#six cycles later: cybertron

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 3: Mistakes

Trigger warnings: body horror, gore, violence, sparks, unethical experimentation, some medical malpractice, hi shockwave

Featuring a guest appearance from Clinic, who belongs to @palmmall

Chapter summary: There's something in the base.

word count: 5907

Prior chapter is here. next chapter is here.

chapter below the cut!

Project MS: Log 3

The metal eats. He should have figured it out the moment he observed lower Energon levels in the Distiller. The metal eats, because it is alive. It eats, because it wants to rebuild. It eats, because it remembers.

Shockwave stood before the glass tub, watching the amalgam within writhe. In the span of only two solar cycles the Distiller had finished its work, reducing the Autobot scum he’d harvested into the thing before him. Too many shapes were attempting to take form at once, resulting in a mass that couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be. 

He could see the structures of horns forming, the curve of fenders, the digits of individual servos, the rough shape of eyeless faceplates. The metal made no sound as it shifted and struggled against itself, always returning to its semi-liquid state, then rising up again, struggling in an eternal conflict of reformation. 

How this had come about, he could postulate. The Distiller required charge to recognize its target. It was, according to his original calculations, fully equipped to remove that charge in the process of separation. For Energon, this was a simple task. But perhaps for sentio metallico, not so much. The metal which made up Cybertronian plating was designed to hold onto its charge, which was what ultimately animated the frame. The Distiller was simply not as effective at removing it from fresh resources as he had programmed it to be. 

Such was the nature of the scientific process: fail, learn, and rebuild. Shockwave would have to adjust it, reprogram, and completely remake the inner machinery of his creation. He was not about to scrap his work—far from it. The Distiller was working as intended: the metallic ooze quivering in the tub before him was merely a byproduct of its adjustment process. He would address the glitch within the system and there would be no more issues like the thing in the future. 

But that still posed the question of what was he to do with it. The metal was not sentient. He'd checked for brain waves after it had attempted to form four of the things, and discovered that none of them were functional. He'd attempted communication when it had created its own dermas, and found it could not answer back. There was nothing about it indicating it had any form of intelligence. It desired form because it was still filled with charge and old programming, and it could not even harmonize enough with its own components to bring that about. 

It made him curious, a rare and dangerous emotion for him to indulge in. His single optic flicked to the copper chamber. The charge gathering had been successful in part, but he knew now that it was ultimately worthless. The goal had been to create new sparks; yet all he'd observed was that the chamber would fill with charge, smother anything that opposed it, and empty as soon as he attempted to gather it. 

Sparks, it seemed, were not as easy to synthesize as he’d hoped. No one in history had previously managed to pull it off, not without aid from Vector Sigma, and the computer would not speak to him. Had it responded to his requests, they would never have need for new soldiers again. But the computer had been silent for many years now, and he proposed it would be silent for many more. 

More research was needed to ensure that his spark experiments could be successful. In the meantime, he would need to find a use for the metal before him. 

He crossed his arms behind him and watched as the metal formed the skeletal structure of an arm and hand. It rose up, grasping at the air, then curled its servos in as if it was holding a blaster. Moments later, it melted back into its source. 

The action gave him an idea. The metal was alive. It remembered what its shape had been. Perhaps it could remember its function as well. 

They were always in need of new soldiers. 

The issue came from just where he might get new sparks from. The Seeker factories were always an option, but they had been shut down for many kilocycles now, and the precious frozen sparks they’d once housed had been lost. 

He supposed he could always capture a few Autobots alive, but that required cooperation from the Rain Makers along with the use of force that was not lethal. Neither was likely considering his present situation. Furthermore, any spark he harvested belonging to an Autobot always ran the risk of recalling its past and turning on him. 

He needed fresh sparks, sparks that would not question his orders or their place in the world. 

There was no time like the present, then. 

Leaving the metal to writhe, Shockwave exited the Distillery, emerging onto a circular catwalk that coiled around the HQ’s elevator. 

Hidden in the depths of the Decepticon base, P1U70 was one of the many secrets that hung around the elevator shaft. The ‘lab’ consisted of a series of catwalks, each snaking around several different levels, just barely high enough to accommodate a bot the size of Ultra Magnus. They coiled atop one another like a serpent slithering up the walls, connected by thin staircases. 

