine glow of the Prime before him.

“You aren’t real. None of this is real.” He murmured despite the relief that flooded him. His very spark seemed to ache as again, the false Prime offered a servo. Smokescreen could feel himself being lifted, held against divine armor and cradled like a youngling fresh from the Well. Despite his protests, it was comforting.

“Child, you cause yourself more pain this way. I carry Primus’s light. Let me share it with you.” Optimus carried him out of the darkness, back into the Temple so full of light that Smokescreen couldn’t help but sob in sheer relief for a moment. As he was deposited on the ground, he curled up, basking in the glow of the space.

“Stop. Don’t talk like that.” He covered his audials again, trying desperately to drown it all out. Why did it have to feel so nice basking in Optimus’s presence? Why did it all have to feel so real?

“You have seen the darkness in which you still suffer, and yet you refuse salvation?” The Prime stared at him, his optics showing nothing but pity. Smokescreen despised it, and yet he couldn’t pull away from Optimus’s light. He didn’t want to be cold or hunted. When Optimus was around, it was safe, even if that safety was fake.

“I don’t need any salvation.” His words sounded hollow even to his own audials. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t understand what was going on or what Megatron was trying to gain, or rather, what Optimus was attempting to gain. Why was Smokescreen forced to endure the dark? He didn’t understand…

“I hate to do this. I despise using suffering to showcase truth.” Optimus sighed, his angelic form comforting even as the Temple darkened again. Smokescreen prepared himself for the dark world he had been cast into, but somehow, what greeted him was far worse. The Temple was still alight, but the colors were all off. The golden morning light was replaced by the harsh light of dusk. The walls of the Temple shone, their biolights flashing red in warning. The painted sky above was dark and hollow, no longer comforting in the slightest. It was all the same, yet so different.

It frightened him, and looking at Optimus, he saw the Prime take no joy in his suffering.

“You have seen a vision of the doom that awaits you. And yet you reject Primus and his chosen.” Priests came forward from unseen halls, their frames covered in ceremonial robes. He saw each of their faces, but he couldn’t recognize or remember them as they hummed a haunting hymn. They circled around him, each watching Smokescreen with white, almost sickly optics.

“This cannot stand.” Optimus’s voice rang out clearly, sending a bolt of terror through Smokescreen’s frame. He looked at the Prime, seeing a true frown of displeasure for the very first time. It frightened him, so much so that he could hardly force himself to speak.

“What are you-?” He didn’t have time to speak before the priests forced him to his knees with strength they shouldn’t have had. One at a time, they began to pull on his plating. He tried to stifle his cries of pain as armor was forcefully removed, one small plate at a time. It burned it burned it burned-

-----

“The subject’s mind is threatening to fracture without sufficient intervention.” Smokescreen’s optics blazed as he came back online, he was gasping, thrashing against his bindings as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. Where was the Temple? Where were the priests? Where was he and why didn’t it hurt anymore?

“He’s a soldier. He should be able to handle a little pain.” Megatron? Yes that was Megatron’s voice. Was he in the Temple too? Where was Optimus?

“Too much mental strain has been placed upon him. Too many new scenarios with too little time to adjust.” Through the blinding lights above him, Smokescreen could vaguely see Shockwave. He recognized that lone terrifying optic and the monotone voice. It didn’t frighten him, not nearly as much as the dark did at any rate.

“What do you suggest then?” He sensed Megatron near him. He still didn’t know how Megatron was near him, but he could feel the warlord nonetheless. It was unsettling, but it didn’t prompt panic, not anymore. The creatures of the gloom were far more frightening. At least Megatron had a face, a voice, and a presence Smokescreen could actually target.

“Reprogramming. I understand Lord Megatron wishes for the subject to break naturally, but we do not have enough time for such an outcome to take place successfully.” Smokescreen’s optics cycled, but they were out of sync. His vision was all over the place, but he could still pick out Shockwave holding up a set of strange looking needles. He’d mentioned something about time perhaps? It was hard to think.

“What would need to be altered?” Claws tapped against the back of his helm, right where the patch still connected to his processors. At that motion, Smokescreen did stiffen in terror. It was too close, far too close.

“A simple personality matrix realignment. Currently, the subject lacks sufficient religious inklination to take to the Prime simulation in such a short period of time. The subject will need to be reconfigured to be more susceptible to indoctrination.” Reconfigured? Smokescreen tried to focus on what was being said around him, but everything was so out of place. Looking over to his right, he momentarily wondered if it was because of the strange looking IVs hooked into his frame. The liquids didn’t seem right. Their colors were off.

“How long would that take?” The claws tapped again, freezing Smokescreen in place in silent terror. He almost couldn’t hear what was being said around him due to how sharp those claws seemed as they ran along the back of his helm.

“The adjustments can be made while the subject is undergoing the Prime simulation. They will be integrated as the scenario is playing out.” Shockwave’s lone optic blazed in the darkness beyond the overhead lights. To Smokescreen, it was a sign of doom to come.

“Excellent. Send him back in, I have Optimus on the line eager to hear about the status of his new devotee.” Megatron laughed. Smokescreen flailed for only a moment before his vision failed and he was again cast into the Temple.

-----

When he woke once more, Optimus remained standing a ways off, his expression settled into a distinct frown. He only had a moment of respite before the priests descended on him like rapid cyber-hounds, pinning him and returning to their gruesome work of making him in their image.

He couldn’t flail, he couldn’t fight back. The priests held him there, digging their digits under his armor and pulling away anything that wasn’t vital or attached directly to his protoform. He tried to maintain his dignity, but they were so slow, and by the time the priests started to pull knuckle plates from his digits, he screamed without restraint. It all burned, his frame felt like it’d been cut into with a million knives and all he could do was wail as energon fell from new wounds, leaving his delicate protoform exposed to the elements and countless connectivity points bleeding and stinging.

Logically, he knew it wouldn’t kill him. But every single plate torn away felt like fire was sent scorching across his very protoform. All the while, his Prime watched on, disappointed.

He remembered babbling, begging for them to stop as the priests maneuvered him to keep prying armor off of him. Sometimes they tied him to the ground; other times they would hold his helm in place so that he could see exactly what they were doing to him or so that he could witness the sheer sorrow on his Prime’s face. Optimus didn’t want this, he didn’t like seeing his suffering. If Smokescreen had only listened, this wouldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the pain started to ease, but eventually, Smokescreen was tenderly lowered to the ground, almost in a loving manner. The priests each touched his wounds, running their digits along them with hymns pouring from their vocalizers. They were the ones that tore away at him, and yet their touches were so caring. It was a blessed relief.

“None are hidden from Primus’s holy light. Your armor will not guard you, nor shall it disguise your sins.” His Prime’s voice reached him eventually, and while weakened, Smokescreen found the strength to force himself to his knees. He was laid bare before his Prime. His armor was stripped away, leaving him in protoform alone. Being like this, so open before his Prime, it felt… right. His processor screamed at him, saying that everything was a lie and that he was meant to fight. But it was all so fuzzy, like something in the back of his helm was blurring rational thought.

He didn’t mind it, not when his Prime’s light could infuse every part of his bare protoform. It was warm. So very warm…

“No longer are you shrouded in darkness. You see me for what I am. You are beginning to come unto my light.” His Prime did not smile, but he did reach out, touching Smokescreen for the very first time since he was carried out of the darkness. It felt like he’d passed a great trial, and as his Prime’s servo cupped his cheek, Smokescreen wanted to sob. Optimus’s touch filled his entire frame with warmth and a sweet buzzing sensation, almost as though he were inebriated but still more aware than ever. It was intoxicating.

“But you do not yet see your shortcomings, your sins.” Smokescreen’s spark sank as his Prime pulled away. He reached out, trying to grasp Optimus’s servo but aborting the action halfway as those powerful blue optics met his own. It was not his place. He wasn’t allowed to touch. Every fiber of his being told him so.

“Do not despair, my chosen, for at the end of the long road, you shall be ready to come unto me.” He couldn’t help the tears that fell from his optics as Optimus moved away from him, allowing priests to take Smokescreen away. Unlike when they took his plating though, they did not force him to stand; instead, they offered him the chance to move on his own.

He looked to his Prime, seeing that his frown had diminished. This was a choice, an opportunity, and a test all wrapped into one. He had to accept this trial, or be cast off. He didn’t want to endure the darkness again, especially not so exposed. Only his Prime could see him like this.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I did wrong.” His voice shook as he got to his pedes, exposed cables, and protoform tensing at the chill in the air now that he was so far from his Prime. Hearing him, Optimus smiled again. His arms spread out, as if to embrace him.

“Endure your trial, my chosen. Now that you have emerged from the dark, you must shed your impurities. Only then can you be made mine.” It sounded so very wrong, but Smokescreen nodded anyway. His mind screamed at him, but his spark flared in joy. The warmth that came from his Prime was beyond comprehension, and he would do anything to have it wrapped around him once more.

“I will do my best.” His words came out strange, almost as though he himself had not spoken them. Smokescreen didn’t care, he smiled as he followed the priests, rationality slowly being overridden by newfound purpose. He had to be clean. He had to be worthy of his Prime’s light.

He was taken to a dark room, one where only a symbol of the Primacy was carved into the wall. He was left there, alone in the gloom. But unlike the shadowed world he had been left to suffer in, this darkness instead felt defeatable. It edged in all around him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, but his optics bit back the encroaching darkness, and that gave him a sense of peace.

He prayed, his voice echoing as he struggled to recall the few songs he learned in the Guard. Whenever he stumbled, a priest would provide him with the words he was missing through the door, helping him complete the hymn. It was comforting, alone in the dark with nothing but his mind and his growing faith to shield him. Why had he feared this all so much? Once he was made better, he could serve and bask in holy light. All was going to be well.

Time blended into a strange mess of experiences and songs. Prayers poured from his derma endlessly, his chanting never ceasing. His faltering grew less and less frequent, and while his knees and back ached from his submissive posture, Smokescreen ignored them. He ignored the screams of his mind, demanding he remember.

What was there to remember? He was undergoing a trial of purity. Nothing else mattered.

“Are you insane? This is fake! It’s a simulation designed by Megatron!” In the dark, he saw himself. His counterpart screamed, his plating flared, and his optics were wide and desperate. Smokescreen frowned, watching his wilder self try and reason with him. He could almost see scrips of code run along his and his counterpart’s plating as he looked both of them over.

Smokescreen was in his protoform, open for the light of Primus to fill his very spark. His counterpart was armored, closed off, and unwilling. His voice was loud, and his temperament was unruly. He was unfitting. Seeing him, Smokescreen could almost feel the shift in his very being as those distasteful pieces of personality began to fade away. Was this truly who he was before his Prime came to him? It was no wonder Optimus had to drag him through the pits and back to make him see reason.

“Even if this place I find myself in is just a crack in reality, it has brought me to the light. Through this place, I am made whole.” He spoke simply; his glyphs layered with pure devotion as he continued to pray silently. His counterpart screamed, clutching his helm in agony, before moving closer, trying to reach out with tainted servos.

“It’s not real! Megatron is trying to turn you into a tool!” Smokescreen’s optics cycled down in distaste as his counterpart shrieked like some sort of dying animal. How undignified. His Prime would never stand for such dishonorable behavior. Optimus was his Prime, and it was only right that Smokescreen emulate him and keep such aggressive behavior to a minimum. If he was to die, he would do so in graceful silence. His counterpart should know that much.

“If a tool is what he seeks, then he shall find none here. I am devoted to my Prime.” He returned to his prayers, trying to block out all of the distasteful aspects of the mech before him. His counterpart screamed again, his form flickering. Faintly, Smokescreen could sense something changing in the back of his mind—an aspect of himself warping. Part of him wanted to fight the change, but he saw no need.

“That’s what he wants! He wants us to hurt Optimus with our devotion! Optimus is just a mech! He’s not a god, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one!” His counterpart fell to his knees, and for the first time, Smokescreen stood up. He stared down at the creature before him, pitiful and desperate, wild and untempered. Was this how his Prime saw Smokescreen when he first arrived? If it were Smokescreen who was Prime, he would have cast such broken things aside long ago.

Such mercy from his Prime. To spare him and to heal him. It was beyond admirable; it was godly.

“Our Prime is a humble being, one who is kind enough to walk among us without showing his true nature.” He remembered every instance where Optimus gave a speech to the public as the war dragged on. He’d only ever seen the videos, but looking back, his Prime was truely a merciful being. He stood before them all, wearing mortal protoform when he could shine as a true god among them. He bore pains and scars just so he could walk among them, easing them and bringing them back to him.

They did not deserve their Prime. They had taken much from him and given little in return. Smokescreen’s devotion would do little to change that, but at least he could begin to carry some of the weight of his people and their collective sin. Even one small shift could bring forth a tidal wave of faith.

“Our Prime is merciful. Our Prime is an aspect of the divine. It is only right we worship him.” Approaching his counterpart, Smokescreen stared down at his mimic in distaste. There would be no saving this one. This shell of his prior self.

“He gives us his wisdom and offers us a direct connection to our god. He is all that matters in this grim reality plagued by war.” Smokescreen quickly pushed his counterpart down, straddling the pitiful creature to wrap his servos around the thing’s neck. His counterpart thrashed as Smokescreen held it down. The thing’s door wings cracked as they hit the ground and tears fell from its optics. Smokescreen’s spark cried out within him as his counterpart met his gaze pleadingly.

“Optimus doesn’t want this. You will only hurt him this way.” His counterpart spoke softly, and for a moment, Smokescreen considered halting. What if his counterpart was right? Something in his spark told him that all of this was… somehow wrong. But that couldn’t be right. He was becoming purer. It was only natural that he would feel discomfort becoming greater than what he once was.

“Our Prime is perfect, but trapped within mortal frame, he is weighed down by sorrow. I will carry that burden. I will make it so that our god may again speak through him.” His servos tightened their grip. The priests sang somewhere in the dark, urging him on. Smokescreen’s optics were wide, most likely wild from an outsider’s view. But as he cut off energon from his counterpart’s processor, watching the light bleed from his optics… Smokescreen felt nothing but sheer and complete satisfaction.

His Prime was burdened. But now that Smokescreen knew the light, he could help. And it all started with removing this thing, this tained echo from his life. No longer would he be foolish. No longer would he fight against the divine. He now knew his place.

“Please…” His counterpart’s vocalizer spit a plea in a mix of static and garbled glyphs. Smokescreen frowned, keeping his grip tight enough to crush cables in his counterpart’s neck. The thing before him gagged, coughing up energon, his optics wide and terrified. For a moment, Smokecreen found himself pitying the thing, enough to try and ease him as he was returned to his maker.

“Rest. Know that I will take care of him. Our Prime will never again walk this world alone.” His counterpart cried, his face contorted in anguish, before he, at last, fell still. Smokescreen maintained his grip a while longer before he finally stood, watching in distaste as the echo of his former self faded away into nothing.

It wasn’t right. Something in him told him that everything was wrong.

Smokescreen silenced those thoughts the instant the door opened and he was led back to the main Temple where his Prime stood, smiling in greeting. He’d done well. He was worthy.

-----

“Basic indoctrination has been completed. The subject likely will not reach the levels of fanaticism Lord Megatron desires at this rate.” Smokescreen’s winced, his voice coming out in a hiss that bordered on a growl as artificial light assaulted his optics. He was back on the Nemesis. He could sense it clearly now that his Prime’s light was not wrapped around him. This place was evil in the most despicable of ways.

“We have some time before Prime comes to collect his prize. Introduce a new scenario.” Smokescreen snarled, a ragged sound escaping him as he did so. Megatron no longer scared him, not nearly as much as he had before at any rate.

“The Prime simulation has largely run its course. What adjustments does Lord Megatron desire?” Shockwave seemed somewhat uncertain. Smokescreen watched him like a hawk, trying to see just what was going to be done to him. Now that his mind was clearer, he could understand what they were aiming to do. They were attempting to remake him.

Instead, all they had done was wake him up.

“Show him some of Optimus’s history. Drive home his Prime’s ‘fallen’ state. I want the guardsmech willing to throw himself into the pits without being ordered.” Fallen? Smokescreen scoffed. His Prime was not fallen, merely burdened. He would ease that burden over time.

“Lord Megatron wants the subject to feel superior to Optimus Prime?” Again, Smokescreen fought the urge to cringe in disgust at Shockwave’s commentary. How could he ever feel supreme when a shard of the divine called for him?

“No. He must worship and obey his Prime. But I want him to be willing to disobey when he thinks he knows what’s best for his Master. Let him sow discord among his Autobots in an attempt to ‘help’ his beloved leader.” Megatron put a certain emphasis on the glyph for ‘help’ that made Smokescreen distinctly enraged. He couldn’t act on it while bound, but he glared daggers at wherever he assumed Megatron was in the blinding light.

“Very well. An additional simulation will be run for the subject and further social restriction coding will be implemented.” Smokescreen growled, words unable to form in his vocalizer despite how aware he was. Megatron smirked, he could sense it. Nonetheless, Smokescreen silently cursed the warlord as he was pulled back into the false reality that brought him to the light.

“My chosen, you have done well.” Smokescreen returned to awareness just in time to see his Prime waiting for him. No longer did his Prime or the Temple frighten him. This place was a holy one, even if it was just a string of codes. No program could replicate the glory of Primus’s chosen. Even if the scene was fake, Optimus was real. His Prime was real. And his Prime was pleased.

“I am honored by your mercy, my Lord Prime.” He fell to a knee, bowing his helm respectfully as he basked in the golden light of the divine. His protoform felt tingly in the best of ways, his frame was rejuvenated and his mind was more active than ever. Just being near his Prime made everything so much better. No longer did the world weigh him down. He was loyal, and that loyalty had earned him the cleansing praise of the most holy.

He wanted to reach out and touch his Prime as Optimus stepped closer, his winged audial attachments seemingly glowing as he did so. The Matrix shone within his exposed chassis, gold paint glittering like stars all over his frame. He was perfect, and Smokescreen meant that in a way that far exceeded any potential attractions of the frame. Everything Optimus was, everything he happened to be, all of it was perfect.

Optimus was his Prime. He could not disobey unless it was to protect him. A good guardsmech did not touch. A good devotee was forever near, ready to act. Always ready, always loyal, never questioning-

“It is my pleasure to grant you such an honor, my dearest chosen.” His thoughts came to a screeching halt as his Prime reached out to touch his helm. For the first time since he’d been lifted from the darkness, light radiated through his entire being, filling his spark with sheer euphoria. He didn’t have the strength to even so much as twitch, instead basking in the gift his Prime was bestowing upon him.

“The time has come for you to see your design now that you are freed of delusion and sin.” His Prime’s optics were almost blinding as Optimus met Smokescreen’s gaze. He couldn’t shy away, not when Optimus held his face so tenderly.

“Look and see all that was; see what I have been forced to become.” Those blue optics widened, almost comically, if not for the sheer power contained within them. Smokescreen gasped as his vision shifted, blue overtaking everything until scenes began to play out before him. Or rather, memories.

He saw Optimus, or rather, the mech he was before he took the Matrix. He watched as the Archivist became god born, his frame restructured, and his spark made pure through temporary agony. His awe with the scene quickly shattered when he saw his Prime be forced to war, pushed to slaughter. Energon coated his Prime’s frame and blade, dulling his divine glow and haunting him. Smokescreen could see the horror in his Prime’s optics, the sorrow at what he’d been forced to do in the name of protecting the good and the faithful.

He saw his Prime executing a whole battalion of Decepticon soldiers, his blaster raised to each one at a time. The Prime’s battlemask was in place, but Smokescreen saw the growing horror in his gaze. Optimus took no joy in his grim work. He hated what he had to become, and Smokescreen could see it in the faint tremor of his digits as he held the blaster to each and every soldier’s helm, murmuring faint reassurances that the victims had no time to process.

He saw his world weary leader, exhausted and battered, slaughtering his way across a battlefield to buy his people time to flee to their ships. Viscera and energon flew, coating the chosen of Primus and the ground in the remnants of vicious brutality. His Prime moved fluidly, but every action was desperate, with not a hint of divine light infusing them. It was the action of an angel with his wings torn off, a beast hunted until it could no longer run. His Prime had been forced to fight until his light had all but gone out, only dark cynical brutality evident in his actions.

“Never should a Prime sully his blade with the energon of his own people. A Prime is meant to protect, not to destroy.” Optimus’s voice rang out in his mind as countless depictions of violence flew across his vision. He saw wars, burning cities, and dead and dying mechs piled high as his Prime waded through it all. He witnessed ships fleeing to the stars, soldiers on the ground frantically fighting to buy them even the smallest amount of time.

“My spark is burdened by the cries of the sinful and innocent alike. I was never meant to raise a weapon of war against Primus’s precious children. It has damaged me, and my ability to commune with our god.” He could feel coolant gathering in his optics as he was given a final vision, one that showed his Prime standing still in the wastes of a devastated battlefield. There was no life, there wasn’t even the faintest hint of peace. It was a mess of weapons long discarded, corpses lacking proper funeral rites, and trenches abandoned for Primus knew how long. Optimus tood amidst it all, his expression stoney and his gaze haunted.

He looked dim, his plating worn, and every part of him battered and torn. There was none of the divinity Smokescreen witnessed when the Archivist became something more.

Primus’s angel had fallen. His wings clipped by the weapons of mecha far beneath him.

“Forgive me for failing you. Forgive me for allowing you to be drenched in the sins of our people.” Smokescreen’s tears fell silently. He couldn’t make noise, that would be disgraceful for a follower of Primus’s chosen. But as the visions faded as his Prime’s touch again returned, Smokescreen lamented his very existence. How many vorns had he wasted with the guard sitting around doing nothing, when he could have been serving?

“You were lost in the darkness. You are not to blame for this. But my dearest chosen, I cannot continue on this path. The more lives I am forced to take, the further I fall.” Optimus’s touches were feather light, but Smokescreen leaned into them all the same as frantic determination surged in his spark. He could not allow this. He refused to be the one responsible for allowing his Prime to continue drowning in the sorrows of their tainted species.

“Then let me be your blade! I will carry out your will so that you never again need to suffer like this!” He spoke with all the conviction in his spark, ignoring the faint buzz at the back of his mind that still screamed at him that something was very VERY wrong. He chalked it up to the visions. Of course, he would be unnerved by them. His Prime was hurting and he hadn’t even noticed until now.

“It is a heavy burden to bear. In times long gone by, you would have had brothers and sisters by your side to aid you. But in this age of war, you are my only devotee.” Optimus dropped to a knee, prompting Smokescreen to all but scramble to fall to his knees properly, his helm bowed and back exposed. He could never stand taller than his Prime, that was beyond heretical.

“I understand, and I accept the burden. Even if my impact is small, I will help you. I will not allow Primus’s chosen to be tainted any longer.” He meant every single glyph he uttered as he clawed at the pristine stone floor beneath him. Anger bloomed within him, righteous and hot in a way he’d never experienced before. It was so sudden, it hurt.

Optimus was hurt because of his inaction. He could no longer allow it. Good devotees died for their divine.

“I am in awe of your growth. So short was our time together in this place of glory, and already you are a worthy devotee.” Against all expectations, Optimus lifted him from his prostrate position, urging Smokescreen to sit upright. He almost didn’t listen, but his mind screamed with such ferocity that he swiftly obeyed.

“I am your blade, your voice, and your subject. Your will is mine, and yours is the will of our god. I am honored to help fulfill the rite of the divine.” He spoke without meaning to, almost fearing retribution. But the smile on his Prime’s face eased him immediately, even more so as his Prime drew him closer.

“This is as it should be.” Strong arms wrapped around him, metacloth falling from the Prime’s shoulder to briefly brush against Smokescreen’s frame. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Smokescreen’s every thought fell still, his mind clearing and yet also turning into mush all at once.

“Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.” Optimus’s words sounded like a choir, the essence of a thousand mechs speaking through him all at once. For a moment, it almost seemed electronic, fake in a strange way. But Smokescreen shook away the murmurs of his blasphemous consciousness, instead leaning further into his Prime’s embrace.

“As you will it, my Lord.” He could feel his vision beginning to flicker and fade as his Prime held him. It was so very peaceful here…

“Our time has come to an end. You must return and make things right.” Digits caressed his helm, soothing Smokescreen even more. He wanted to fall into recharge right then and there, but he felt the call, the order his Prime had given him. He could not disobey.

“I will fulfill your will, chosen of Primus.” His voice echoed, almost as though he were not the one speaking at all. He could barely see Optimus’s face as his vision faltered. But he saw a smile, and that was good enough for him.

“Then go in peace, my chosen. Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. At the end of the long road, Primus shall welcome you home.” With those final words, Smokescreen found himself ripped away from the Temple, away from the light and the warmth it brought.

-----

“The reprogramming had taken root. The subject has had basic devotee doctrine fully implemented with his base personality.” Smokescreen shot online, his mind and everything around him hazy in the extreme as he felt his straps come undone. The patch in his helm came away with a click, but the fog did not clear.

“As a safety measure, the subject will only experience full awareness when around Optimus Prime. This will ensure the subject maintains loyalty and that Optimus Prime experiences guilt, just as Lord Megatron desires.” What was being said? Smokescreen wasn’t catching any of it. He just knew these mechs were enemies—or, worse than that, heretics.

“Perfect. I am sure Optimus will be thrilled to have his new and improved guardsmech back.” Smokescreen couldn’t think, he couldn’t even move as he was picked up and slung over someone’s shoulder. He could see, but he couldn’t process anything. All he could understand were the commands screaming at him.

Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. Protect the Prime. Bear his burdens. Do not leave him. Make him understand. He cannot fall. The Prime cannot fall. He CANNOT FALL-

It hurt to think. He had to get to Optimus. He needed to get back. He couldn’t leave his Prime alone… but it was so hard to move.

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Optimus Prime?” Smokescreen jolted to awareness as he finally registered the fact that he was outside again. He wasn’t in the Nemesis, he was… on the ground. Harsh and rough earth was getting into his seams now that he noted his place prone in the dust. When had he been dropped?

“Give him back, Megatron.” That was Optimus’s voice. The moment he recognized who was speaking, it was as if the haze in his mind had cleared. White hot anger and sheer determination infused every part of his frame as he rushed to his pedes. His vision still swam, but he bolted all the same.

“Take him and enjoy the alterations I’ve made! I am sure you will find them quite entertaining.” Megatron laughed, but he wasn’t a threat right now. He didn’t matter. Smokescreen needed to get to his Prime and he didn’t care how.

He leapt from ledges and rockfaces, hardly noting where he was stepping until he finally stood before Optimus and the rest of the team. His fans were spinning wildly and he could see just how shocked the team was. He paid it little mind. Of course, they would be startled. He’s been woken from the dark after Megatron tried and failed to make him into some sort of weapon. He was bound to look a little different.

"Rookie, are you good?” Bulkhead stepped forward first, but Smokescreen didn’t move yet. He needed permission. One did not just approach the divine without being invited.

“Smokescreen, what did that slagger do to you?” Arcee tried to speak as well, but Smokescreen’s optics were locked onto his Prime. His digits twitched as he noted the many scars and the sheer weariness in his Prime’s gaze. Oh, how his Prime had suffered… He needed devotees. He needed help.

“My Lord Prime, I have returned to you. May I have the honor of serving at your side once more?” The team froze, each staring in horror. Ratchet even dropped his scanner in shock. Smokescreen regarded them all with a sigh. He knew what he was like prior to his cleansing. Wild, untamed. He was a beast before; it was only right that they expected a creature of sin and sacrifice. To see him purified had to be quite a shock.

“Smokescreen, come here.” Optimus’s voice was shaky, but Smokescreen felt sheer euphoria as he hurried to obey. He stepped around Ratchet as the doctor tried to stand in his way. Within a nano-klik, he was knelt before his Prime, content to be in his presence.

“I apologize for my prior demeanor, my Lord Prime. I was impure and blinded to your light.” Optimus didn’t respond. Smokescreen risked retribution to look up and see the sheer shock on his Prime’s face. How long had it been since his Prime was properly cared for? When had a devotee cleaned his plating last? When was the last time a devotee was given the honor of tending to their precious Prime?

“But no longer. Megatron attempted to turn me against you, but instead he brought me to full awareness. I now know your glory and am eager to serve, if you will accept me.” Not a spark said a word, and for a moment, Smokescreen worried he’d said something wrong. Was his oath incorrect somehow?

“What in the Allspark are you talking about?” Ratchet was the first to break the silence, giving Smokescreen reason to snarl. How dare the doctor speak before the Prime. It was not his place.

“You should know when to shut your trap, Doctor. Your Prime has not yet spoken!” Smokescreen’s optics widened and he almost activated his blasters, but the faintest sound of shock from Optimus had him returning his attention to his Prime. Optimus’s optics were flashing, his digits trembling in a way Smokescreen had never before seen. Was it due to awe? Confusion? He didn’t know. He decided reassurance was the best course of action.

“Forgive my outburst, my Lord Prime. I know you have not yet acknowledged me as a devotee, but I cannot bear to watch such disrespect play out in your presence.” The team seemed horrified as he spoke. Why?

Smokescreen tried to focus on his Prime. He tried to smile and show his devotion. Why did Optimus look so scared?

‘Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.’

Right.

Optimus was burdened with too much to see clearly. Smokescreen would have to be his optics and his blade. That was fine. He could work with this.

“I assure you, my Lord. I am perfectly functional. I am willing and eager to serve just as I did before.” Optimus stepped back, his plating flaring defensively. Ratchet clutched his scanner like it would protect him. Meanwhile, Arcee and Bulkhead raised their weapons in confusion. Even the ever quiet Bumblebee was on edge, standing next to Optimus in a defensive position.

They didn’t understand, that much was clear. But Smokescreen would help them. He would remind Optimus of his divinity and help him recover. Then, when that was done, he would help the rest of the team.

He would make things right.

“Allow me to be an extension of your will. Grant me the honor of the divine so that I might serve Primus’s chosen.” He received no response, merely a short gasp from his Prime. He looked terrified.

His poor Lord. He was so unused to devotion that it frightened him.

Smokescreen would have to change that.

#yes yes I know I have a problem #I like the religious fanatism theme #I just think its neat #that said here you go #smokey angst because why the heck not #transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #team prime #alternate universe #smokescreen #megatron #shockwave #optimus prime #one shot #transformers fanfiction #angst #brainwashing #religious imagery

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wifetomegatron · 1 year ago

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one hundred and one nights (overlord/reader)

summary : reader gets abducted by overlord. he has an infatuation. pairing : overlord (idw) / afab! reader fandom : transformers idw continuity, more than meets the eye rating : e for explicit and mild descriptions of gore & dubious consent, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : descriptions of violence, references to human disembodiment, human!reader, smut, sticky sexual interfacing tags : a lot of references to fairytail / folklore, mostly one-hundred and one nights & this goyard painting.

I. You've heard stories about him. Luna two, Garrus-nine, Hell's point. Albeit not from Swerve, or Chromedome, or Rodimus — that would be ridiculous. Impossible, even, when his name is already non-existent in the space of a ship big enough to fit thousands of Cybertornians. Not even a whisper, as if people were afraid that a slip of his name would be mistaken for a prayer and he would come to life, emerging from the shadowy corners of the Lost Light. Optics, sickly artificial red as they burn holes through the veil. But not even Primus would be as cruel as to materialize Overlord here. At least, you had hoped.

Only several nights before were you and Ratchet discussing him. The doctor knew you deserved an explanation for what transgressed over the weekend with Fort Max, Whirl, and Rung. On who he was, what he has done, and what he will continue to do if his spark wasn't sealed in a white vacuum — serpentine green drowning in nothing. The silence stretched for what felt like years, minutes solidifying themselves midair to bake the air thick. And your mouth was dry, face drained of its color. You didn't ask further, choosing to retreat into your room, where you made the last-minute decision to sleep with the lights on.

It was an irrational fear, you thought. To be afraid of someone light years away, deconstructed and stuffed in a box.

And yet here you are, trapped inside a prison chamber with him — limbs suspended, mouth curled into a grin.

II. It was a stupid accident. A stupid, preventable accident that could have been avoided if everyone had just sat down and listened to the noises Red Alert had been talking about. Their audials would have picked up the voices, the whispers, traveling through a crack big enough for you to slip into. Down the rabbit hole, you fell very slowly before hitting your shoulders square against the crown of Overlord’s head. Slipping ungracefully down an arm, and into the palm of his chained hand. You should have never taken directions from Whirl, because God knows how long it’ll take for the crew members to realize you were gone. And how many seconds left do you have to live, considering that you had conveniently fallen into his grip? A curse. A gift.

“What’s this?” He asked aloud. A dragon waking from his slumber, voice heavy as they echo throughout metal walls, “ Hm. They brought me a plaything.”

You couldn’t speak. Stunned mute as your head barely manages to recover from the impact. The chains rattled slightly, and he squeezed you — yet you were still intact. Surprisingly whole, save not for a few bruises. He says it’s because he’s bored. And that there’s no fun in having you bleed all over when he can’t clean himself up after.

He demanded you to speak and so you did, finding courage in your voice. Yet it sounded so tiny compared to his. And Overlord reveled in this. The more you tried to prove you weren’t afraid the more he’d tighten his grip, horrified to know that this level of self-restraint had (most likely) earned you a broken rib. You wonder what would happen if he had less motivation to keep you alive.

So you became Scheherazade and spoke softly in between trembling breaths. The boiling temperature inside this circular prison may very well be the Sahara, and if you flutter your eyes shut you can hear the sand dunes sing with the wind. And you lay in a dimly lit room with your new husband, spinning him a story so that he won’t plunge his blade past your sternum — the tip of his silver knife shimmering under firelight as they nick your pulse point. Overlord was your Shahryār, yet you wondered if he was just as curious as the prince or if he was too clever to be outwitted by a story. Most likely the latter. Yet maybe he’s just willing to play along, knowing that he will always be the cat, and never the bird. That there’s only one ending — for he has robbed you of your sunrise and conquered all your dusks— so might as well make it count.

III. But maybe Overlord should’ve killed you. He should’ve snapped you in half, and if the sight would have delighted him into a good mood, it would even be painless, quick. Yet instead, he decided that you were worth more than that. This cat wanted to play with his food. Wanted to hear it sing. And so he performed a massacre and took you with him.

At least it spared Chromedome the pain of having Rewind aboard the compartment with Overlord. Instead, he had you. And ever since then you've been drifting, deeper and deeper into darkness. Swallowed by the void of space, where nothing seems to glow brighter than his optics.

IV. You continued telling him stories. It became the only thing you knew how to do, rather than the only thing that kept you alive. You were now at an abandoned spaceport, where your captor sought temporary refuge. It conveniently hovered above the organic civilization living below on Saturn. He jokes about colonizing them, yet you didn't laugh, quietly staring at the man Overlord just squished under his foot. He must've been a routine worker sent to check the premises. He could have alerted the planet below. And could've called for help.

Bile was rising into the back of your throat.

Maybe he came with a friend. Or maybe Overlord had their way with them already. As you silently wept, you turned the other way — opting to blankly stare past the window. You can see his reflection approaching, the metal beneath you tremble with each step.

" What did I say about your crying?" He crooned, a digit forcefully dragging your chin upwards. You tried to be defiant, to puff out your cheeks and stop your lips from trembling. Yet there was blood on his armor, sprayed across his face. And now there were some on your cheek, wet and sticky, enough to make the tears fall faster.

Then, amid the silence that has crowded the room, between the background hums and noises coming from the machine arose the subtle, clicking noise of a cooling fan. He pushed the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip, the red shade of his optics burning into a deep shade of garnet.

" Look at me when you cry," He commanded, " I want to see it."

V. You told him a story of the Roman titan who devoured his sons one by one — afraid they’d overthrow him. Eat or be eaten, was that what Megatron thought when he installed a killswitch in his head? You hoped this would flatter him. It did. A little too much.

VI. You usually don't talk when he's inside of you. When his spike is stretching you almost too painfully, you never make conversation, it is always the sound of your shallow breathing and his indulgent moaning, mingling together in the air. He didn't force you, no. A part of you had wanted this. Out of sheer fear or stress, you're not sure.

Either way, it's safe to say that Overlord doesn't want you dead anytime soon. Yet he's starting to get bored. Or rather, tired, of wanting. Of fighting this internal disgust in himself for ever thinking of having you like this: underneath him, writhing and struggling to have him all the way to the hilt. He has always been more glutton than prideful. And so here you two were, with his mass displaced yet hands still big enough to cover the expanse of your back — thumbs draped against your nipples. Squeezing, circling. His optics leered at the hickeys and bruises loitering your skin. He has a fascination with how they turn purple and bleed red, sometimes blooming into blue before fading. You tell him as long as he's gentle enough not to break anything, he's more than welcome to have you like this.