Dozens of passageways branched out from the catwalks, leading to sealed chambers nestled within the walls. Only one or two lead to the elevator itself. Looking up, one’s optics saw lights that ascended for miles. Looking down, one could see only darkness.

A fall, surely, would mean death for anyone. 

He ignored this as he crossed to a chamber marked with a symbol indicating cryogenesis. A warning blared into his systems as he connected with the keypad, ordering the door to open: 

WARNING: FREEZING TEMPERATURES WITHIN. DO NOT ENTER FREEZER AREAS WITHOUT ADEQUATE PROTECTION. AVERAGE LIFE EXPECTANCY WITHOUT PPE: 12 MINUTES. 

The door opened, and he was greeted with the sight of a cryogenesis lab. One of his many designs, it was a square room with a terminal at the back and viewing windows on both sides. Though they were each frosted from the sheer cold contained within, even from his position in the entrance chamber, he could make out the large metallic incubators in each. 

On the left were individual pods, each holding a fossilized piece of an ancient creature. Attempts to harvest and clone the CNA from them had been unsuccessful thus far, and the war efforts had seen these pieces returned to their stasis. Alongside them were several paused experiments of his own, strangely shaped embryonic creatures that would appear as freakish to the average Cybertronian. 

But on the right was a sight any Cybertronian could understand. Contained within small glass orbs were dozens of glowing sparks. They came in a range of colors, and each was unique. 

They were special. Shockwave had been collecting unique sparks for many years now, with the sole purpose of eventual experimentation. What of a spark could grant its owner unique abilities? What of a spark decided size, shape, and power?

The ones before him had been specially picked out by him. He looked through the viewing window, determining just which one he might use. 

There was a red one whose core was black. There was a blue one who shone far too brightly. There was a small purple one, pulsing weakly. Amongst them all, resting in a special casing designed to contain its radiation, a large green spark beat. 

The blue one. He would start with the least unique first. That way, if he lost the spark, it would be no major loss. 

Crossing the room, Shockwave accessed the computer terminal at the very end, ordering it to retrieve the spark he’d selected. It pulled up a diagram of the dozens contained within. He selected the blue one, and turned to watch the machinery in the chamber activate. 

A mechanical arm mounted to the ceiling powered to life, lowering itself towards one of the incubators. Code was exchanged between the two pieces of machinery, lights appearing on the latter before it opened with a hiss. The arm retrieved the spark with all the gentleness of a mechanic and retreated into the ceiling, where a series of tubes worked to transport it safely into a pneumatic tube. 

Moments later, the glass was lowered into his waiting servos. He accepted it and turned to leave, pausing only when a sudden flash from the incubators caught his attention. 

Of the four sparks surrounding the point one percenter, the bottom one, a twinned, white structure, was shaking erratically. Its glass looked ready to break at any moment.   

He added ‘equip additional protections to the incubators’ to his to-do list and exited the lab. 

----

There wasn't a single thing about her situation that Channel liked. Being surrounded by her fellow Autobots? Awful. Currently facing a lifetime exile from every Autobot populated area of Cybertron? Worse. Paired up with the Decepticon who'd attempted to murder her best friend and assigned a mission to hunt down the sparkeater he'd been trying to protect? 

If some kind of comedy hadn't been made about her life yet, then surely, some camera bot out there was jumping at the idea. Her recent bad luck had been legendary. 

At least she'd had one stroke of good luck. Puncture had been an idiot, separating Uptick's brain from his head for use controlling him. The body she'd found had almost had its life chord severed, its brain half buried in the sand on which it laid. 

But almost meant there was a chance. And with no resistance, she'd managed to connect to him just in time. 

His spark was still warm. She couldn't find his EM field, she couldn't connect to his mind. But his spark was still warm. And with her own systems to ensure upkeep of his body, his spark had remained warm. 

It was the only reason she'd been caught. 