As insatiable as he is, that was enough for him.

" If I had known...organics were this pliant. I would have gotten myself a plaything eons ago."

He roughly snapped his hips upwards, dragging you against the berth.

" Sing for me."

Nothing made sense anymore. Not when he has you by the talons like a wild animal, hunched over to devour its prey. Atoms would condense and cluster and sink onto your skin, crowding you with heat from the brutal pace he's setting. You're afraid he'd snap your hip as he hikes up your right leg. Angling you, using you, to his pleasure. And there is pleasure out of this for you too, molten liquid tightening around your abdomen. So you indulge him. He likes seeing you cry, and so you did. Begging, whining — which only causes him to hold you closer to his chassis. The thrum of his spark against you is loud enough to send you into a headache.

It's too much. You wanted to say. But you know it's futile. So as you reached your high — spent and overstimulated from this newfound obsession of his — you could do nothing but brace yourself for the rush of trans fluid spilling down your legs. Your cunt, sore and aching as he finally pulls away.

He says you're funner this way. That's the closest thing you'll get to a sunrise.

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cherrytimemachine · 2 months ago

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Can I have a breakdown of Prima? :3

Finally, I have an excuse to talk about the Thirteen. Thank you, anon. >:)

How I feel about this character: Strict and unyielding, Prima was the ever vigilant leader of the Thirteen. Raised from a young age to be the guiding force behind her team (yes my Prima is a girl, though she does use she/they), she developed a rigid standard for rules and was quite stubborn in the face of criticism against her. She was committed to fulfilling her destiny as given to her by Primus, who she considers a father to her, and she would do anything to make him proud. After the downfall of the Guiding Hand, she became colder and distrustful of others. She took over as the leader of Crystal City (Cybertron's original capital until it was changed to Iacon by Nova Prime) and claimed it as her territory. She'd always been more independent from the others, but her judgements of them could at times be quite harsh, especially towards Megatronus, who she deemed a reckless liability. She wouldn't realize how much of a role she played in the Schism (the downfall of the Thirteen) until it was too late.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: I don't think she'd touch romance with a 10 foot pole. She preferred being alone more than anything, as she felt security in being able to have total control over her own decisions. She'd be pretty difficult to have a relationship with anyway. She's a control freak and refuses to do anything that isn't by her standards. You might as well try migrating to a new planet, because Prima ain't budging.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Despite the popular belief among the Thirteen, Prima does in fact care about them, in her own way. Her criticism is justified in her mind, because she thinks she's trying to show them the right way. Really, only Vector, Alpha Trion, and the Thirteenth understand her point of view. She doesn't explain her thought process unless it's about strategy or debating, so her personal motives are a mystery to most people.

She gets along most with Vector and Alpha Trion. They take their positions seriously and don't engage in much tomfoolery, so they're a more mature and favorable company in her book.

Out of all of them, she's the most protective of Thirteen. Thirteen is shy and hates it when their friends argue, and Prima's impression of them is a naive optimist. They're more knowledgeable and aware than Prima gives them credit for. The two still have a nice relationship though. Prima is a guiding force for Thirteen, and Thirteen has been known to convince Prima to soften her position on more than one occasion.

The last person she's really affiliated with is Onyx. They both share an appreciation for spiritually and the nature of treating sparks, both born and dead, with utmost care. Their tribes made an alliance a long time ago, and the mutual respect persists to the present day among their descendants.

My unpopular opinion about this character: The Thirteen needs to be in more stuff. Not just in books or in flashbacks or vague murals, I want them in a story with actual interactions. I want to see them battle Unicron, that would be lit. I want to see her flaws showcased to a wider audience. Megatronus gets the most negative attention out of all of them, followed closely by Liege Maximo, and Megatronus hadn't done anything to initially give Prima a reason to dislike him. She considered him the most like Unicron, and it shows how judgemental she is and how her biases affect the way she treats her team.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: If she was even present in canon aside from being a legend. I wouldn't bank on it, but since there seems to be more focus on Quintus with the Earthspark series, it's possible that we will be able to see all of the Thirteen in all their demi god glory one day.

Also: let there be more gender variety in the Thirteen, for the love of god. I love Solus, don't get me wrong, but I feel like they did her dirty by making her the only girl for the sake of the angsty love triangle thing with Megatronus, Liege, and also Nexus for some reason. You cannot tell me that wasn't the reason for her being female. Just- let there be more women. Gender expression and its fluidity is a vital part of the Transformers species, and it should show in the early creation period.

I have many thoughts on the Thirteen and the Guiding Hand, so please feel free to ask about them!

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annabelle-creart · 5 months ago

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It was a bright and beautiful day, and Heatwave had a wrong feeling like something was off, something was coming, so he made company to the chief and Chase after Boulder stayed on Griffin Rock´s community garden, Blades was watching cartoons with Cody at home because he hadn´t school (holy vacations) and had nothing to do ‘till Griffin Rock´s family week that was coming in two days. Of course, Heatwave studied everything that he was seeing at his surroundings, but nothing was off, like, everything was so normal, even when a young woman almost felt on a trash container or Don, again, was passing the speed limits.

Something in Heatwave´s spark was telling him something will happen, a weird something, and no, he can´t see the future, that´s an exaggeration, but he knew.

Even in Griffin Rock´s forest, where the air and the green felt like a hug, Heatwave was sure something would happen at any moment, and he was scared of it.

“HOOOTYYYYYYYY.”

“AHG! Boulder! You scared me.” Heatwave yelled at his partner through the comm link, Boulder sounded so excited, but Heatwave was too worried to think of it.

“Bulkhead´s coming to the island, HE FINALLY MANAGED TO GET SOME VACATION. BULKHEAD IS COMING TO GRIFFIN ROCK! HE JUST CALLED ME!”

Oh… that was the weird feeling then? No, if it was his spark would get a little calm- what if the weird feeling happens while Bulkhead´s still on the island, it´s not like the last time they saw each other everything was fine, Primus, he´s a wrecker and an autobot, a soldier, and the last time Boulder got stabbed on one of their dates Bulkhead wasn’t happy with it and then they got a little fight, and everything would be good after that if Boulder never told him about Heatwave´s political decision, and especially if Heatwave never told him to just got out of his manners and Boulder´s. It had passed so many time but what if Bulkhead also remembered that day perfectly?

“Holy shit, I´m so fucked up.” Heatwave told himself.

Things are hard now that Heatwave and Boulder are going to meet their siblings-in-law under strange conditions, is their relationship going low or it´s just the hate tension between the "insensible war criminal" and the "brute, big and old wrecker"? Let´s see if a family week will fix this or make it worse...

Chapter 10 and 11, Distant Past, New Memories part 1 and 2 are available on Ao3

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littlelightbolt · 2 months ago

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Finding Prowl - Chapter 6: To kill a Mockingbird

Jazz's first steps was to do a perimeter check around the island he was duty bound too that served as one of five entry ways down to Cybertron. Internally, he cursed. With 5 cycles down the drain, any biological traces of Prowl's whereabouts were all but gone with the currents. Despite the odds, it didn't take long for him to find his first clue.

Just 10 miles off the coast, there were bodies in the water. Dead Humans, five in total bloated with varying degrees of decay all submerged around a large pool of oil. If the smell didn't indicate that the event had happened quite a while ago, the flock of seagulls living and dead trapped in the oily black said it all.

All that filth in the water. Disgusting.

Feeling lucky, Jazz dived. Mabye he should turn that luck into misfortune. What Jazz found only concerned him more. There was a sunken dinghy sitting wedged between two large rocks. A large gash opened the left air sac, the decisive cause of the sinking. Jazz reached to flip the boat over, and uncovered the damning logo engraved into the nylon: MECH.

A growl escaped his throat. Frag, Jazz’s fears only grew. Prowl was in more danger than he thought.

MECH was a known mer-hunting organisation responsible for kidnapping many of their kind. They were a thorn in the Autobot's and less so the Decepticon's side. Both factions have only been made aware of MECH's presence 5 years ago, before that the organisation having only been targeting neutral pods who had no real connection to the two major factions. This meant that both factions had been late to the party. Only learning about any kidnapping occurrences through the traumatic tales of Nails seeking aid and recovery.

The Autobots were quickly set on the case, with Prowl having worked with the search and rescue teams before he was kicked from his seat behind Bumblebee. It was also how the island guard that Jazz had joined was set up. But even when he was around, most cases had been slow in progress, the events having been too long ago to trace back too. For now it seemed, once caught no one had really had any progress in finding their kin again.

Until Jazz!

The boat was relatively intact and just his luck! the dinghy was registered! Jazz had his lead. Taking the registry plate off of the wreck, Jazz made swift work of getting back to shore. He hacked Red Alert's comm in the process.

‘Ay Red my mech, got a situation ya might wanna know bout.’

‘JAZZ, fragging pit. HOW DID YOU GET MY COMM. I SWEAR to Primus, when I see you….’

‘Chill mech, this was bad, MECH has managed to come so close to one of our groundbridges. Da pacific one. It’s a miracle the humans had missed the site completely.’

The comm was silent, Jazz could just imagine the sparks coming off of that mech's helm.

Jazz hesitated a moment before adding on, 'MECH has Prowl.' This time a fizzle came through the comm.

Needing to snap Red out of it, Jazz pushed on. 'RED I need ya with meh mech! I need ya ta check the proximity alarms around the island, why had none of 'em raised da alarm.' Those alarms were designed to hone in on the biological signatures unique to only humans 500 miles offshore. Them not working was a HUGE issue. No one had known of the MECH's presence.

All except Prowl, and it seemed he paid the price. Jazz bristled at the thought.

'A weak 'On it.' was heared through the comm. It seemed that Red was still with the him.

Shaking the residue water off his frame as he reached the shoreline, Jazz gave Red his second task, 'I also need ya ta run this plate for me, on the human's boat registry system.' He sent the snapshot of the plate he took over the commline. 'Received' was all Red Alert replied. All there was left to do was await a response.

The trek to the groundbrigde was but a quick 5 minute hike up a steep cliff. The machine itself disguised as a old tree. Jazz placed his hand onto the thick bark of the plant, a flash of spark energy later, the bark began splitting open to reveal the relatively small portal. Jazz stepped through, entering into Cybertron's Pacific transport hub built 5000 meters under the island. As the portal sealed shut behind him, Jazz navigated the relatively crowded hub towards a Bay B. His private (long stolen) shuttle awaited.

Jazz stopped just short of entering the vehicle. Though the docking bay itself was empty, the air around the entrance was warm. Someone was HERE. A shift in airflow. There! Without hesitation, Jazz whipped out his blade, feeling the sensation of pinning someone into the wall of his ship.

Jazz smiled big. 'Now, I would love ta stay and have a good ole fashion brawl but I'm in a bit of a rush ta get somewhere, so I suggest yall scram before I decide to kill y'all.', he threatened, field bristled and harsh with murderous intent. Spanning out his field, he brushed across five different ones, each with different amounts of anxiousness and suppressed fear in them. It didn't take a genius to figure who had crashed Jazz's party.

A snarky voice rang out of thin air, 'Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about fighting?' Various voices rose up with mumurs of placating agreements as the once empty looking docking bay shimmered with distorted light, revealing five green and purple octopus mers cramped into his hanger bay. The Constructicons were standing shoulder to shoulder within the cramped space. Jazz had Scavenger held at knifepoint, the edge of the blade placed threateningly close to the mers throat cables. Scavenger had his servos raised in surrender. The group were stuck frozen in place, a level of fear teeking into their fields. Jazz smirked, GOOD, they should fear him, after all the harm they done to Prowl.

'What's ya lot of drunk slagtards doing in my ship? Ain't yall got some building to demolish somewhere?', Jazz spoke, hints of annoyance sinking through. He had better things to do than corral drunk mers off to the medbay.

Hook never the one to take insults lying down was first to speak up, 'HEY, we ain't drunk! We only had 3 cubes at Maccadams last night cycle.' Scavenger and Long haul nodded along. Bonecrusher seemed to have other ideas though, field revved with jittery energy, he glowered at Jazz. 'Well what's it to you short stuff? Let Scavenger go! We found this ship fair and square. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight y'all get.' Jazz smile turned strained, steeling himself for a fight he flexed the knife into scavenger throat cables, said mer squirmed. A drop of energon was forming. Bonecrusher's scowl deepened and flexed his fists, he was about to step towards Jazz with dumb violent intent, Hook, Scavenger and Long haul all telling him to stop when suddenly Mixmaster who had been quiet the entire time put out his arm to stop Bonecrusher's advance. The other three mers held their breath.

Behind his visor, Jazz raised a brow. Bonecrusher whipped back at Mixmaster in disbelieved anger, 'What the frag mech?! Let me at em!' Mixmaster only stared at Bonecrusher more intently. Jazz silently wondered if the mer was high on circuit boosters, the mer was leveling Bonecrusher the heaviest of poker faces. It was very un-Mixmaster like. Bonecrusher shouted out in disbelief looking between Jazz and Mixmaster, 'What do you mean he can help us?'

Ah, Jazz released the breathe he was holding, so bond-speak was in play. Mixmaster only gave his brethren a slight nod before facing Jazz again. He spoke with a clarify that shooked Jazz. 'We apologise. We didn't know this ship was yours, none of the ship vendors were willing to rent a shuttle to ex- decepticons. We are simply trying to find Prowl.' The other Constructicons looked at him as if Mixmaster had grown a second helm but nodded along to his statement.

All the anxiety he lost came back to Jazz. 'What makes ya think Prowl is in danger, let alone if he would want to be found by the likes of ya?', Jazz grounded out. The Constructicons spelt trouble, they also knew that Prowl was missing when even Prowl's Autobot brethren were in the dark about it. Why were they seeking Prowl out? Too hurt him? Drag him back into their fold back to the decepticons? The image of Prowl injured that night came back to him.

Mixmaster only moved to put his servo on his spark casing. 'When we first formed Devastator with Prowl, his spark merged with ours. While still small, he formed a bond with us.' Mixmaster paused. 'We felt his pain five cycles ago, but he wouldn't allow us to do anything to help him.' His gaze turned somber. 'The bond weakens with distance. We know he has been taken. Now, all we can feel is that he is alive somewhere in the vast.' Mixmaster turned to eye Jazz's knife hand.

'We know that he went to you that night. That he hates us. That he doesn't want anything to do with us.' Mixmaster reached out to gentle grip Jazz's knife hand. Scavenger let out the tiniest meep as the pressure was relieved from his vital systems.

Mer's got some ball bearing on 'em, Jazz thought growing steadily unsure of the Constructicon's no Mixmaster's motives.

Mixmaster's gaze became smouldering. 'But I think you and I both know that Prowl needs help. Gestalt is gestalt, we stick together no matter what. You're going to find Prowl am I right? I propose a truce. You might have a lead we don't, and we might have a link you need.' Jazz's smile was gone, replaced with a deep frown. The air was thick then with anticipation, the Constructicons silent looked to Jazz awaiting his response.

Jazz's mind was racing with possibilities. It would definitely help to have a living beacon and extra manpower. But, he wasn't so naive to think they didn't have other reasons to seek out Prowl. Jazz couldn't risk it. Not with this. Just as he was about to deny their help, his comm broke the tense silence. Jazz put two digits to his helm to answer it. Red Alert's voice welcomed him on the other side, 'Jazz I've found MECH's flagship. Designation: The Whispering Ghost. I've tracked their movements from the last several days. Last known dock was in Southampton the United kingdom 4 cycles ago at 03:57 BST. They are currently on course back to the Atlantic.' Red Alert voiced quieted with concern. 'Judging by their trajectory, they heading straight for our waters.' 'Our island.'

Jazz could here the sparks fizzle, 'THIS IS BAD! I think we're compromised Jazz we have to tell Optimus!' Red Alert said. Jazz had come to the same conclusion. His gaze turned resolutely towards the mers that gave him so much grief.

Looks like these fraggers might be of some use to him after all. 'Do it,' Jazz said. Jazz lowered the his knife from Scavengers throat, flicking the energon off in disgust before subspacing it. Jazz then stormed pass the Constructicons further into the ship raising his servo to motion them to follow. Scavenger squeaked out a sign of relief, nearly tripping over himself running to Hook to have his throat looked at. Mixmaster was smiling like the cat that got the cream. It irked Jazz, he curtly replied into his comms, 'Tell OP ta start prepping for a potential groundbridge breach.'

He reached the cockpit and began fiddling with the controls prepping the vessel for take off. As the ship was slowly onlining for their flight, outside in the bay hanger a portal was opening, leading straight to the open sky above their island. Jazz addressed Red through the comm, 'Y'all need ta assign a new guard for this site.'

'What?! Why? Where are you going?', Red Alert asked.

'To kill a Mockingbird,' was Jazz smooth reply. Confused mumbles turned to dissuading shouts from Red's end of the line. Jazz got comfy in his seat, checking through his peripheral to see if the slaggers he brought on board were settling yet.

Scavenger's neck was patched, with him seated next to Hook in the ship's narrow hanger. Long Haul and Bonecrusher must be elsewhere on the ship. Hopefully those slaggers ain't messing with his energon stores. Mixmaster being the biggest of the gang didn't quite fit into a seat and had chosen to sit on the floor of the ship.

Mixmaster's optics never left Jazz's.

'I have to bring him home Red', Jazz said. Breaking optics contact to focus on steering the ship. Engine primed, he raised the ship to a hover aligning it with the growing portal. A clear view of the sky thought it.

It was a red dawn, the faintest light of day arriving to their hemisphere.

It reminded him of a certain red Chevron in the morning light. 'If I don't make it back in an orn's time, lock down the island. Ya copy Red?'

'Crystal, may Primus light your path Jazz.' Red replied. Quietly, he added, 'Bring him home alive.'

'Ya know me Red, I always will. Over and Out.'

'Over and Out.', the line clicked shut signalling the end of the call. Jazz steered the ship forward through and out of the portal, charting a course for the United kingdom.

Once at a high enough altitude, Jazz turned the cloaking device on and set the ship to Autopilot. Some point during the climb, all the constructicons had gathered once again into the small hanger bay. Jazz smile curled in annoyance. There was a cube in Bonecrushers servo.

Itchy servos that one had.

Addressing them all, Jazz said. 'I'm gon be honest, I don 't even trust yall as far as I can throw ya. But, for Prowl's sake I'll accept ya Lil truce but we gon be playing things my way.'