Her plan had been to beeline for Autobot City and get him on life support, then lay low, surreptitiously monitoring him until he was back to full health. Whatever happened to Puncture, the Seeker, or Luster, she couldn't care less. All she'd had to do was land Uptick in Autobot City and ensure he was admitted. 

What had happened had been anything but that. She'd run into the Aerialbots halfway through her race across the sea, and they'd recognized Uptick immediately. Under the threat of an arrest she was guided back to Autobot City to answer for his previous actions, and the moment they'd realized it was her, not him, the situation had gone from bad to worse. Prye, that annoying Prowl-wannabe, had ordered her taken into custody indefinitely, and immediately sent word to Cybertron of her presence on Earth. A single Earth day later she'd received word Ultra Magnus himself was on her case. 

She was cooked. And when she'd asked if they could at least admit Uptick to their medical bay, she'd been informed that their medical facilities on Earth weren't sufficient for the injuries he'd sustained. She'd have to have her case reviewed and her transfer request approved before she could be sent out. 

It was a rush request, and granted, they'd done the paperwork and pulled it off incredibly quickly compared to the usual crawl of pre-war transfer requests. But it had still been days of anxiously waiting in her cell, asking her fellow Autobots for situation updates, for help, and for freedom. They were kind to her, as they always were, but she was still a prisoner, albeit one no one wanted to see behind bars. 

First Aid had been an angel to her, at least, visiting every day to check Uptick's vitals and ensure her that, as long as she remained attached to him, his functions would continue as normal. Better was the news that her spark, being similarly charged to his, could temporarily sustain him if his functions did fail. She held onto that knowledge desperately, praying that once she'd returned to Cybertron, everything would resolve. 

Magnus was understanding. The last time she'd spoken with him (which, granted, had been hundreds of kilocycles ago), he'd promised to put in good words for her when they found Optimus again. There had been few bots she felt understood her quite as well as Magnus, strangely enough—something about being small and underestimated, he seemed to relate to (how, exactly, she had no clue, considering he was massive). She'd been confident, at least in the beginning, that even if she was to be in great trouble for breaking her contract, Magnus would at least grant her some mercy. 

Well. If what he'd offered her was mercy, she was terrified of what punishment might be. Something was wrong with Ultra Magnus and she was sure of it—of all the commanding bots, she knew he would never willingly send his soldiers to their deaths. Over the war many had grown accustomed to missions with survival rates of less than fifty percent, but under Ultra Magnus, that number at least dropped to thirty. She'd known plenty of bots who had served under and regarded him as their favorite. Many assumed he'd inherit the Matrix if Optimus passed. 

The Ultra Magnus who had offered her freedom at the cost of hunting down two sparkeaters couldn't be the same bot who once let the youngest recruits call him "Uncle Magnus". Something was wrong with him. It had to be. 

We will not separate you, he'd promised. She'd asked him when he intended to admit Uptick to their medical facilities. And his response had been so cold she'd grown speechless:

It would be for the better if he stays with you. 

Her fists tightened as Kup marched her down the hall, blaster relaxed in his servos. He knew she wouldn't cause problems. 

"It ain’t him," she muttered. "That can't be him."

"Who?"

"Ultra Magnus," she spat. "That can't be him. He’d never say something like that." 

Kup shrugged. "Sure looks like him. Sure sounds like him. Sure commands like him. Been a while since you last saw him, bot's change." 

"Not that much," she growled, looking back at him. "Do you have to follow behind me? You know I'm not goin' to try anythin'."

"Protocol and all that," he said, yet still quickened his pace, joining her at her side. "Magnus's been a stickler for it recently."

"He never was before." She shook her helm. "What happened in the kilocycles I was gone?"

"The usual. Bots getting shot, bots shooting back, recruits goin' missing, new kids signing on not knowin’ what they're in for." He sighed. "You see a couple hundred die under your watch, you change. Mags ain't immune to that."

They passed by another Autobot in the hall, who waved cheerfully at them. Then they turned a corner and stopped before a set of locked double doors. 

The weapons vault. Kup turned his back to her and tapped his credentials into the keypad. They both stepped inside. 