Hook opened his intake to retort, as Jazz showed off his fangs. He quickly adding, 'Careful, one wrong move and I'll end ya sorry afts.' Hook closed his intake

Jazz's visor flashed with manic glee, 'Now, onto more exciting plans. First agenda on the Finding Prowl objective. What da y'all say ta some good ole revenge on MECH?' reaching out his hand in a beginnings of a handshake.

The Constructicons didn't even hesitate, smiles going deviously wide and fields revved with malice. Mixmaster rose and clasped hands with Jazz, mirth and malice intoxicatingly entwined.

'We think it would be a devastatingly good time.'

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yay! You have found: the Constructicons!

Hopefully Jazz doesn't rip em a new one.

Next chapter will focus more on Prowl and Blue.

I also realised I haven't disclosed Jazz's Alt mode yet. Would anyone like to guess what it is?

#transformers #prowl #jazz #bluestreak #merformers au #baby au #baby bluestreak #constructicons #Hook #Mixmaster #Bonecrusher #Long haul #Scavenger #merformers #Finding Prowl #Red Alert #maccadam

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medicdoodles · 3 months ago

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DRAtchet week 2022 Day 11:Full of Bitterness

(First Day)||(Day 10)||(Day 12)||(Last Day)

Drift found out Ratchet gets caught

Fuck. They gottem. He was distracted by the stupid firing squad here to kill him. He had it under control. Sure, he almost lost an arm. His leg shouldn't have been bent like that, and scrap, his coughing blood. However, that all pales in comparison to being rescued by some Autobots.

Said bots saying that Ratchet sent them over. That they had him in their base. Had offered both of them sanctuary. All in exchange for Ratchet's continued work. When the fuck did that happen.

"Ratchet is making his way here." Reverb or whatever his name was, tells him.

"I'm not going anywhere." Simple. The faster Ratchet is here they faster they can leave. Waiting around and his weak frame is starting to give out. His eyes are harder to keep open, his vents are clogged.

Why does it feel like there's dirt in his cogs?

"Deadlock..." ahh. There's Ratchet's gentle touch. Opening his eyes he sees that wonderful, caring, his Ratchet's face. "Look at you..." and a bright blue light hits his face. He swears he just saw a peak the well.

Or maybe it was the pit. As now all that stares back at him is the bright red Autobot Symbol. "What the fuck." His gears are sticking together.

"Deadlock?"

"What the fuck!" He makes an attempt to grab his hand. "They told me that you were going to help em wit ground bridges." Ratchet takes the hand that missed and uses his other hand to steady himself. "They said you we're going to help."

He can feel his checks flush. "I made this deal to protect you." He's very mean to make a jab at his open wond. "And clearly I made the right decision." No wait, Ratchet is patching him up. "Look at you. What shape would you have if I hadn't."

"So what? Are you gonna go wit teh Autobot?" There he got the worst question out. He may still be bleeding out, and yeah his processor is freezing up, but he has to know.

"That was the deal." His soft, gentle touch, so why wasn't it soothing him like it always does? "Just have to repair some ground bridges for them." He touches the planting and still only anger, betrayal. "They promised just a vorn." He said it so easily, so normal.

"What about me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What about me?" For the first time since he felt it. He grabs Ratchet's hand to pushes it away from him. "What in your grand plan did ya have for me?"

"I-" why did he want to let go. "I didn't..." one finger unclip.

"If you joined them for me. You should have something. Anything."

Ratchet looks down, he faces away from him. Like always when things get to hard for him he rolls over and let's it happen. "I don't. All that ran through my head was finding help." His voice so soft, scared. This time he can't help him. Ratchet can't keep doing this to him.

"You didn't expect me to follow you?"

"No." He let go. The phantom touch of thier hands stung more than the open wond.

"Did you expect me to stay here? To wait for you to come back?"

"No."

"So you really didn't think about me at all."

"That's not true." Ratchet's reaches out to him. Before he could really think he slaps the arm back towards his side. "Drift..." Ratchet's field blooms in shame. "I just need to make sure that you would get out there alive. If you joined the Autobots or if you ran it didn't matter to me. I just needed a way to make sure you were safe."

And that was their relationship. For a few moments of perfect bliss. Then Ratchet would make some dangerous decisions that Deadlock would have to try to dig them out of. And he's just tired. Maybe they do love each other, it was hard to tell some times. It probably just the wrong time for them, they both need to grow.

The idea of letting him go hurts. Hurts a lot and, Primus he's scared that Ratchet might move on from him. However, he just can't keep fighting anymore.

"I understand..." Ratchet pulls away. When had he patch him up. More importantly when he moves his hand to place over his mouth. Seeing his blood stain both his hands and his mouth. It really makes this final. "For what's it's worth. I really do love you."

One more kiss, a final goodbye. Taking the last moment to remember what he taste like...

The kiss was full of bitterness.

#transformers #ratchet #maccadam #ratchlock #deadlock #au #fanfic #dratchet #transformers seige #transformers wfc seige #seige ratchet

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birthdaycakeplate · 2 years ago

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Its Megatron Baby Hours for this sleepy binch.

This was written solely to make Megatron the hopelessly embarrassed one for once. Even though Optimus is still baby, he’s not nearly as baby baby as Megatron is baby. You know?

Prepare for cringe fluff that got way out of hand.

ALSO I’m pretty sure all my carefully placed italicized words are gone, and I can’t even look right now or else it’ll kill me.

Warnings in tags✨

——————————-

He knew he had a choice to make, and soon. Either leave this with someone trustworthy enough to deliver it to the little Prime and wash his hands of it entirely, or...

Give it to him himself- as he had intended to before realization came crashing into him with a thousand tonnes, that I’m doing so, Optimus might interpret it for exactly what it was: A gift.

Megatron stared accusingly at only visible sliver of the blasted thing tucked away in his massive servo, balled into a steady fist.

Nearly crushing it several times now.

It was with that embarrassing lack of self control in which the decision was made for him. Also partly in thanks to his sizably unholy ego.

Megatron was many things, but certainly no coward. If he had chosen this gift with the intention of seeing the Prime take it from his own servos then he better not second guess himself. That’d be half admitting that Starscream was right about her assessment of his leadership.

Megatron needed to hear more of that in the middle of a staff meeting after his gift’s impromptu discovery exactly never again. The smug look on Strika’s face… Urgh.

If Optimus didn’t go around shuttering his optics up at him every time he spoke in low, measured rumbles about the glorious feats of millennias past, or turn a pretty color when Megatron had to reach over him to grab something, he’d be a lot more worried about Optimus rejecting such a blatant attempt. But clearly -thank Primus- the smaller mech was enchanted in such a way when it came to him, and that was all the convincing Megatron needed in order to pursue it.

More than enough.

But his worry was in whether Optimus might find the gift itself acceptable, rather than whether he though Megatron’s advancing on him in such a flirtatious manner appropriate.

Megatron couldn’t help glancing at the thing again, his uncertainty mounting.

Optimus seemed to like to challenge himself, and this gift was a challenge of sorts. But was it too juvenile for being purposely made a rather easy accomplishment?

Optimus was easy to agitate, though -not in part to Megatron’s constant teasing- and perhaps presenting him a ‘challenge’ of this kind would be as demeaning as Ultra Magnus thinking it a ‘challenge’ for the young Prime to follow directions.

It wasn’t that Optimus couldn’t, obviously- it was simply that he possessed a brain module and some extraordinary self-sense.

Megatron’s spark began to beat faster. He did so prize the other’s ability to recognize absolute slag when he saw it. Including his own. Even more than that, he was enamored with Optimus’ strength of spark to act on it, unafraid to condemn himself for the greater good.

Like fleeing with the Allspark all that time ago.

It didn’t matter what sort of enemies that had earned him on the way- his high commander included.

Megatron couldn’t help but smile, terrifying the hapless minicons he passed on the decking, just trying to move out of the way of him marching on dazedly.

For a mech so tame and accepting, Optimus was wild at spark in the most surprising ways. If he’d never forsaken his commander’s direct orders, Megatron would have never met the thoughtful mech, or have been forced to endure the chaos only a youthful, headstrong prime could have caused him for the entirety of their stay on that dirtball planet.

The irony in his wistful urge to return to that time, to a place horrid and foreign, trapped together in the most unaccommodating circumstances.

Megatron heard another creak and quickly loosened his grip on the hapless gift being squeezed in his massive palm.

Remembering Earth had become something bittersweet. Megatron knew their chance encounter had been anything but ideal. The time they spent in each other’s unfortunate company consisted of even greater atrocities than trying to tear each other apart on a crashing ship had.

He shuddered to think he’d once used the object of his most ardent affections as a shield.

His thunderous scowl at the memory caused another stir of desperate mechs trying to dodge his path as he continued down the flight deck.

Thankfully -to spare anymore civilians in all this wayward self-reflection- there was Optimus. Completely immersed in his work, overseeing a new hanger designed to accommodate frames many times his size. Gigantic bots like Blackout, clipping his wings on his entry and exit thought the shuttle docks had been the Prime’s inspiration to push for its construction. And he’d stayed, after arguing and eventually winning his proposition, thanks to deeply invested ex-Decepticon flight frames at his back raving with him, to supervise his little project.

Megatron felt his chest swell with an overbearing heat at the thought of such conviction for the welfare of his own mechs, coupled with the sight of the little bot hard at work. This compassionate little thing...

Megatron’s spark swelled.

Just then, Optimus’ finial twitched, and his attention was drawn like a magnet over to where Megatron was stood making good use of the new sizable room with his shoulder proudly squared. Seeing for himself his efforts so rewarded finally brought a little smile to the mech’s face.

“Megatron?” His voice rang out over the constant drilling and clatter around him. That voice so familiar and welcoming, Megatron didn’t even have to strain to hear it. Having committed his soft little coos while whispering to one another under the stars of the observation deck to memory, his processor instantly filled in the gaps.

Megatron’s recent absence from the smaller mech while he’d spent cyber-weeks off planet side had admittedly made it easier to. There hadn’t been a klik while he was gone that he hadn’t replayed a vivid memory file of his dearly missed, little Prime.

Optimus -refusing to abandon his tireless work- beckoned him over with a wave of his hand. His finials held high on his helm.

Smitten, Megatron helplessly obeyed.

“I thought you were on leave at the moment?” Optimus asked when the war machine was close enough to hear. Just a few short feet away.

The stupid smile that spread Megatron’s own lips fell, realizing he’d been caught somewhat.

“I... needed to make a stop…”

There was a tense moment of silence, as the implications sank in, but thankfully it did. Megatron hadn’t wanted to explain it himself, embarrassed enough he’d turned an entire warship around.

“For...me?” Optimus murmured, hazarding a guess. Megatron shifted uncomfortably.

Then the Prime’s optics did that demure little thing they often did where they lowered self-consciously to stare at the floor, causing the larger mech to feel eerily similar to being stuck in a tailspin while in his altmode.

Megatron sparing more time out of his busy cycle to have ‘runins’ with him weren’t much of a surprise anymore, surely. But Optimus was a humble bot -an enormous turn on for a mecha having dug himself up from out of the pit with his own two servos and carried an entire revolution on his back with him.

Which Optimus would know a thing or two about that himself.

When a curious looking Prowl sauntered by the pair just out of his peripheral, looking over with those keen optics of his, Megatron chose that moment to move things along and hopefully excuse himself sooner from his own impending embarrassment.

He reset his vocalizer, then pulled the thing he’d been sent here -by his previously fearless ego- to deliver out from behind him.

At the sight, Optimus’ engine startled.

“What’s this for?” He asked, blinking down at one massive paw. Seeing it instantly gave him some vague idea of what it was, having tried his servo at deciphering a similar mechanism before in his travels to fight off deep space boredom. He hadn’t really applied himself then, deciding reading was more worthwhile, but suddenly, looking over this object now resting in Megatron’s extended servo, it seemed imperative he accept the shiny thing with the utmost enthusiasm.

Optics going wide and glittery, a smile slowly spreading his astonishingly pretty mouth, hanging open in surprise.

Like it was anything so spectacular than it was just a measly three dimensional puzzle.

Never mind what it was made of- Megatron thought it would be unfitting to tell him the value of its material until after he’d crafted the beautiful thing, which would likely only take an hour.

For now, handing it over with a bit more force than Megatron had meant to in his eagerness to escape would do.

“No particular reason.” He finally answered when the gift was secured in Optimus’ tight, clutching servos.

He tried his hardest not to let his confidence over inflate so, when Optimus grinned up at him with the puzzle of crystal clusters looking much bigger and heavier in his hands, held close and careful to his chest.

Gift received and appreciated.

Megatron’s work here was done.

“Enjoy that little Prime.” He shrugged, trying pathetically hard to ignore the thump of his spark at the endearing sight of a happily surprised Optimus.

“It’s the only thing of me I have to keep you company with while I return to my work.”

A very sad excuse of a thing, too. The Prime deserved riches and recognition, as any consort of a lord high protector of the lands should… Future consort.

Optimus felt otherwise.

“Thank you, Megatron. Thank you... I... I only wish there was time for me to give you a piece of me in return.”

Megatron blinked.

That was as blatant a reciprocation -and an explicit one- as Megatron had ever gotten from him before.

He struggled not to entertain any implications -not wishing to speculate on behalf of the delicate little civil frame in his company- for all of 2 nano kliks before he looked again and saw the hooded optics and lazy smirk on the other’s faceplate, condemning his innocent efforts entirely.

Megatron’s engines roared to life over the drum of construction work.

“Yes, right- We’ll- We will have to make sure we… plan accordingly for- for… that in the future. Won’t we?” Was he talking fast? He felt like he was talking fast.

Why was his temper gauge popping up?

“Be safe on your flight.” Optimus replied coyly, clearly feeling similarly swept up in all the thick, unexplored emotions of this incredibly raw encounter.

“Flying is second nature.” Megatron said dumbly, belatedly realizing he was missing the point.

“You be careful working yourself into stasis.” He deflected.

“Thankless, arduous work is my second nature. Well- mostly thankless.” Optimus held up the jagged mess of crystals in his hand. Probably already setting a challenge for himself for how quickly he could decipher it.

Megatron excused himself with a bow of his helm before he could ruin their perfect moment by asking for a kiss farewell.

———————————

“The last time jou ordered a sensible retreat vas when, Lord Megatron? Jou our too certain of jour own abilities.”

“I’m certain of the power of my mechs, Strika. I know that they can push through, that is all.”

“If they succeed with even half the injuries they sustained in the first strike, there is the matter of the Sepertines’ waiting with a third wave of missiles on the other side.”

“That is of no consequence, Shockwave.”

“They’re quite familiar with our biology, now. These missiles are loaded with infectious rust.”

“That is of consequence...” Megatron backtracked, finally losing some traction in the midst of his genius strategizing between all his officers’ complaining. Then he smirked.

“But they’re not strong enough to weather an onslaught from Blackout.”

“Zhey are vaiting for a clear path through.” Strika added, the mech in question under her direct command.

Megatron paused a moment to consider the brooding seeker in the corner of the war room, still pouting from their earlier… disagreement.

“You’ve been too quiet.” Megatron scowled.

“Nothing to say about Blackout leading the air strike?”

Starscream sneered.

“Other than he lacks half the intelligence of the average idiot Decepticon? Nothing.”

“You don’t want the position?” Megatron pushed. He thought he caught an optic roll from Strika out of the corner of his eye.

Starscream shrugged.

“I don’t envy him for being sent head first into that mess.”

“We sent scouts.” Megatron assured.

“Before the Sepertines exposed their artillery was capable of chemical warfare. Who knows what’s waiting for us? And besides, Blackout is too slow for this ‘position’- if you can even call it that.”

“There hasn’t been an opportunity to break through their shielding and send a tunneler.” Shockwave felt the need to say in defense of his master.

Strika had rather watch him struggle, though, as she had said many times before that he deserved it for keeping Starscream in their ranks.

“It doesn’t matter.” Megatron insisted, confident in his abilities, as much as he was any other mech in his military that wasn’t blasted Starscream.

“He may be slower, but far sturdier than your flimsy, tinfoil wings-“

“What the frag is tinfoil?!” Starscream screeched.

“Blackout will go, and he will prepare the field prior to our own heavy artillery coming through. And be commended for it.”

Starscream looked disgusted that Megatron would insinuate it was a feat worth praising, Blackout playing frontline pawn. He was damn hard to kill, made exclusively to cleanse the battle field in every unnerving sense of the word. But the point was that he would be serving as nothing more than fresh fodder.

Starscream would never.

“If it worries you so,” Megatron began slowly, aware Starscream only ever worried about where she could find her next opportunity to stab him.

“Lugnut can go assist him.”

Shockwave began to furiously type something into his wrist monitor then. Calculating, doubting.

“And Lugnut can offer any functional support?”

“Jealous? At a time like this?” Megatron glowered over the little holograph of Shockwave’s increasingly convoluted catalogue of percentages. Curious about existence of the ‘Visits to Cybertron’ one.

“You’re aware of his ability to eviscerate life for miles, aren’t you?”

“You’re aware he’ll be too slow to doge the missiles, aren’t you?” Starscream whisper-hissed. Megatron ignored her.

“He’ll make short work of them in the time it’ll take them to recover from Blackout’s first strike.”

“I stay well informed of our troops, my Liege.” Shockwave amended. Strika rolled her optics again.

“Only, you see, the Sepertines will have a counterstrike ready from the oceanfront. With an abundance of water, and their bodies adapted over eons to their wet environment, they have the advantage. Who do you have in mind for a naval assault?” If anyone.

They didn’t exactly thrive under thousands of tonnes of water hindering their every movement. Nor did their weapons.

Before he could blunder his way through that, Megatron’s commlink crackled to life. He checked the caller, expecting to find that it was Straxus on his last leg and suffering deliciously, then suddenly went rigid.

“I... have to take this.” He told the room.

Starscream didn’t even bother to make a stir of things. Throwing her arms up and leaving them all with a huff.

Among the curious optics, Megatron caught Strika giving him a look, and for once in his lifecycle, it had him feeling rather sheepish. Struggling to make his suddenly dry intake form the necessary words.

“Excuse me a moment.” He finally managed, as her optical ridge hiked ever higher, and turned away.

He cleared his throat tubing and put on his best air of confidence.

“Optimus-“

“Megatron, I love it! It’s so beautiful, I love it! No one has ever given me a flower before! It’s, its- I can’t even say!”