If she wanted to, she could transform, stand up, grab the nearest object, and use it to break her way out of here. Magnus knew that. Kup knew that. The stasis cuffs Uptick was wearing were truly just for show. 

"Take your pick," Kup announced, throwing out a hand and adjusting his cygar. "Anything you want, I'm sure Mags'll approve of."

She didn't even bother making a show of picking anything, just beelined for the rocket blaster. "This one," she said. "And this one." 

A rocket blaster and a stasis gun. One to stop them in their tracks, one to blast them off their legs. Literally. 

Kup watched her boredly. "Right, I'll let Mags know. Come on, back to the brig." 

They walked together back through the base. She kept stealing glances at him, even though he wouldn't look her in the optic. Finally, she was led to her cell, which, despite her reputation, had no additional security precautions on it. 

She entered it without resistance, turning to watch as Kup activated the laser bars and then leaned against the wall, calmly smoking as he stared just beyond her, not at her. 

Silence hung between the two of them. She sat down, fiddling with Uptick's servos, still not quite used to their size. She wasn't quite used to any of it yet, and she didn't think she'd be for a while--not that she should have to be, considering this was temporary at best.

"...Kup," she said at last, raising her optics in an attempt to meet his, "do you really think it's still him?"

He still wouldn't meet her gaze. "Has to be. Who else could it?"

"Don't the ‘cons have hologram tech? Hound did. Is it possible--"

"Yer lettin' paranoia get the best'a you, Channel. We'd know."

"But his attitude...the way he speaks, the way he acts, hell, even the way he looks at ya!" She frowned. "It ain’t him. He ain’t what I remember."

"Bot's change," he dismissed, taking a long drag. "Includin' Magnus." He vented, sending smoke over his chassis. "But between you, me, and the fence post...I don't like this. A Decepticon, I get. You?" He shook his head, scowling. "You don't deserve this, Channel."

A tiny smile tugged at her dermas. "Thanks, Kup. Say…the footage we–”

“Can’t talk about it, remember?”

“I know, I know. But can I see it again? There’s a couple’a things interestin’ me. The lack’a audio for one. We ain’t that behind in tech.”

Kup’s optics stole a quick glance in both directions before he muttered something. She just barely picked up on it:

Link me.

An odd request, but one she could abide by. By linking, however, did he mean EM fields, or her power? The Wavescape was hell on Cybertron thanks to the high density of bots populating it. On Earth, with only the primitive signals of human radio to transmit over long distances, she’d been free as a soaring Seeker. Here on Cybertron, however, the sea of the Wavescape was infinitely rougher, making long distance communication almost impossible and short distance communication rocky at best. 

Kup tapped his pede impatiently, and judging from his lack of movement, she assumed he wanted her to use her power. Otherwise, surely, he’d have brushed his EM field against hers. 

She let out a low hum and leaned against one of the walls, appearing as if she was nonchalantly resting, before focusing and dropping herself into the Wavescape. 

It was, as she knew it would be, cacophonous. Even if her body was only within EM field range of one bot, in the Wavescape she could hear the signals of everyone within the base. Dozens of different inputs hit her at once:

My pede’s itchy. 

It’s boring today. 

When’s the next season of In Stars And Moonlight coming out?

How many times are they going to confiscate my damn blaster!

Is this really how much Energon they’re giving us now?

Rodimus Prime is kinda hot…

A triple changer cog? Why does he need a triple changer cog? 

It doesn’t have sound for a reason.

There! She latched onto the signal she recognized as belonging to Kup, pulling herself into his field. It had easily been a cyber-week since she’d overworked herself, but her processor still felt warm from the simple action alone. Giving herself a moment to rest in his field, she sent a confirmation of her safe arrival, then an immediate query: 

Why doesn’t it have sound?

Names. One of ‘em, the ‘sparkeaters’ as we aren’t supposed to call em, has a name. 

What is it?

She tried to force herself not to accidentally share that she already knew one of them. Uptick had been suspected as responsible for the disappearance of the sparkeater in Autobot City, but they couldn’t prove anything, and she certainly hadn’t peeped about it. It was for the better that no one knew about Luster. He was her fault, and if she was found guilty of protecting and repairing a sparkeater…

Well, she was in deep enough trouble as is. It was all she could to apologize to Uptick by finishing what he’d started. 

We’re up in the air about the skinny one–the skeleton one, you saw, with tentacles and all. He talks, the other one doesn’t. And he called it Spark Storm. 

Spark Storm. She didn’t recognize the name. 

Sounds like a Rain Maker. You don’t think they’ve made more of ‘em?

Hell if I know. 

He took a deep in-vent through his cygar. 

But whatever it is, it ain’t a normal Cybertronian. Some kinda frame thief, I think. Every time we’ve seen ‘em, it’s always different. All that connects ‘em is the lack of a faceplate.

The lack of a faceplate. Her encounter with the Seeker on the island replayed in her mind, though she quickly suppressed it. 

Good to know, Kup. Thanks. Be lettin’ go now. 

He gave her a goodbye signal, and she promptly exited his field, floating momentarily as she prepared to return to her body. 

They don’t have a lot of triple changers, do they?

The voice gave her pause. She’d heard it earlier before and chosen to ignore it, but it was louder now. Louder…and familiar. She could almost swear she’d heard it before. 

No. Triple changers are excellent tools of war. They’re Autobots, they weren’t built for war. 

Her systems flared with warnings at the sound of that. This voice was feminine–and definitely familiar.

So…is that why he wants this one so badly, then? He’s the best shot they’ve got at defeating…us?

I don’t imagine. It’s just a T-Cog, not a spark. This won’t kill him, just incapacitate him. Besides, we’ve got Skyrend and Ion Storm. You think anyone here is enough to keep them both down?

…right, of course. Because this is just a T-Cog, I don’t have to kill him, do I?

I think he’d prefer if you did.

She dropped out of the Wavescape in a rush, helm pounding from the sudden retreat. Kup had shifted positions, his back to her cell. She rose to her feet, almost tripped, and braced against the wall as lightning bolts of pain shot through her helm. 

“Kup–” she gritted out, venting in pain. “Frag, Kup! Where’s Springer?!”

—---------------------

It was one prison to the next. Puncture was beginning to notice a pattern. She'd gone from the Insecticon Ship to the Marshall Islands, from the Marshall Islands to Autobot City, from Autobot City to this Autobot Base. Before she'd been on the Insecticon ship she had frequented Decepticon HQ; before that, the Cybertronian Underground; before that, The Pit. And none of those places, once she was stuck in them, had she been permitted to leave. 

Whether amongst enemies or allies, she was only beginning to notice now just how trapped she was in everything. 

And speaking of being trapped, she was quite literally trapped on an operating table, with her limbs, just as they'd been before, strapped down. A monitor next to her showed her vitals on screen—stable—which the medic bot preparing to perform her operation was occupied with. Springer stood on the other side of her, still holding his rifle, still looking at her like she was a particularly stubborn stain he couldn't wait to get rid of.

Perhaps she'd been a bit too judgmental of the medics in Autobot City. Yes, they watched her like a hawk, but they hadn't deployed a guard right next to her and the courtesy they'd shown certainly wasn't felt here. If she had an ounce of remorse, maybe she'd ask if she could phone First Aid to tell him thank you for not pointing a blaster at her head. 

But there wasn't any going back now. It wasn't like she could change how she'd acted, and considering her reputation, she couldn't change how they all thought of her. She'd worked hard for that fear factor and by Primus she was not about to squander it. 

Sparks and Struts were still watching her, disapproval evident in their gazes. She ignored them. 

"Everything looks good," the medic announced. "I won't need to induce stasis for this." He crossed the medical bay, heading for the parts storage. 

Her operation was occurring on the south end of the medical bay, away from any exits. To her left was her guard dog and monitor, to her right, two carts with medical supplies laid out. The medical bay was significantly larger than the one in Autobot City, and sprawled out before her were rows of beds, none of which were occupied. Along one wall ran cabinets and monitors, broken by occasional doors. Dividers stood between the beds, hiding their empty frames. 

She didn’t get the courtesy of a divider or curtain, of course. 