Megatron felt a pressure rise in his tanks, filling up his abdomen.

“Oh... yes...”

Optimus had called to gush at him.

He meekly tried to return his enthusiasm.

“I... Right then…”

“My first flower! Never thought I’d be excited about one of those.” Being infinitely less romantic than Megatron.

“And this one I can keep forever! It’s perfect- I- I just... Thank you!”

“Right... it’s... it’s yours forever.” Megatron said absently, bringing a palm up to cover his optics and squeeze. Feeling oddly exposed all at once.

“You...like it then?”

“Yes, he likes it, jou idiot!” Strika hissed from somewhere over his shoulder, having immediately become invested.

“Vhy else vould he be calling to tell jou so!”

Megatron was still uncharacteristically surprised to hear that Optimus might want the thing for that long. For forever.

The shock of it had him working his glossa before he had even fully processed it,

“I was hoping to gift you something that might represent my... connection... with you.”

Of all the things to say, he definitely shouldn’t have chosen that, because a simple puzzle sculpture -made of Earth’s precious rhodium, the insipid planet the civil bot so loved- was only as good as its value on said planet for its parts in pieces. The rest of its worth was purely sentiment.

He owed Sumdac exactly one favor for acquiring the stuff... but if Optimus thought a pretty, shiny flower was a flattering enough sentiment to gush at him for, and in a tone Megatron had never heard him use before -even in his sweetest dreams- then damn the mortification of having to ask him for it. It was beyond worth it, and he’d already reaped the reward for his efforts.

Optimus sounded happy, and Megatron couldn’t help feeling the effects of that- trying to ignore his erratic sparkbeat.

“I wish you weren’t shipped off on some excursion of the masses.” Optimus said then, tone suddenly playful.

Megatron felt another stupid, loopy smile grace his lip plates at that.

“Oh?” He murmured, helm dipped and hip cocked.

“Yeah...” Optimus… Optimus purred.

Megatron swallowed.

“I’d like to… thank you… But you’re all the way over there.”

“O-Oh?”

“Idiot!” Strika snarled.

“Tell him jou vill have him just as soon and swiftly as jour victory! Civil bots love grand gestures!”

“Tell him you will accept his appreciation with more of your own.” Shockwave whispered at her side. Unfortunately invested in his lord’s blossoming love life, too, now that’d he’d bared witnessed to his master appearing so happily flustered.

The first time he’d ever seen such a look on him before.

Megatron wished he had more control of his spark to focus on dealing with that, than he did with Optimus’ lovely full lips speaking such sweet promises directly into his processor.

“I’ll- I’ll have to stop by again soon.” Megatron answered, ignoring them both.

Strika took a moment to process this.

“Jou had us halt our attack to stop by and hinder him vith jour pitiful attempts?” She growled low and dangerous.

“And jou didn’t even get behind his panel-“

“It was necessary!” Megatron hissed back.

Shockwave pulled up that holograph on his wrist monitor again.

“The law of probability. We make a frivolous trip back to Cybertron every 3 deca-cycles to meet Lord Megatron’s quota. Scientifically speaking, it’s bound to happen the next time.”

Strika chose to ignore most of that.

“….Which quota is zhat now?”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Megatron sneered at the pair, finally having the sense to leave the room with his scarlet faceplates.

“You sound busy,” Optimus murmured, and there was a strange clattering sound on the other end as Optimus shifted himself straighter, embarrassed to have complicated things. Ever the sweetspark.

“I’ll let you go-“

“No, no! You have my full attention now.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Optimus said shyly. Likely turning a pretty color on the other side of the line. Megatron should be more disappointed with himself for mirroring it.

“Please do.” He purred, fighting his desire to hide his face into something soft.

“Talking to you is a much better use of my time, after all.... I’m glad you called.”

Megatron worried his lower lip, considering the cons of expanding on that thought and revealing himself as a mech so uncertain and unconvinced of his own courting abilities to the very bot he’d been steadily pledging his devotion to. The bot he was supposed to remain a steadfast, unshakable beacon of strength for- not one that was so terribly flustered over a little easy flirting.

But this was Optimus. This was the compassionate, genuine mech he’d come to find was always more pleasantly surprised by Megatron’s company when it was the honest sort.

He could afford to be vulnerable for a moment, just for him- though he had to take a page out of Optimus’ own book and remind himself that he was no coward for doing so. Despite what Decepticon rhetoric would say.

Optimus had been right as always when he’d said that being vulnerable took a kind of strength that was depthless and determined.

“I’m glad you like your gift.” Megatron continued after a moment. Ready to be vulnerable.

“I… wasn’t sure how it would be received.”

“Are you kidding?! I haven’t been given much of anything before. Energon goodies and extra fuel, maybe... This was so, uh... s-sweet.”

Megatron felt his chest swell again, this time with pride in his ability to provide for his potential mate. And pride, too, for his courageous mate’s willingness to be vulnerable with him.

Though, maybe it wasn’t so much a matter of him being a ‘potential’ mate anymore.

“I’ve been thinking,” Optimus began, as if magically reading his processor. Rather attuned to the larger mech these days.

“I-I’m not sure how you’d feel about this... You’re a very busy, um... leader... and I’m just a maintenance bot-“

“You are more precious than Primus has seen fit to tell you.” Megatron said seriously, smile slipping. As if Optimus would be able to see it and Megatron’s deep offense at his mate being disrespected from over the line.... ‘Potentinal’ mate...

Optimus snorted. Quite familiar with Megatron’s protectiveness of him in regards to his -apparently suffering- self esteem, and continued on. Thinking all of it a wasted effort.

“Well, to be clear, you said you wanted to give me something that reminds me of our connection.”

Optimus agreeing to use the word ‘connection’ added another layer to their conversation. Making it feel much less like passive flirting and that is was now more imperative than ever that Megatron answer each every question he had with the utmost seriousness.

Instead of succeeding to so do, Megatron sucked a breath in, forgetting to release it, and stood there frozen out in the corridor. Looking every bit as foolish as Starscream often insisted.

“Yes...” He simply mumbled. Fighting valiantly to force his composure to return.

“I wanted s-something, *ahem*, something that you could have forever.”

“Right.” Optimus was definitely smiling on the other end, and Megatron could hear it.

His tank flipped.

“So, ah, would you like to make this... more official? Like… a ‘forever thing’?

“Yes-“ Megatron had to steady himself on shaky pedes after tripping over thin air when he hadn’t even been moving, and reset his vocalizer for a third time that evening. Oh, how he wished he had been the one courageous enough to sweep the other mech off his stabilizers and pose that question.

Shyness was very unbecoming of him.

He was about to correct himself and try again for a more assertive, active role in this precious moment when Optimus spoke again, sounding much more like his old, calmer self now.

“Good- I’m getting started on the Ritus, then.”

Megatron promptly shut his mouth. Having a single nanoklik to wonder when exactly he’d gone through the Intimacy and Disclosure sects preluding the Ritus with him.

He supposed he’d shown his Devotion quite prominently in his mission to eliminate every conceivable threat in the universe to Optimus and their newly rejoined Cybertron (though mostly for Optimus).

But they were still missing some crucial components for its completion.

And then his stalling brain module -lingering on a power saving mode, after all the Energon in his lines had run too hot earlier when he’d allowed himself to get so worked up- switched on again, and his engines roared to life as realization punched its way through the exhausted thing.

Official? Ritus? As in... Conjunxing?

Was he just proposed to-

“You’ll need me to officiate my side of the courtship.” Optimus said then, throwing Megatron’s processor for an inescapable loop.

“Come home to Cybertron. You’ll need my mark- I want to do this right.”

‘Do this right’?

Megatron nearly collapsed from under his boiling core temperature, heating him up into a dizzied mess.

Optimus did nothing in halves, he had come to find.

Oh, Spark…

He knew he surely looked a fool, clutching at his abdomen with a clawed hand. Leaning all his weight against a wall to keep himself upright, trying to make sense of things moving at light speed, and faster still.

“I… I will.” He said simply. It didn’t take an ounce of thought to, his instincts driving him towards what ever direction was necessary for him to acquire his mate’s mark. That was all that mattered.

“Just as soon as I can.” Now would be a good time actually. He’d look and feel better going to war with Optimus’ sharp denta having punctured his throat plate.

“Be safe, please.” That sweet, soft voice had made its return, turning the inside of Megatron’s belly to a pool of liquid heat.

“I will.” He said even less convincingly then. His helm felt stuffy, and his frame felt weak. He wished his mate was there to hold him together.

Though Optimus was far more adept at reducing him to nothing more than a gooey puddle.

“I know you will, honey. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Megatron swallowed thickly. He could do without the ridiculous organic nicknames. Honest, he could.

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Spelling and grammar errors for day

#transformers animated #tfa megatron #megop #optimus prime #tfa #tfa megop #tfa optimus prime #tfa optimus #MEGATRON IS BABY BOY TONIGHT #adult language I think #adult themes involving romance #blushing #gift giving #love language stuff #suggestive alien marriage ritus #??????

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skylarkking · 8 months ago

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To Heal a Mockingbird

A TFA Ratchet x Mech!Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Chapter 1: A Decepticon's Decision

A/n this story takes place partially pre-series before going into the series.

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'War raged across the planet, just like our lord wanted. Death, destruction, chaos, all of this was his doing.

And I was one of his soldiers.

But how far can a soldier go before he begins to break? Before he crumbles? Before...'

"This is stupid." I muttered to myself as I stared at the datapad in my grip and the words I had written on them. I ended up turning off the data pad and returning it to my subspace before flopping back onto the cold berth of my quarters.

I stared blankly at the ceiling with crimson optics and a tired gaze, my mind running and racing despite not having a proper recharge in a very long time.

War had been raging my homeworld for Primus knows how long, a war I once thought was justified.

But with recent events, my loyalties and morals had begun to come into question.

"Y/D! Report to the Nemesis! Now!" My commanding officer, Starscream, shrieked over the comlink.

"Yeah, yeah, calm your circuits, Screecher." I grumbled in response.

"GET TO IT OR-" He started to bark before I cut him off by hanging up, my frame slowly rising up from the berth with a stretch of my wings and a satisfying round of pops from my joints.

I made my way out of my quarters and into the hall of the barracks I resided in, several other Decepticons looking over to me with suspicious glances before returning to their usual business.

I ignored their gazes and turned down the hall towards the take-off strip. My form shifting after a running head start sent me into the air. I cut through the skies with the grace and speed of a true Seeker, something that I was proud of but was far less vocal about compared to my C.O.

I eventually made my way towards the Nemesis's flight deck, where my forms shifted again as I landed. Almost as soon as my pedes made contact with the metal plating, Starscream came out and began to lecture me about 'being disrespectful' and 'uncooperative'. I tuned out most of what he said, at least until he said something that actually caught my interest.

"We have an Autobot prisoner for you."

Starscream's words caused me to perk up curiously, my optics meeting his as a result.

"Sir?" I asked. "What do you mean you have an Autobot prisoner?"

"Well, if you had been paying attention -"

"Aaaaand here we go again." I muttered to myself, cutting the second in command off.

"As I was saying," he continued with a growl. "We have an Autobot prisoner who may know the location of a great power source. However, I believe he needs some.... convincing."

I sighed in annoyance and waved my servo in a way that conveyed my distain for the whole affair.

"Like I told Lord Megatron, I'm no longer practicing nmemosurgery."

"Yet you still have the probes." Starscream said, followed by a smirk. "Surely they aren't there for show."

"Look, I don't think it's a good idea, okay?" I said firmly with narrowing optics. "But... I'll see if I can coax the information out of this bot."

Starscream sneered with a dark chuckle and motioned for me to follow. I reluctantly complied and followed the seeker inside the Nemesis, where we weaved through the various corridors to the brig. Inside one of the cells was a bot with a red and white paint job who looked no older than I was. His frame mildly dented and scratched from what I inferred was a struggle. Judging by the markings on his frame, I could tell he was one of the Autobot medics, something I did not like.

"This is the bot you want information from?" I asked Starscream with a hint of disgust in my tone.

"He knows where the power source is. All you have to do is make him talk." Starscream growled.

"Both you and Lord Megatron know that I do not harm medics!" I snapped. "It's dishonorable!"

"You and your stupid sense of honor!" Starscream barked. "Just shut up and do it! Unless you want me to get Lugnut to tear your sorry paint job apart!" I flinched in fear at the thought of the hulking mech, a shiver running up my spinal strut and causing my wings to fold tightly against my back. "That's what I thought." Starscream huffed. "Now get to it!"

"Y-yes, sir." I stammered out as I entered the code to the cell and retracted the bars. The medic scooted back and away with fear as I entered, his baby blue optics practically staring into my spark.

It made me nervous.

"Commander, please leave us be so I can focus on my work." I said to the seeker.

"Ugh, fine!" Starscream muttered. "Don't screw this up!"

Once Starscream was out of audial shot, I knelt down by the injured medic and carefully took his more injured arm into my servo, my optics quietly inspecting the dented and cracked metal

"What's your name?" I asked as I ejected out one of my various repair tools and got to work on fixing the medic.

"Wh... why do you care?" He asked with a quiet voice.

"Because I like to know the names of my patients." I said, not even looking up from my work. "My name is Y/D if you'd care to know."

"I... I'm Ratchet." The medic said with an increasingly confused expression on his face.

"Ratchet... I like that name." I said nonchalantly. "It suits you."

"Oh, um... thanks?" There was a long silence as I repaired the medic before Ratchet spoke again. "Why are you doing this?"

"Hm?" I questioned as I looked up at him. "Doing what?"

"Helping me. Why.... why are you helping me?"

"Morals." I said flatly. Thankfully, that answer seemed to satisfy the medic, and I was able to finish the repairs to his frame.

"Thank you." Ratchet said with a strange sense of awe.

"There is no need for niceties." I said. "But nothing comes for free, and you know what I wang."

"You want to know the location of the energy source. Well I can't tell you."

"This energy source must be powerful if you are willing to hide its location from me." I said.

"Listen, if Megatron gets ahold of this, everyone and everything on Cybertron will be destroyed." Ratchet said with increasing earnest. I studied his expression for any malicious intent or falsehood, but I could not find any on his face or in his optics.

"This... power source you Autobots are hiding. If it is this powerful, why have you not used it?"

"Because using it would be the death of us all." Ratchet said grimly. "And.... it wouldn't be right to use a source of life for a weapon of death."

Those words clicked in my mind, telling me exactly what the power source was in an instant.

"The power source," I said with an urgency in my voice. "What is it?"

"I... I shouldn't - "

"Please." I practically begged barely above a whisper. The medic paused a moment before sighing in defeat.

"It's the Allspark."

The energon in my tubing practically froze in place, my optics widening with an increasing fear.

"No, it... Megatron wouldn't dare...." I whispered. "He wouldn't.... would he? Sure, he's strong-willed and stubborn, but... this..." I was so shocked by this revelation that I ended up staring blankly at the floor.

"You didn't know that was what he was after, did you?" Ratchet asked. I shook my helm, and in that moment, I truly began to question my loyalties.

"He never told me anything." I said quietly. "I... I can't let this happen. I won't let this happen." I stood up and offered a servo to the medic. "Come with me, I'm going to get you out of here."

Ratchet took my servo, and I pulled him up on his pedes, the pair of us quickly darting through the halls and towards one of the shuttle bays. I shoved the medic inside and forced it to deploy, the medic and shuttle drifting off into space.

"TRAITOR!" I heard the bellow of Lugnut roar, my helm whipping around to see him, Megatron, and Starscream all aiming their weapons at me.

"I KNEW HE WAS A SLIMEY AUTOBOT SYMPATHIZER!" Starscream shrieked. I ejected one of my blades and held it defensively, my focus entirely fixed on the glaring warlord.

"Is it true?" I snarled. "Are you really planning on using the Allspark as a weapon?"

"Of course I am." Megatron growled as he drew his own blades. "Too bad you won't be alive long enough to see it come to fruition."

"Then I'll just have to stop you."

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Next Chapter: Here

#transformers #art #drawing #sketch #transformers animated #tfa #tfa fanfic #tf fanfic #transformers fanfiction #fanfic #male reader #x reader #reader insert #tfa ratchet

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flipping-the-coin · 1 year ago

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Ratchet! Why are you so mean to Orion? He’s been in a bad place.

𝔉𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔩 𝔖𝔱𝔢𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡: ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔱

ℭ𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔩 ℑ𝔞𝔠𝔬𝔫 -

ℭ𝔶𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔞𝔫 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔩 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔰 -

𝔊𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔇𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 -

Mean? You consider my actions merely mean? No, I am well aware that what I have been doing has long since stepped beyond that line into the realms of outright cruelty. However, I have no remorse in that regard. Orion Pax is not the only mech with personal issues and he never will be.

I have treated Orion with no more cruelty than he did Optimus. We fought a war because of HIS lover. We DIED so that he might have his Primus forsaken happy ending. We lost EVERYTHING because Orion Pax saw fit to be selfish when the rest of us could not afford to. My Prime spent every waking moment in absolute agony because of Orion and STILL offered his life to restore our world. I think it is only fair that some of that pain is returned to its originator… especially since Pax will live the rest of his days with all that he wanted while those of us who fought so hard will endure in silence, missing pieces of ourselves and suffering for Orion and Megatron's benefit. If I had my way, Megatron would be executed and Orion Pax would pay his penance in the Primacy serving under them. Perhaps then he would understand the concept of sacrifice.

We gave all we had to the cause, my Prime especially so. There was not a mech more loyal to our purpose than Optimus, and Orion, despite his claims of fighting for a better future, punished my Prime for that loyalty. Orion claims to fear Optimus, he says he is terrified of him because my Prime kept him 'locked away' while ignoring his pleas for mercy. But that leads me to wonder, why be afraid of someone who fought for our world if you are not an enemy of our people? Why would Orion struggle so bitterly to stop our efforts to end the threat Megatron posed if Orion did not truly care for our world, and rather just for his own personal gain? I spent vorns listening to my former friend rattle on and on about how freedom was a right all sentient beings were entitled to. Almost all of my time as a CMO I endured the long ramblings Orion fell into regarding the cruelty of the caste system. Do you have any idea how many speeches I listened to him recite on the subject? How many times I endured his constant prattling even as he abused his rank to pamper his precious gladiator?