The medic bot returned a few kliks later, carrying a familiar looking black arm. "You're real lucky, Puncture,” he said as he approached, “Brainstorm wanted to disassemble this to figure out how its cloaking worked. Perceptor's the only reason he didn't."

She rolled her optics. "Am I supposed to be grateful you decided to store my severed arm for study as opposed to disassembling it? You're going to do the same to me when I offline, aren’t you?"

"Not our fault you chose the wrong side," Springer jabbed. "Clinic, how long will it take to reattach?"

"Give or take about two vorns. If you have anywhere to be, you should probably head there before I begin." He placed Puncture's arm on a gurney next to her and bent to retrieve his tools from a cart. 

Springer adjusted his grip on his rifle and shifted in place slightly but otherwise stayed put. 

No anesthetic was used, though she couldn't say she exactly expected it. Clinic started with welding, opening her shoulder's metal up delicately to expose its tender protoform to that of her arm's. From there he connected the two, holding them in place until sufficient bonding had occurred. Then he began work on her wires and tubing, connecting each individually before welding them shut. 

With each new nerve connected, she felt a white hot pain shoot up her shoulder and into her chassis, which quickly burned itself out and became a dull ache. By the thirtieth one, she wasn't sure how many more she could take. Her sharpened, deadly glossa scraped the inside of her intake, drawing forth her own energon as she grit against the pain. 

Something on the monitor besides her suddenly lit up enough for it to beep. Clinic paused in connecting her energon tubes and frowned. 

"Your stress levels are high," he commented. "I can stop for a bit to let you recuperate, or I can give you a shot of adrenaline and we keep going."

She wanted this over now, damnit, but Springer spoke before she could.

"A shot of adrenaline could see her escape. Give her a few kliks, she’ll be fine."

She glared at him. Clinic obeyed, sealing off the energon tube he'd been working on and wiping his servos on a rag. 

"Give her two vorns and an Energon infusion," he said. "Once I start again it'll be about twenty kliks, so it's important I'm not disturbed again."

When neither of them moved, he frowned at Springer. "I was talking to you."

He raised an optical ridge. "You want me to give her an energon infusion?"

"Do you see anyone else around here who can do it?" 

"Don't you have a nurse?"

"I do in theory, but practice tends to show that she's almost always on deployment." He put his servos on his hips. "Since you and yours just can't resist trying to solve the recent attacks by shooting at everything. Anyways, my servos are tired, and I’d like a moment to recharge them without having to worry about my patient offlining.”

If she wasn't in so much pain, she'd grin smugly. It made sense—the medical bay at this base was large, enough to accommodate over fifty Autobots at once with staff for at least half of them, but the only bot she saw running around in it currently was Clinic. The beds were all empty, though more than a few had Energon stains on them, and the service areas were all unoccupied despite their precious cargo.

This base had to be very new. Very new, and barely staffed. They were doing quite a bit to show her that they had power over Cybertron, but the more she looked around, the more she concluded they were bluffing. 

And if the guerilla attacks were anything to go off of, her fellow 'cons were likely fighting back. 

Springer looked just a tiny bit sheepish for a single moment. "Fine. Where do you keep them?"

They crossed the medical bay and disappeared momentarily into one of the several backrooms. Silence fell over her. Puncture shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull herself free of her restraints again and failing. By her pedes, Struts and Sparks watched silently. 

"What do you want," she growled at them. "If you're trying to make me feel guilty, you're not. Scram already."

They said nothing, but Sparks raised a single claw, pointing at the ceiling. She followed it and looked up, seeing only orange tiles. 

"What?"

The low scrppppp of claws on metal found its way to her audials. Her optics widened. 

The tile just above her dropped a few shavings of metal, a tiny hole beginning to form in it. 

The sound of pedes and a door opening drowned out the noise as Clinic and Springer returned. The medic was holding a bottled Energon patch, which the other was looking at almost confusedly. 

"Fine, I'll demonstrate," Clinic said, moving to her side. "It's easy to apply, all you have to do is--"

As he spoke, he reached over Puncture's chassis and opened the patch, its pink contents glowing brightly as they were released. Before he could apply them, however, a small shard of broken metal suddenly dropped down onto his helm, clacking as it fell to the floor. 