He's a hypocrite, and I intend to remind him of it for the remainder of my functioning. He claims Optimus was the monster, and yet was it not because Orion was too selfish to take the Matrix that so many were hurt? He says Optimus was his jailer, hurting him by fighting for the cause ORION stood for. Despite the fact that Optimus stood for Orion's values, did Pax not torture him for it anyway? He's a selfish little glitch who never grew up enough to learn what it means to live for more than just himself.

How a mech like Optimus came from a glitch like Orion is beyond me. From what I see, my Prime may not have always been totally innocent, but at least he was consistent. He kept to his morals and he learned from his mistakes, always striving to be better and to meet the standards of his station and the Autobots. Even if he was wrong in his decisions as Orion claims, he still held himself to a higher standard and worked for a greater good that Orion abandoned long ago. The hatred and distain Pax bears toward the one who was forged from him sickens me. How can he despise the one HE created? Orion made Optimus, he made the war, and HE made the monster Megatron became. Do not mistake my words as sympathy or an excuse for the Primus forsaken slagger that dares to pollute Cybertron with his presence, but I will not lie and say that Megatron was not influenced. All of this death and pain could have been resolved long ago if Orion Pax were willing to see anything beyond his own desires for half a klik and make rational choices.

Optimus's will forbids that any harm come to Orion Pax or Megatron by extension. I honor that wish by never drawing energon. I know my Prime is far more merciful than I am. He has always been that way so long as I can remember. And so with that in mind, I will see justice dealt on his behalf.

I will do whatever it takes to ensure my Prime's legacy is honored and that he is happy. If that means Orion must suffer, then so be it. I hold no remorse.

𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔩 𝔖𝔱𝔢𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡 - ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔱

#maccadam #transformers prime #transformers #transformers prime au #two sides to a coin au #two sides supplemental writing #orion pax #megatron #megaop #optiratch #tfp optimus #tfp ratchet #ratchet responds #two sides asks

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petitelepus · 1 year ago

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How would The tfa bots react to meeting an elite guard from their bot s/o past who use to bully them back in cybertron and who put a very cruel prank on them traumatizing and not feeling sorry for their actions ?

The Autobots can see there is something wrong the minute Elite Guards step out of their spaceship. You went riding as steel and looked around for any chance to leave.

Before Team Prime had a chance to ask what made you so nervous, you saw them notice you and you didn't waste any time. You transformed and took off, heading towards the Autobot base.

Optimus and others were confused but then your former bully walked up to them and laughed, "Oh Primus, was that them?"

"Yeah, do you know each other?" Bumblebee asked and the bully smiled,

"Oh yeah, they were such a crybaby back in Autoboot Camp!" They laughed and then they started to tell just how cruelly they had pranked you and they had the guts to laugh at your misery, "Oh Primus, where did they go, I want to see if they still cry when I mention that-!"

"Yeah, forget it," Bumblebee said as he crossed his arms.

"Yeah, you aren't seeing them," Bulkhead said and the rest of the Team Prime supported the decision.

"It's best for everyone if you leave now," Prowl suggested and despite appearing calm, he was also just as furious as the rest of your teammates.

"Like, you aren't being serious, are you?" The bully asked and Optimus frowned at them, "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"Please choose the hard way," Ratchet said as he glared at the bully.

The said bully blinked, realizing that they weren't welcome on Earth anymore and they had the guts to get offended by it.

"Who do you think you are talking to?! You can't talk like that to me! I'm dating Sentinel Prime, the future Magnus of Cybertron!"

"Oh, you know Sentinel?"

Thinking that they had gained the upper hand, the bully grinned and nodded smugly.

"Yeah, so if you apologize to me now then I might not tell him how mean you were to me-!"

"That makes sense."

"Yeah, disgusting people attract other horrible people." The Autobots nodded and the bully couldn't believe what they were hearing.

"This- This isn't over!" They shouted as they turned to leave and The team Prime nodded, pleased that they had left.

"Let the trash take itself out," Ratchet grumbled and the others nodded as they turned to leave and return to base.

They needed to comfort you, tell you that they always will be on your side, and let you know just how pissed they had made your bully.

That would no doubt cheer you up.

#transformers animated #transformers #tfa #bullying #mentions of bullying #optimus prime #optimus #bumblebee #prowl #ratchet #bulkhead #sentinel #sentinel prime #Reader #Anon #ENJOY!

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shenaniganeryfromtheabyss · 5 days ago

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okay, so like this takes place years ahead of current human Starborn shenanigans but the lore isn't too important. just keep in mind that Starry and Prowl are roughly the same height and Starry is like ~2/3 mech at this point. it's weird and convoluted, but it'll be explained if i ever lock in and wrote my fanfic.

edit ;; also, i'm not fully ~lored~ on TF anatomy and don't care at the time of posting so like,, if things are wrong, scream at me in the notes and i will hyperventilate abt it later

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burgundy stained - Heat-Seeker one-shot

CW | ment. of blood // citrus scale ;; lime

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the last hit landed and knocked Prowl off his pedes, Starborn standing over him in victory. their sparring matches weren't few nor far between, but the game they played never got old. this match lasted well past when they planned to end and carried into the night.

the autobot lay in the crushed grass of the field for a moment to catch his breath. he didn't need to but the feeling was nice after the ringer he was just put through. his partner- sparring partner- was getting better with each match, has since the start. now, it was Prowl who needed to keep up as opposed to the vice versa.

he would go to try and push himself up, but the weight of the terran laying down on him stopped him dead in his tracks. Prowl froze momentarily, the unexpected act catching him off-guard. affection like this from Starborn wasn't odd in the slightest, but it was rare to the autobot.

"just stay here a moment, please,," the terran mumbled, deep breaths hitting Prowl's frame, "i don't wanna walk all the way back yet,,,"

"yes,, we can- we can stay, for a minute."

Prowl usually enjoyed his personal space and wasn't too fond of being clung to, but he felt he could make an exception this one time. he wasn't sure why, though, for Starborn of all mechs. a mix of emotions ran through his circuits as he felt the other's weight fully relax and the warmth of his frame against his own. he was never good at processing or even knowing how he felt, but this,, it felt nice. he wouldn't ever say it out loud- Primus, no- but this did feel nice.

a bit of nervousness started to build within him as it was clear that Starborn was comfortable in his position, his head on the autobot's chasis along his servo just barely touching the insignia in its center. Prowl didn't know where to place his servo and didn't want to make the terran uncomfortable in his decision. hesitantly, he brought his arm over his sparring partner to rest his servo just above his waist. it earned him a sigh of content, from what he could tell.

"you sparred really today,," Prowl broke the silence that had grown for a moment. Starborn looked up at him, tilting his helm slightly, and it hit the autobot just how close they really were. the feeling of his sparring partner's now steady breath faintly against faceplate made his chasis feel full of fluttering bugs.

"your- your technical skill has improved significantly, and your fighting style has become more unique as we've kept practicing together. i think you're pretty sufficient for a mech who wasn't apart of the war. not that- you have to-" Prowl rambled on, his optics not meeting Starborn's.

not that the terran was really listening to him.

his gaze had flicked downward a couple times at first, but now it was fixed on Prowl's dermas. it was no rarity for their sparring sessions to end with a bit of blood drawn, from either or both parties. this time was no exception as a dribble of sky blue blood left Prowl's mouth while Starborn had a smear of crimson coming from his nose and across his cheek.

his blood is so pretty, same bright blue as his eyes,,

a bit of a morbid thought, but that wasn't the terran's main concern at the moment. Prowl's gaze momentarily went back to Starborn to see he was distracted, a bit of peeve in his voice, "Starry? are you listening to me?"

their optics met and all restraint Starborn had was thrown out the window. "not really, i kinda want you to shut up for once."

"wha- what are you-"

Starborn's servo moved to grab the side of Prowl's helm as he pushed himself up enough to kiss him. it was rough at first, their blood mixing and smearing into a muddy burgundy. the autobot was caught completely of off-guard for a moment but soon reciprocated. as the kiss softened, a small groan escaped his vocalizer followed by a whine from Starborn's.

they would eventually pull away, breathless. without thinking of it, they both had moved to grab at each other while lost in their moment. Starborn was more on top of his partner while both of Prowl's servos were on the terran's waist.

a small bit panic hit Starborn's processor as he realized what he just did, "frag, i didn't- that wasn't-"

"you have no idea how long i've wanted that to happen." Prowl cut him off before flipping the two of them over so that he was on top, his dermas crashing into Starborn's to continue. he was met with no protest, quite the opposite. neither cared about the metallic taste that creeped into their mouths nor the stains left by their combined blood. they only cared about exploring each other in this moment.

Prowl's servos trailed down to his partner's hips and his digits dug into his frame as the other mech groaned. it didn't take much work to push the terran's shirt up enough for Prowl to work his servos under it, feeling the scarred organic tissue before reaching warm metal. without an alt mode, Starborn's frame simply resembled a human's. it was different, but in a fun way. Prowl's servo traveled up, pushing his partner's shirt up with it, to cup one side of Starborn's chasis. his digits pushed into the seam of the metal, feeling the static of the circuits underneath pulse with adrenaline and anticipation.

the autobot eventually pulled away to let Starborn breathe, but only to trail kisses from his cheek down to his neck. Starry panted, his processor spinning from it all. "fuuck,," he groaned before flinching at Prowl biting him.

"i'm sorry, was that too far?" the bot immediately asked, pulling back a little.

"no, no- you're fine. that was,, i liked that." Starry responded, mumbling the last part, "just caught me by surprise, heheh,,"

Prowl's faceplate already felt warm, but now it was almost red hot as his processor whirred at the idea of his partner being into biting. it took a beat for him to ask, "do you, want to keep going?"

"please~,,"

the bot wasted no time burying his face back into his partner's neck, now with renewed motivation to leave dents in his frame.

#i've been sittin on this one for a hot second #it's not perfect and i'm not checkin it before hitting send so #no beta we die like men #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #original character #oc #oc/canon #transformers #transformers earthspark #transformers au #transformers starborn #transformers prowl #prowl

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lets-try-some-writing · 1 year ago

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Immortals

Cybertronians are ancient beings, but even they age. Their frames deteriorate, and if that isn't what puts them in the grave, then eventually their sparks grow weary and fade. It is the way of things, and with time, every Cybertronian reaches the end of their road. All accepted this reality, but with the passage of time, a few mecha have found that they simply do not suffer as the rest.

Megatron more so than others.

[Please note this is a solid 10k nightmare that was also posted on Ao3 so be ready to READ if you click on the read more.]

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Death was by no means a new concept for Megatron. He was raised amidst it, lived relishing in it, and now wandered through the remnants of places that once flourished. In a way, it was part of him just as much as he was part of it. He brought death wherever he went, as such it was only fitting in a rather poetic sense that death spared him its embrace. He offered so many sparks to satisfy the appetite of the void, why would it not reward him by refusing him the chance to perish in peace?

For several long vorns, all he did was wander the stars after being freed from Unicron’s control. He had no purpose without his cause, and he had no desire to see any suffer as he did under the great devourer. Whatever urge to conquer once plagued his spark was long gone. In its place… he felt the desire to instead try and find himself again. So much madness and devastation. He forgot who he was, and he desperately wished to recover that lost sense of self.

He wasn’t entirely sure when the decision was made, but at some point during his wanderings, not even a millennia after he fled to the stars, Megatron meandered his way back to Cybertron. There was no hiding who he was, nor did he really bother trying. What was the point of that? Everyone was bound to know him based on his face alone regardless of whether or not he went through the trouble of filing down spikes and rusted armor plates. He fully expected to be met with raised blasters and blades, however, he was instead greeted by familiar faces and smiles.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Look who crawled in from the asteroid belt. While you were off doing who knows what, I Starscream was given a senatorial seat!” Starscream stood as proudly as ever, a slag-eating smile on his face as he gestured toward the badge on his shoulder. Megatron could only be thankful it wasn’t a crown or gaudy cape the seeker had chosen as his designator of profession and rank.

“I can see that, Starscream” Megatron hissed as the seeker continued to preen with pride. Beside him, Soundwave and Optimus stood. The former refused to even look at Megatron, an unsurprising reaction when all things were considered. The latter merely smiled as kindly as ever, his frame still bulky and unsightly, no longer the smaller more mobile form that he possessed before their Primus forsaken war.

“It is good that you have returned Megatron. I believe there is much to discuss.” The Prime stated simply as if Megatron hadn’t fragged off for almost a millennia and then sauntered back to Cybertron still carrying the burden of the many lives he ended. Then again, if the Prime allowed Starscream of all mecha to have a seat of power, perhaps Megatron being greeted kindly was not totally out of the question. Optimus was always a soft sparked fool.

“You aren’t going to try and blast me to bits, Prime? One would think after a war as bitter as ours that the people would demand justice.” Starscream scoffed, Soundwave twitched from where he was looking over a datapad, and the situation as a whole grew somewhat tense until Optimus replied.

“The war is over Megatron. You are no longer leader of the Decepticons, nor am I the sole leader of the Autobots. Things have changed, amends have been made. I will not say there is no lingering bitterness, but there is a second chance for you if you wish to take it.” A long silence reigned as Megatron considered. The world around him was not the one he knew or wanted, but it was Cybertron, it was his home. He had no intention of lingering for long, but what was the harm in remaining for a time?

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Arrangements were made and Megatron took up a job as a simple poet. His spark demanded he climb the ladder and try to wrestle some form of control away from the senate that formed in his absence. However he did not trust himself to not abuse that power should he gain it, not when the power of Unicron still tainted him. He remained quiet, contemplative, and docile as he worked on his various philosophical writings, largely uncaring of the world outside. Too many new faces, too many strange places with new names that were once locations he considered ‘home’.

Most only recognized him from their history lessons and thus treated him fairly normally. A few of the older bots wandering around sneered or hurried away in fear, but as a general rule, Megatron was left alone when he did go to the cities for whatever reason. He had no need for fuel, Unicron’s taint made the inherent necessity of energon null and void. It was disturbing at times, but he preferred it that way. It meant he was not required to head to cities often to restock. The newness of Cybertron was unsettling, and he was perfectly content to remain far away from the cities out in the renewed spire forests near what was now titled New Kaon. He didn’t want to or rather didn’t trust himself to get involved in the changing state of his homeworld. Thus, he kept quiet, held his helm low, and focused on himself.

The only ones he interacted with were old companions and enemies, mecha he knew well from war. He never left his hideaway out in the woods save for when Optimus dragged him away to do something or other or give his opinion on a legislation. The Prime seemed to have made it his life mission to redeem everyone and everything if his growing collection of reformed Decepticon and Autobot advisors said anything. Still, it was a comfort in a way. It made Megatron feel… normal, especially once he finally began dealing with old wounds.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Megatron: Abandoned the cause.” Soundwave sat beside him on his porch, looking up at the stars above. He had not spoken to his former second-in-command since his arrival on Cybertron. Neither was willing to speak to the other despite how much it ate away at them both. It hurt too much.

“I know,” Megatron replied simply. There was little else to say. What could he say? Soundwave gave everything to their cause, believing in Megatron and what they fought for. Then without warning, Megatron abandoned that cause, leaving all their efforts to waste away and Cybertron to fall under Autobot rule, at least technically. The senate was composed of mecha from all factions. Optimus was a fool, but he and his inner circle were good about trying to have a wide variety of opinions.

“Megatron: Left Soundwave to rust. Left Shockwave in Autobot servos. Left loyal followers to be captured and imprisoned.” Again, his oldest friend spoke and Megatron repeated his prior phrase.

“I know.”

Soundwave sat still beside him, his visor keeping Megatron from knowing what expression he was making. They said nothing for what had to be at least a long thirty or so kliks, both lost in their thoughts. The stars shone above them, a testament to the glory of their world when the skies were not blackened with smog and the fumes of burning cities. He could still smell the plasma in his olfactory sensors, he could still hear the screams in the dead of his recharge cycles. Despite that, there was peace to be found just… sitting and observing with his dear friend as if they were both still young and hopeful.

“Will you stay? Will you abandon us again?” A soft and grim voice called out to him in the gloom of the cycle. Megatron hummed, feeling his thrusters warm a degree as he considered again retreating to the stars. This world was not home anymore, but those he cared for remained. It would not do for him to leave them for good, not after the torment he dragged them through in the name of freedom.

“I will Soundwave. Until there are none who care for me, I shall remain.” Spindly digits reached out and gently touched him. Megatron did not need to look to appreciate the weight on his arm where Soundwave offered a degree of comfort. They needed each other, more than anything else, they needed familiarity.

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Time was something Megatron did not often pay close attention to in his quiet dwelling. His servos were occupied with his written works, his mind consoled by the occasional queries sent to him by Soundwave and Optimus, and his spark was eased as he watched the forest around him thrive. The anniversaries of Cybertron’s restoration were his only true method of keeping time. First, there was the 691st, which Optimus dragged him off to in order to show the people how much old wounds were healing. Then there was the 843rd where Starscream threw a tart at his helm and spurred on one of the most impressive fuel fights Megatron had ever seen.

The 927th where Soundwave scared Optimus’s favored medic so badly that the spymaster was nearly met with a blade. The 1034th where the Earth team Megatron fought against during the last days of the war threw all their collected blackmail at one another. Then there was the 1130th where a whole batch of younglings managed to convince Megatron to tell them a few stories…

Vorns passed and yet not once did it seem that anyone he cared for changed at all. Starscream was still a glitch, Soundwave was as dutiful as ever assisting the Prime and his senate in handling internal affairs, and Shockwave remained a genius in science once he was allowed to roam on parole. Knockout was doing something or other and evidently making a great profit off it, and the Autobots Megatron recognized seemed to be doing just fine. The world changed, but the mecha he knew stayed the same for the most part, that is save for the odd paint change such as Starscream’s botched attempt to sport gold for a short time.

They were constants, stable reminders of who Megatron was and what influence he had aside from the pure devastation he wrought. But of course, that mindset did not last. Not once he made the decision to visit the rebuilt city of Iacon on a whim. When he arrived, Optimus sat with the elected senators discussing policies and other things that Megatron had little care for. However, as he looked around, concern and a degree of shock were quick to worm their way into his spark.

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“Did you really invite him to assist in these matters, Optimus? I can’t exactly patch you up like I used to if he goes off the rails!” Ratchet, the Prime’s loyal lap dog, raised his cane into the air with a scowl as he gestured toward where Megatron stood in growing horror near the door. He hated the fragger with a vengeance, yet he couldn’t help but wonder… When did the medic get a cane? When did his plating dull so much? At what point did his joints begin cracking every fourth step?