Clinic looked up just in time to take a tentacle straight to the face. 

The tile exploded, scattering metal everywhere as a silver creature dropped from it, slamming down onto Puncture's chest. Pain exploded over her, earning it a hiss as she jerked back. A clawed foot slammed down on her freshly attached arm and silver claws scraped the edge of her chassis as the creature fought for balance. 

She recognized those claws. Despite the pain pulsing like lightning in her chassis, she found it in her to gasp. 

Before the creature could move a pink bolt knocked it off her, sending it clattering to the floor. The shriek of claws on metal screamed as it scrambled, skittering between the beds and staying low to the floor. Springer immediately moved to Clinic's side, who was holding his face, Energon oozing out from the deep gouge across it. 

"Get out of here!" He commanded, training his rifle to the sound of the creature's skittering. "Alert the others!" 

"What about Pu--"

"FORGET ABOUT HER!" 

She hissed at him in response and was ignored. Clinic cast her a single look before beelining for the nearest exit. The dividers across the room suddenly shook as the creature moved between them. 

"Come on you ugly fragger," Springer muttered, gripping his rifle tighter as he took careful steps towards the movements. 

A shriek suddenly sounded, reverberating through the room and ringing in her head. Momentarily, Sparks and Struts disappeared as the noise overloaded her systems with an emotion she couldn't feel. The result was that she froze up, her systems attempted a manual override, and the monitor beside her began to beep loudly. 

Springer had frozen in place like he’d been shot with a stasis gun. The creature suddenly clambered up a divider, aided by its tentacles, and sprang off it, launching onto him. He let out a grunt of pain as he hit the floor, the rifle knocked from his servos. 

Tentacles whipped as they dug into his plating, their clawed tips crackling with electricity. But the creature didn’t tear into his chassis like she’d seen it do in the video. Instead, it opened its claws, holding them in that position for just a moment as it seemed to contemplate its next action. 

"SPRINGER!" 

The exit of the medical bay suddenly flooded with Autobots–she recognized Kup and Channel (oh, she got to lose her stasis cuffs?!). They poured in, aiming for the creature. 

It shrieked again, freezing them in their tracks, and jammed its claws into Springer’s side. Energon welled up around the silver daggers, pouring onto the floor. 

But Springer was no longer immobile, and the thing atop him no longer had the element of surprise. Gritting his dentae, he grabbed its skinny arm, and as if it wasn’t currently servos deep in his side, tore it off him with ease. As if it weighed nothing, he threw the thing across the medical bay, slamming it into the wall. 

Pink sprayed out of his side as he stood, moving a servo to it. The creature, dazed, stood still as he staggered towards it, stooping to grab his rifle. 

Kup moved first, breaking free of his paralysis. Without hesitation he fired, unleashing a dozen blasts onto the creature. Clouds of blaster fire arose as they connected, and the creature let out a different cry–one of agony. 

That was the kind she was accustomed to. Springer joined in, discharging his rifle in the direction of where the creature was, the clouds quickly obscuring and gunshots deafening it. 

Two tentacles suddenly shot up, piercing clean through one of the ceiling tiles. In a blur of silver, the creature leaped into the ceiling, trailing energon behind it as it fled. Kup and Springer fired after it, though it quickly disappeared into the overhead darkness. 

For a moment it was quiet again. Then Springer hissed with pain, and the two were on him in a second. 

"Yeesh, what a wound!" Kup grimaced. “Kid, you need to lie down, now!”

“I’m fine!” He protested. “We need to go after that thing!

"You’re bleedin’ out!" Channel scolded, grabbing his shoulder. “Get on a gurney, now! Where’s Clinic?!”

It figured they'd care a lot more about him than they would her, though it did slightly hurt to be ignored. After all, it wasn’t like her chassis was throbbing with pain or anything. But beyond the pain and the irritation pounding in her head, there was something more bothering her:

The claws that the creature had. They were Sparkripper’s. She’d recognize them anywhere. Large, curved, silver, and with a longer middle digit than the others. 

Sparkripper had died over four million kilocycles ago, when the war was just beginning. She’d been there to witness his execution. His parts should have been long recycled. How was it they were back?