“I did not invite him, old friend. However his presence is welcome, he has much he can contribute.” Optimus smiled gently and gestured for Megatron to take a seat in an empty chair a few seats down from him. Megatron obliged, albeit with a degree of hesitation as he examined the rest of the senate members.

Most were new faces he did not know well aside from what he gathered from the data Soundwave occasionally sent him for review. However, those he did know were… different. Perhaps the celebrations clouded his judgment, but now that he saw them without the atmosphere of cheer and remembrance, their differences were stark and clear.

“Finally done with your self-imposed exile Lord Megatron? I am sure there is some position I could have you fill serving under one of my officers.” The urge to chuck something at the arrogant seeker was strong, but any retort died on his glossa as he observed his former officer. Starscream had gotten a frame change long before Megatron returned from the stars, and it never really struck him how drastic the differences were until that moment when he really looked.

Starscream’s plating was darker, no longer lustrous, and a sure sign of nanite failure. His wings, which he religiously held high throughout all of his youth, now dipped to a degree due to tiredness in what were once strong cables and hydraulics. His face was sharper, still polished and shining, but covered in small nicks and creases in the metal from long vorns of continual activity. What was most startling to Megatron was the way in which the seeker sat. No longer did he hold himself as if he were attempting to impress everyone, instead he sat perfectly composed, still proud, but with an air of earned respect. Shockwave and Soundwave were not much better off. Both sat slightly hunched in their seats, their armor dulled and any exposed components appearing far frailer than they once were.

Where had his proud warriors gone? Megatron had not experienced any signs of wear and tear, so why should his officers be dealing with it so seriously? If they were being overworked, he would have words for the Prime…

And yet, seeing how Ratchet all but hobbled along with his cane as he grumbled his way to his chair, Megatron began to doubt it was Optimus’s doing. The others at the table were perfectly fine, almost exuding youthful energy with how vibrantly their plating shone and with how energetic their voices were as they put forward ideas and debated.

“Let us continue, shall we?” Optimus guided the conversation along with expert precision that left Megatron slightly bewildered. The Prime was always an excellent speaker, but now he seemed older, wiser perhaps. His optics were tired even as he maintained his smile and welcomed the late arrivals.

Megatron sat in silence throughout the meeting for the most part. All he could do was watch and finally see how much those he knew had degraded. He struggled to believe it, especially when his armor still glinted and his spark hummed with power. This wasn’t right, it couldn't be right. How could those he knew be falling to pieces while he endured? Perhaps he was overreacting. Optimus seemed fine after all.

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After the revelation of his compatriots' degradation, Megatron made far more frequent trips to the cities to visit them. Death was nothing new, and yet he could hardly comprehend it in those he once saw as functionally immortal. Cybertronians did not wither as other species, it was not in their nature. However, given time, their frames would break down, and should that fail to bring them to their end, their spark would weaken and putter out at some point, regardless of the newness of a frame.

Most simply never bothered trying to hold themselves together once their frames started to fall apart if they lived long enough to reach that point. Self-repair systems could keep a mech up and running in prime condition for millions of years. As such when they finally started to show signs of aging, it was often taken as a sign and allowed to be. No matter how many components were replaced or how many times mind and spark were transferred, once the original frame started to crumble, it was only a matter of time. Some like Ratchet could last far longer than others for any plethora of reasons, but sooner or later, death would come for them, one haunting step at a time.

After that meeting, Megatron knew it would happen eventually. He knew sooner or later those he cared for would start to fall one by one. Even still, when he came to visit Shockwave and found the mech dead in his laboratory, his spark long had gone out and his frame undisturbed due to his lack of friends… Megatron found it hurt more than he thought it would.

Shockwave’s funeral was a short and sweet affair. Those who knew him from before the war bid their final goodbyes, a few loyal Decepticons offered condolences, and surprisingly, the Predacons who had taken to ruling over the still undeveloped west came as well. They knelt before Shockwave’s gray and lifeless frame and offered quiet words of thanks to the scientist for giving them life. As Shockwave left no will behind, there were no objections when Predaking took the body of his creator to be laid to rest in the lands he had dominion over. A great scientist, a master geneticist, and once upon a time, a true friend.

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“Thank you for all you did Shockwave. I do not know if this is what you would have wanted, but I doubt you would have minded this outcome all that much.” Predaking had taken care to ensure that Shockwave’s memory was properly upheld with a memorial engraved with abstract images of the scientist weaving life from mere bones. Megatron appreciated the effort, especially once blue crystal flowers began to grow around the headstone of his old companion.

He hoped Shockwave would have at least found a degree of satisfaction in knowing that his creations endured. The reforged Predacons held little love for their creator, but Shockwave was the one who gave them life, and their appreciation was quite clear in their efforts. The memorial was spotless and the newly emerged Predacons that climbed from the Well were all brought before Shockwave’s grave at least once.

Megatron liked to think Shockwave would have been pleased to know that his life served as an example to his creations. Last Megatron checked, there were a few Predacons who had opted to follow in the pedesteps of their creator, aiming to be scientists and researchers like Shockwave. There seemed to be an underlying urge to surpass him amongst all of the newly forged Predacons. Megatron personally found it rather amusing. None would ever be as brilliant as his head scientist.

“Rest well Shockwave. I will return to visit you soon.” Megatron smiled as he watched younger Predacons meander around, observing him in silence. He sighed and patted the memorial once before turning to leave. A growing heaviness weighed down his spark, but he paid it little mind. His old comrade would want him to be strong. Shockwave always despised it when emotions overcame rationality.

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It really shouldn’t have surprised him when the old bag of bolts finally offlined. But it did despite the fact that it was a long time coming. Ratchet’s death was devastating for many of the Autobots, but Optimus more so than any other. It had been a rather sudden thing apparently. According to Soundwave, Ratchet had bid Optimus a good recharge cycle and then passed quickly sometime during the early groons of the cycle without warning. No one suspected much until he failed to arrive for his shift in the clinic. At that point, it was Ratchet’s apprentice and caretaker First Aid who came to check on him only to find his frame lifeless but still warm to the touch.

Ratchet was a cranky glitch who, while often right in matters of science and medicine, was not the most pleasant to be around. Despite that, hundreds of former Autobots came to his funeral. Ratchet was buried in the forests of Southern Iacon, as per his will. Optimus was too large to be part of the procession carrying the medic’s coffin, but that did not stop him from bidding his companion farewell with the most saddened and sorrowful song Megatron had ever heard from the vocalizer of his former foe.

The medic was given military honors and his will was seen to. Megatron only came to the funeral partially to spite the fragger with his own continued functioning but largely so that he could be there for the Prime. Bumblebee and other mecha Megatron knew were close to Ratchet stayed for several groons, but they eventually left after their coolant stores ran dry. Despite that, when the other Autobots cleared out and the last came to bid their farewells, Optimus Prime did not move from where he stood at the side of the freshly made grave, his sword dug into the ground and his expression firm as he gazed resolutely ahead.

Even when acid rain rolled in from the Rust Sea, Optimus did not so much as twitch. He remained quiet, standing guard over the grave of his comrade in what Megatron could only imagine was one final act of loyalty. The rain did not hurt Optimus much, not with how sturdy he was built, but as his paint melted and was washed away by brutal winds, Megatron decided to linger.

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“These rains will continue for cycles, Optimus. How long do you intend to remain here?” Megatron stood beside the Prime as the wind howled as the rain assaulted his frame. It didn’t hurt, his armor was touched by the Unmaker. Next to nothing save for the strongest of weapons could damage him. However, Optimus was not the same. The Prime was hardy, that much was true. But he was still mortal in the end, at least in frame. The rains chipped away at his paint and had to be aggravating with their sting as acid puttered against increasingly sore plating.

“I will remain until I have fulfilled my promise.” Megatron raised a brow at the Prime’s words, watching on curiously as Optimus started to hum quietly, his blade still driven into the ground and his stance firm.

“And what is that promise?” He questioned cautiously as the wind picked up in severity, battering his and Optimus’s frames with a greater vengeance. The Prime remained quiet for a long few kliks, seemingly lost in thought before at last, he replied.

“It was one of our rites we performed during the war. We made many promises that cycle, not all of which we were able to fulfill. But one of them was that should one of us fall… the other was to stand guard one last time.” Megatron said nothing as the Prime continued to stand, his expression stoic and strong. Optimus and Ratchet’s relationship was something Megatron never fully bothered to look into. It was not relevant to the war, and after his return to Cybertron, it simply was not important. Whatever their connection, they never made a show out of it.

Still, it was quite clear that their bond, regardless of its type, ran deep enough for Optimus Prime to wish to endure the long watch, unmoving until their final rite was complete. It was sweet in a sense, but Megatron found himself more uncertain than anything else as he observed the slight crease around Optimus’s optics. Reaching up to touch his own face revealed nothing of the sort, and for that reason, Megatron worried.

Optimus’s frame was biologically far younger than his due to his reforging at the behest of the other Primes. Combined with the Matrix ensuring the Prime could not die due to his spark puttering out… there were worrying implications. How was it that Optimus and so many others were aging when Megatron did not? Was he like the old medic in that death was taking its sweet time getting to him? Or was there something else, something far grimmer to be concerned with?

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After Ratchet, things seemed to fall apart far faster. Almost as if a switch had been flipped, suddenly Megatron could see the differences in everyone.

Soundwave became frailer, even reaching the point where he physically required the aid of symbiotes to function. His sight grew weaker and his senses poorer so that he could either find himself confined to using a cane or getting symbiotes. Soundwave was quick to choose the latter. Megatron’s former spymaster was not pleased in the slightest when he was offered a few young symbiotes without carrier units, but he accepted them begrudgingly. Often he would shoo them away during Megatron’s visits, usually complaining off and on about how energetic they were. Deep down though, it was quite clear Soundwave cared a great deal about them. They were too high energy for his tastes, but the former spymaster tended to them dutifully and they in turn showered him with assistance when it was required.

Even still, Megatron was always somewhat distraught when he visited. It was not hard to realize that he simply… did not age. It had been millennia and Megatron felt no weaker in spark, body, or mind. He had no need to visit a medic to confirm it. He could sense it in his very core whenever he took Soundwave’s arm to help him walk. They were almost the same age and yet Soundwave had a cloud of death lingering above him at all times. It was harder to accept than he thought it would be when he watched Soundwave trip and break his leg for the first time from a simple fall.

Speaking with his dear friend in the hospital was optic opening for him to say the least.

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“I apologize for not catching you, Soundwave. I was not paying close enough attention. I thought the fall would not have affected you so greatly.” Megatron stood by the berthside of his former spymaster. Soundwave for his part lay still in the berth with his arms placed at his sides and his venting was so shallow that it was downright disturbing. He looked so very thin from where Megatron towered over him. His wrists especially seemed two kliks and one stiff breeze away from breaking like a rust stick.

“Soundwave: Understands. Megatron: Has not fully comprehended situation.” Megatron gave his companion the most befuddled look he could manage, and in response, Soundwave laughed.

It was a broken and raspy sound that led his vents to hitch in what had to be a painful manner. Soundwave’s symbiotes were quick to flock around him, wiping down his vent filters and adjusting his berth settings so that he was sitting up a bit more. The little things were worried sick, but Soundwave merely hummed and waved them off with one stick-thin arm. They obliged and stepped back after a moment. It hurt Megatron somewhere in his spark to watch the scene. Less than a millennia ago he wouldn’t have put it past Soundwave to be able to eliminate him in the arena. Yet now he laid in a medical berth, his leg welded back into place but his frame so small and fragile looking as to make the repairs seem far from satisfactory.

“Megatron: Has not aged a cycle since Cybertron’s restoration. Forever youthful. Frame still strong. Mind still sharp. Spark still powerful. Megatron: Untouched my time.” Soundwave gestured toward Megatron’s shining armor, particularly his shoulder plating and his optics with one painfully thin digit. The symbiotes made noises of agreement from where they huddled nearby but otherwise said nothing as Soundwave continued.

“Soundwave: Not like Megatron. The others: Not like Megatron. We age. We decay. We will die.” Megatron paused as the words registered. His spark flared in his chassis in denial. Logically he knew Soundwave was right. He was different on a fundamental level now. Whatever Unicron did to him changed him, made it so that unless he was cut down, nothing would touch him. Shockwave had already fallen, it was only to be expected that others would soon follow…

“That won’t happen yet, not for some time. You still have strength in you, my friend. I know you can endure.” Reaching out, Megatron was as gentle as he could be in taking Soundwave’s servo and holding it. The former spymaster shook his helm slowly as he grasped Megatron’s far larger digits with such pitiful strength that Megatron felt true fear worm its way into his spark. Soundwave had always been by his side, ever since the beginning. To lose him-

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Soundwave: Will one day offline. Megatron: Will be left alone.” Soundwave lifted his other arm and with both servos held Megatron’s far larger one. There was a hint of desperation in Soundwave’s field as he pulled himself up as much as he could and began to speak again.

“Soundwave and others: Will not be here forever. Megatron: Will endure?” Silence reigned for a long moment as Megatron’s spark flared in pain and grief. He did not even wish to consider losing Soundwave… but now he knew it would one cycle be reality. It was going to tear him apart, but he refused to leave Soundwave without comfort.

“I will try.”

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It hurt to think on Soundwave’s words, even if Megatron knew he was right. His fellows were aging, younger mecha were taking their place. Soundwave was quickly forced to retire after the incident with his leg, and a younger model bearing the same designation was swiftly pushed into the vacant position. The original Soundwave taught his younger namesake as much as he could, but he was weakening and many of his cycles were spent in his hab in the center of Iacon where he could still be of use if need be.

Starscream was not much better.

Over the vorns, he and Starscream had largely reached a strange agreement that bordered on true friendship. Megatron would visit Vos off and on, and in return he would be welcomed and treated as a guest, sometimes even helping Starscream run the city he had dominion over. But it became painfully clear that Starscream was weakening. He still looked his finest at all times, but more tasks were delegated to his younger assistants, and his flights were shorter and less in sync with those he traveled alongside. Starscream’s steps were slower, his wings held lower, and his voice deeper and with an undertone of wisdom, Megatron never expected to hear in his former officer.

At some point, Starscream had Conjunxed a Speaker from a colony world, one whom Megatron only knew as Windblade. Megatron missed their ceremony since no one informed him of it, but from what he knew, she was far younger and tended to handle rulership when Starscream could not. Supposedly the Conjunxing was merely political, but Windblade seemed to genuinely care for the ailing Lord of Vos, if only in a manner not too dissimilar to an Amica. They even took on a whole gaggle of sparklings of their own to raise, a surprise to Megatron who all but expected Starscream to try his best to be an immortal ruler for as long as physically possible.

The named Aerialbots were highly skilled due to Starscream’s training, but their existence and excellence only served to further show Starscream’s age. Every vorn his sparklings grew stronger and his Conjunx took more control. It was a slow and sad decline, one that Starscream surprisingly handled with grace. By the time he actually sat down to speak with Starscream one-on-one around Cybertron's 5491st anniversary of restoration, Megatron found himself even more distraught.

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“Thank you for coming to visit, Megatron… I worried I would not be able to see you again.” Starscream’s voice was deep and rumbling from long vorns of use. His usual snark was nowhere to be seen as he gazed up at the skies, taking occasional sips of his energon as he observed the Aerialbots performing feats of flight above. His optics were dim and his plating dull, and yet he still smiled softly as he watched his five sparklings soar through the skies in perfect sync. Megatron wanted to be awed by the display and pleased with Starscream’s success in teaching, but he couldn’t let go of Starscream’s words. The seeker he knew would rather find him dead in a gutter than talk to him for any reason that did not have an underlying benefit.

“They remind me of Skywarp and Thundercracker.” Starscream mused as the Aerialbots performed a perfect roll, leaving twisting trails of smoke behind them. Following his gaze, Megatron had to admit it was impressive. And yet… it wasn’t Starscream and his trine. They were new, not mecha that Megatron cared to know or was particularly attached to.

“You have taught them well.” Megatron settled on commenting as the Aerialbots performed a few twists that Skywarp and Thundercracker performed with far more eloquence alongside their trine leader. If Starscream shared that opinion, he said nothing as he merely hummed and continued to watch for a long few kliks.

“They are good mecha, Megatron. They are young and just as arrogant as any other seeker, but with time, I know they will do well.” Confusion radiated off Megatron in waves until he saw the wistful smile Starscream had plastered on his face. It seemed so… wrong for the ambitious fragger that Megatron both loved and hated to be bearing anything close to a smile of contentment and peace. He seemed older, wiser, and more ancient than Megatron despite the fact that their ages leaned more in Megatron’s favor in regard to experience.

“Why did you call me here, Starscream? You have always been ambitious and a pain in the aft. Seeing you like this is unsettling.” It took a moment, but as Starscream registered what was said, he chuckled in what was almost a fond manner before he put down his energon cube and turned to face Megatron properly. Starscream had always been a spindly thing, but seeing him so small was a bit of a shock, especially so soon after really seeing Soundwave’s state. The cape the Lord of Vos wore did give him a bit of extra bulk, but beneath it all, he was thin, weak, and aging.

He was no longer the Air Commander Megatron relied on for so many millennia during the war.

“I doubt you’ve noticed much until now considering your circumstances, but I’m old Megatron. All of us are. Even Prime is getting on in vorns. We are all tired, and all those little things that meant so much even a millennia ago simply no longer matter.” The Winglord coughed somewhat harshly, causing him to grip the table and shake for a moment. Megatron reached out to assist but was waved off as Starscream collected himself and continued.

“I’m out of time. Windblade will be the next Winglord and my sparklings will assist her in leading. I tell you this because I want you to keep an optic on them, just to make sure they stay on track. The Aerialbots are arrogant little glitches just like I was. They will need someone to remind them of their place every now and then.” As if to prove his point, the five Aerialbots hooted and hollered as they flipped overhelm, diving toward the ground and shooting up at the last possible moment. Pretentious and arrogant indeed.

“I understand. I won’t be soft with them though.” Starscream laughed again, this time with more of the gusto Megatron recalled. Only it lacked the malicious undertone he was used to, a fact that threw Megatron for a loop despite being well aware that Starscream lost most of his aggression vorns upon vorns ago. Megatron just hadn’t been able to see it amidst the cloud of his thoughts.

“Give them a few beatings. The little glitches will need it once I am gone.” No more words were exchanged between them as Megatron abruptly stood and marched off. Starscream frowned but did not stop him. A hint of regret prodded at his spark, but he paid it no mind. He had no interest in hearing his former Air Commander discuss his death, not when Megatron was not acutely aware that he would likely never be faced with such a prospect.

Not anymore.

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Starscream’s prediction was right. Within the next half vorn, the Lord of Vos passed away quietly in his gardens, held aloft by a thin hammock so that he could feel the wind gushing past his wings as his spark, at last, went out. Megatron attended the funeral alongside Soundwave and Optimus. Both his companions offered words of condolence for the loss and offered Windblade their sympathy. Megatron followed in their pedesteps and even went so far as to give Starscream’s grieving widow a few old trinkets he’d kept around from his former Air Commander.

He was unsure if it did anything, but Windblade offered her thanks all the same. Megatron merely felt… nothing. Even deca-cycles afterward, he was void, cold, and unfeeling. He didn’t want to feel. It hurt too much to think about the newest absence in his life. Shockwave was one thing, but Starscream was another.

He tried not to contemplate the loss of another familiar face or the increasing number of new ones that took Starscream’s place at the odd meeting he attended. Instead, Megatron spent more of his time with those who remained, clinging to Soundwave and oddly enough even Optimus as much as he could. Occasionally he would fly to Vos, and as per Starscream’s final request, beat around the Aerialbots to remind them that they were not in fact as amazing as they thought they were. It was humorous to a degree, but largely sorrowful above all else. The defiant look in the optics of the Aerialbots was far too similar to Starscream for Megatron’s liking.

He tried to only come to Vos when required, but when he was there, he always made sure to walk past the statue dedicated to Starscream, usually leaving some random piece of jewelry behind as well. He liked to think that a younger Starscream would have been both pleased and offended, and that alone made the effort worth it.

Then as if to pour acid into the wound, a mere twenty vorns after Starscream’s passing, Soundwave passed away in the comfort of his home, surrounded by his symbiotes. Megatron hated himself for not being there, he despised that he was not made aware of Soundwave’s passing until he returned to his residence and only became concerned due to a lack of messages, resulting in him reaching out to Optimus. His spark screamed in denial, grief, and rage. However, there was nothing he could do aside from bite back tears when Soundwave’s funeral was held and his last will and testament read out.

Soundwave wanted his frame to be cremated and his ashes turned into gemstones to be given to each of his symbiotes and to Megatron. It was such a small thing, but when the eldest of Soundwave’s symbiotes came to him and offered him a small black jem already within a pendant and ready to be worn… he wept softly and held it close. He didn’t want to believe that Soundwave was gone, not while he remained pristine and not so soon after Starscream. Optimus was his only comfort in the following few vorns. The Prime took up the position Soundwave left in Megatron’s life, and soon enough, Megatron retreated to his hab in the forests and received reports once a deca-cycle.

For a long time, Megatron could not bear to leave his place hidden away in the forests. He warded off wandering mecha who came too close and convinced Optimus to give him the land so that none could intrude and break him from his reverie. He hated the new faces, he hated the new sights. It was so different and always changing on the surface of the world he once called home… and yet he did not change with it. Forever a remnant, a relic of a war that ended millennia earlier.

He did not weep when he was informed of Knockout’s passing, then of Arcee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack, and countless other names that he recognized as both Autobot and Decepticon in origin. He did not attend their funerals, nor did he visit what remained of his former comrades. No, instead he stayed hidden away, unwilling to deal with it all and instead trying to comfort himself by wearing the pendant made of Soundwave’s ashes.

He managed to get away with his behavior for roughly a dozen vorns before Optimus seemed to have had enough as the next thing Megatron knew, the Prime was on his doorstep and promptly invited him to visit Iacon. The prospect caused his spark to ache, but the familiarity of the one he once knew to be a foe and long before that a friend…

He couldn’t find it within himself to object, not after seeing the weariness around Optimus’s optics.

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“You are the Master Archivist now? How are you managing such a position alongside being the head of the Council?” The archives were deep and dark, just as they were back when Megatron was still but a gladiator and Optimus not yet a Prime. In the back of his processors, he was nearly certain the archives would have been renovated to match the newest trends, but it seemed Optimus had kept the pre-war aesthetic. It was a comfort despite the mix of good and bad memories that befell him in response.

“I imagine you have not been keeping track of current affairs, but I have not been head of the Council since Ratchet passed. I handled some affairs for them from here, but otherwise, I have focused my efforts on keeping our history preserved.” The Prime walked softly despite his towering frame almost matching Megatron’s. Many of his gaudy outer plating attachments had thinned and his frame overall seemed somewhat weaker, but it was nothing as prominent as the frailty Starscream and Soundwave showed before their deaths. Optimus’s words almost didn’t reach him amidst the storm of it all, but Megatron still found it within himself to feel a degree of shock.

How out of touch was he?

“What of your scout and the rookie you took a liking to? How do they fare?” Megatron asked, partially to try and distract himself but largely to try and get Optimus to speak on something Megatron actually knew. The yellow nuisance and the elite guardsmech rookie were two mecha that Megatron despised for their efforts during the war but also held respect for due to their show of skills. He didn’t care for them, but if they got Optimus talking and discussing subjects that didn’t cause Megatron’s spark to flare in distress and loss, he would take it.

“They are just fine. Bumblebee has long since risen to the upper echelons of the ranks of Enforcers and Smokescreen has been focused on integrating the Wreckers, DJD, and Elite guard all into one cohesive unit. He’s had limited success so far, but he is trying his best.” The Prime smiled as he led Megatron to the heart of the archive and stood before a console. For a moment, he looked just like Orion Pax, the brother Megatron thought lost to him so long ago. It hurt, it ached.

“I brought you here because I do not wish to see you suffer alone. This burden you bear is great. As such, if you would allow me, I would be here to help you endure it for as long as I am able.” Optimus reached out and gently grasped his arm, pulling him a little closer so that he could see the screen. On it was an image of him, Orion Pax, Soundwave, and Ratchet before everything went to slag. They were all smiling, save for Soundwave who projected a smiley face on his visor. Tears he had long tried to suppress clouded his optics as he clutched Soundwave’s pendant, unable to hold back any longer.

“I do not desire death, but I do wish that I would not be left in this state, untouched by time while all I know fades away before me.” His words came out between harsh sobs. Optimus merely held his servo and drew him into a comforting hug, understanding filling his field. Why was it that all he had left was the mech he once hated the most? Why did his companions have to wither while he did not?

“All will be well Megatronus. This reality that plagues you is not one you need to endure alone. I am here, and I will remain until my end draws near.” Optimus’s ominous final statement flew right over Megatron’s helm as he wept and truly felt the grief of all he lost for the first time. His cause, his Decepticons, Shockwave, Starscream, Soundwave, Knockout, and so many others. All of it was gone, and nothing remained save for echoes, shadows, small trinkets, and the odd mention of them in the history books.

He hated this, but at least he was not alone.

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He took comfort in Optimus for many long vorns. The Prime understood him and was the only one who really knew who Megatron was. Often his routine for the following few millennia amounted to retreating to his abode in the forests where little ever changed and going to Iacon a few times a vorn to visit Optimus and teach the sparklings his former foe gave lessons on history to. Surprisingly, the little ones did not fear Megatron when he stood before him. Whatever anger from the war still remained only seemed to linger among the first generation of forged bots who came from the Well. Most war veterans were dead or too old to care, and for that reason, Megatron did not mind teaching at the archives as required.

Time was a blur for him for the most part, a mess of emotion that largely consisted of grief, reminiscing, brief flares of joy, and apathy. Lots of his time was spent in his hab, writing down his experiences, his poetry, and his wisdom. Those things he brought to Optimus who in turn published them under Megatron’s name. He would have preferred he remain anonymous, but the Prime insisted, and Megatron did not have the spark to say no when Optimus was all that remained.

There were moments of joy and comradery, but overall his life was a mess. Optimus helped and proved to be an anchor, but the way of the world meant that when Megatron finally saw, it was too late to do much of anything.

As with his old comrades, Megatron remained unblemished whereas Optimus suddenly grew to be frailer. Optimus was a Prime, the Matrix kept his spark ablaze and youthful, but it did not maintain the vitality of his frame. As such Optimus rather quickly deteriorated. At first, Megatron said nothing. It was not his place to speak on such matters. He assumed that Optimus was merely biding his time, enjoying the familiarity of his frame for as long as possible before going to get a new one, as was customary amongst Primes who lived long.

They were functionally immortal. Why would they not wish to continue on when all it would take was a quick frame change? Megatron understood better than ever why immortality was a curse more than a gift, but despite that, he still could hardly believe his optics when Optimus continued on, never getting a frame change even when he obviously needed it. The Prime’s armor fell off in droves, leaving him thin and emaciated to the point of requiring one of his younger archivists to guide him around. Then his vision began to fail so much that whenever Megatron visited, he often needed to read things out to Optimus if the print was too small.

Even still, he said nothing for vorns. He was positive Optimus had a reason… up until the Prime tried to go fetch a datapad for Megatron to review only to instead trip, fall, and break his hip in three places. That was the final straw for Megatron.

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“Why won’t you get a fragging frame change?!” Megatron demanded as he marched into Optimus’s office, noting with grief the stabilizer that was now welded onto the Prime’s hip to keep it in place.

“Because I have no need of it,” Optimus replied simply as if he weren’t using reading glasses and didn’t require three pillows just to sit upright in his chair. Megatron growled in outrage, anger boiling within his core to cover for the fear and sorrow that threatened to break loose.

“You are falling apart, Orion!” He all but screamed, his fists shaking as he tried to make his point. Optimus merely put down his glasses with a sigh and turned to face him, suddenly looking so much more tired than Megatron remembered. His old foe always had an air of exhaustion around him, even when they were both still young. But the mech before him was wearier, darker, and seemingly so done with it all that even his spark lamented life.

“I know, and I allow it to be. I am tired Megatronus, I have lived long enough and I want nothing more than to rest with my loved ones in the Allspark.” White hot rage ran through every fuel line and processing unit in Megatron’s frame as he marched forward and grabbed Optimus’s servo, holding it gently despite the way a dark part of him wanted to crush the weakening limb.

“You want to abandon Cybertron? You archivists? Your position? Do you really want to leave it all behind? Are you truly so selfish as to have me endure this reality alone!?” He wasn’t sure when his tears began to fall, but as his wrathful questions poured from his vocalizer, he knew Optimus had already made up his mind. The Prime met his gaze calmly and squeezed his servo in that fond manner only Orion did back before the war.

“I take no joy in this, but I wish to make this singular choice for myself. I want to rest.” Sorrow, rage, denial, and so much more drowned out all logical thought as Megatron tore his servo away and fumed. Memories of the High Council and Orion’s ascension to the rank of Prime plagued him as he marched off, saying only one final thing before he left the archives for what was going to be a very long time.

“FINE THEN! FRAG OFF AND DIE FOR ALL I CARE, PAX!” He slammed the archive doors behind him and took to the skies in a rage, unwilling to heed the messages Optimus sent to him. He couldn’t handle them, not right now.

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Megatron retreated back to his hab and fervently refused to so much as look at any messages from Optimus for vorns on end. He didn't want to hear it. He didn’t want to listen to Optimus’s slagging reasoning for essentially offing himself. The Prime was a selfish fragger and always had been. He could be the one to wait until Megatron was good and ready to come back, at least, that was Megatron’s thought process as he fumed.

Optimus wanted to leave him alone. The Prime was the only other living mech who could essentially go on living forever just like Megatron. Why did he have to decide to abandon him? Why did that hurt so much? Why couldn’t Megatron move on already?

Thoughts plagued him, his anger simmered into remorse, and by the time Optimus contacted him again after a lull of a whole three vorns… he, at last, returned to Iacon.

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“Orion…” His voice echoed in the near-silent room. The only other sound was the tortured venting of the mech before him. Optimus Prime lay on a simple berth in a small hospital room. There was a pile of audio recordings beside him that he had evidently listened to quite frequently if the marks all over them were any indicator. But aside from that, the most notable and startling part of the situation was just how far Optimus had fallen.

He was stick thin, even slimmer than Soundwave was before his death. His plating was all but gone and his limbs were so frail that Megatron doubted the Prime could raise his arm for more than a half klik at most. Despite that, he seemed content as his dull and useless optics remained uncycled while still managing to look in Megatron’s general direction.

“You came…” Optimus murmured, his voice so gravelly and filled with static that it was hard to hear at all. Megatron moved to his ailing companion’s side and gently took the servo that reached out for him. This time he held no anger in his spark, and instead he felt nothing but regret. Vorns he could have spent enjoying the closeness of a former foe and friend were lost because of his bitterness, and now all he had was a few short kliks at best.

“I did. I’m here Orion.” A weak smile met his words and never more did Megatron wish he was capable of aging. He wanted to have been able to age alongside his fellows, to banter about the woes of growing older, and to have the slagging peace that all of his fallen fellows seemed to have right before the end.

“Thank you… for coming… one last… time.” Optimus’s optics flickered and his field crumpled. He was out of time.

“Sire, rest easy, we will take care of things.” Bumblebee came forward from wherever he was previously loitering in the room and took up Optimus’s other servo. The former scout was aged as well, but it did not show with how kindly he cradled the dying Prime’s servo in his own. Megatron did not even bother trying to fight back tears as Optimus continued to smile so hopefully as if he were but a youngling again, just so pleased to be with those he loved.

“I know… you will both… endure… I know… that one cycle… we will… meet… again.” Optimus’s voice started to fade and Bumblebee began to sob. Megatron held himself upright, wishing he could spill out the millions of apologies that he had rehearsed during his trip to Iacon but knowing he had no more time to utter them. Optimus was fading, and if he could hear the words Megatron wished to speak, he would not have the chance to respond.

There would be no comfort from his dear old friend, and so all Megatron could do was listen and obey.

“One day… an Autobot shall rise… from our ranks… and use the… power of the Matrix… to light… our darkest… hour.” The Matrix pulsed, its light shining through Optimus’s thinned armor and causing his optics to glow.

“Until that day… till all… are… one…” And just like that, Optimus’s frame went still, his venting ceasing and his spark chamber opening so that the light of the Matrix could bathe the room. Megatron did not stay. He carefully allowed Optimus’s lifeless servo to rest at his side and allowed Bumblebee to do whatever he wanted with the slagging relic as he stepped outside and flew back to his hab in the forest.

He did not care to linger, and as soon as he was home and the door firmly shut, he collapsed against the wall, weeping and clutching Soundwave’s pendant as if his life depended on it.

“Forgive me Orion… forgive me….”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Megatron stopped bothering to keep track of time at all after Optimus’s passing. He stopped writing, he stopped doing much of anything. He left his hab with only Soundwave’s pendant and a datapad Optimus gave him vorns prior to read from. Once he had those two items, he merely… wandered.

He contemplated ending his life by blaster or blade, but he found that reprehensible considering how pathetic it was compared to his comrades who died content and with honor. And yet he also had no desire to really continue living. As such Megatron fell to marching on, wandering the forests, seeing the sights of Cybertron, and avoiding cities like the plague. On the off chance he met another mech, he was quick to fly away.

Loneliness ate at him, but he disregarded it. He could have left Cybertron and fled back to the stars, but he couldn’t bring himself to. That felt… disrespectful in an odd way, especially after all his comrades did to care for the world he walked. A strange sense of duty kept him firmly planted, and the rational part of his processors explained it away as him keeping his promise to Starscream. He was, by continuing to be present, ensuring that if things really needed to be looked at, he could come to handle the issue.

At least that was what he told himself as cycles bled into one another and countless deca-cycles were spent laying flat on the ground staring up, unmoving and uncaring of the world around him.

He wanted to be left alone to wallow, and for what could have been but a handful of vorns of countless millennia, he was allowed to do just that. But of course, Optimus’s final words had a way of following him, and eventually, he was greeted by a new and old face while resting along the edges of the Rust Sea.

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“You’re Megatron, right? Megatron of Kaon? Lord of the Decepticons, the great and mighty slag maker, the Herald of the Unmaker, and Champion of the pits? Do any of those ring any bells?” A young mech, one likely not older than perhaps millennia, stood above where Megatron lay on the ground uselessly. He sat up quickly and waved a servo dismissively, agitation blooming in his spark as he moved to gather his datapad and leave. But that didn’t seem to be enough for the pesky thing to leave him alone as quickly the orange, gold, and red youngling stood in front of him, stopping his path.

“Got any time to spare for an adventure?” The youngling asked with a big smile that seemed slightly unnatural to Megatron. He grunted and tried to sidestep before Bumblebee of all mecha hit his leg with a cane the former scout had evidently acquired.

“Been looking for you for quite some time Megatron. We have a situation on our servos that requires somebody with actual experience to deal with.” The yellow scout scowled as he glared at the youngling who sheepishly whistled, seemingly uncaring of whatever distress he was causing.

“Something’s gone wrong with Cybertron’s core. The Well is turning up empty with less and less sparklings every vorn. We found some of Optimus’s old texts talking about the ‘Knights of Cybertron’ and we could use your assistance hunting them down.” Surprise was quick to override agitation at the mention of the fallen Prime. Megatron stopped trying to get away as Bumblebee tried to speak only to be interrupted by the youngling before him.

“Bee’s got it mostly summed up! My designation is Rodimus Prime! Just got the Matrix, not all that long ago and I’ve already got a crew ready to go and find these Knights!” A Prime? Megatron could feel his brow raising in cautious curiosity as he looked the mech over. He didn’t at all match any prior Prime Megatron knew of, but then again, it was a time of peace. Odd things happened during peace just as they did while at war.

“According to Bee, you’ve just been wandering around for the past few millennia since you can’t die. So what do you say? Want to go on an adventure and shake things up? I’ve got stickers!” The stupidity was astounding, and yet Megatron found himself compelled. It had been so long since he’d really attempted to connect with anyone, and quite frankly, Cybertron held too many painful memories to continue hanging around. He kept his promise to Soundwave and Starscream as much as he was able.

Maybe it would do him some good to leave for a while. If nothing else, he might find someone out there to kill him in an honorable fashion.

“Only if I can be co-captain of this expedition.” He settled on a compromise, not fully trusting the so-called Prime before him. Rodimus seemed only partially let down before he gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up and grabbed Megatron’s arm.

“Then let’s get going! Cybertron won’t save itself!” Rodimus smiled, Bumblebee grumbled, and Megatron sighed. Whatever was going to happen, at least he wouldn’t be alone.

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