“Unbind me,” she growled, and when the Autobot’s ignored her, yelled. “Didn’t you hear?! Get me up!” 

They all glared at her, irritation in their gazes. She didn’t care.

“Let me free. I’ve got an insect alt mode.” Her vision trailed back to the hole in the ceiling. “I’m going after that thing.” 

[praxcrown5]

It only took ten years, but Interlink finally got his own reference sheet.  

 I've also included a little biography for him, though his life story isn't nearly as crazy as Io's.

I still have one more reference sheet to do...but it's a surprise as to whom it's for.   Once the refs are done, I'm gonna change gears and get to editing.  

Enjoy!

Link to the fanfic that created all of this madness:

https://www.deviantart.com/praxcrown5/art/War-and-Wings-Chapter-1-part-1-Truth-or-Dare-304027044

Name:  Interlink of Iacon

Age: Approximately 375,600 earth years (by the time War and Wings starts)

Occupation: Construction worker (former), shield (former—guardian was Triage of Crystal City), field medic (Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility)

Height: 7’10” (when measured from the ground to the top of his back-plate; eye level is about 5’6”)

Status: Offline

There’s not much to say about Interlink’s history.  A mini-bot, he emerged from the Well of Allsparks as a shield generator, able to manifest and manipulate solid light holograms while in alt-mode.  He was recruited by the Iacon Civil Engineering Corp within cycles of reaching the famous city…and he remained in that occupation until the Decepticon terrorist attack of Six Lasers Over Cybertron.  Seeing that society was heading down a dark road, he volunteered his services at the Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility, becoming a shield assigned to protect the famous spark surgeon, Triage.  As time passed, their relationship would evolve, first friends, then something…more.  They bonded in secret, per Triage’s wishes, and a few stellar cycles later, Interlink finished enough of his medical training to become a field medic, though he still studied under his spouse as an apprentice spark surgeon.

Interlink is affable and outgoing.  He enjoys drinking, singing off-key, and participating in a fantasy sports league (aerobatics).  Normally restless and always on the move, his spark bond with Triage saw the mini-bot inherit some of his partner’s calm poise.  He also enjoys reading far more than he used to, though he prefers trashy romance novels and sports almanacs over science literature.

[fang-wolfsbane]

Transformers Animated: Morning After: Chapter 04: Awakening

He couldn’t remember much.

All he did remember was his processor whirring and his helm aching as if Bulkhead decided to body slam his helm after performing some kind of crude decapitation. The loud warning siren wasn’t helping all that much either.

Groaning to himself, Highdrive’s optics struggled to force themselves online, watching as frost disappeared from the glass casing surrounding him. A nano click later he stepped out, a servo flying to hold said helm. From the looks of it, those around him seemed to have a similar problem.

Highdrive didn’t need to ask what had happened. One moment the six of them had been on an asteroid, clearing debris from a spacebridge when they’d discovered something Ratchet had called the ‘Allspark’, something that should have remained an object of legend, but was now within the very ship they occupied. He would have asked if it was still on board, but from what he could see, Optimus was already standing at the control panel, looking over a video feed of what had brought them online in the first place.

A giant… he didn’t know what. From what he could figure out, it seemed to be an organic, and Optimus Prime wasn’t all that keen about just letting them sit this one out. A silent conversation seemed to take place between the Prime and their head medic, Ratchet. A conversation neither he nor Bumblebee planned on interrupting.

How they had gone from trying to defend the very creation of life for their kind from the dark lord of Cybertron himself to ending up on an organic planet was beyond him. He knew he could chalk it up to the planet’s gravity pulling them in, causing them to crash on the surface, which was why they had to go into stasis from the start. A check on his internal clocking mechanism revealed that it had been approximately fifty stellar cycles since that day. A day he didn’t ever want to go through again.

By all rights they should have been focusing on getting the ship back in, well, shipshape, but before he could think to voice his opinion, he watched as Optimus sent out the ship portable AI drone, Teletraan One to scan the organic vehicles. If they were heading out, they were doing so in disguise. Better safe than sorry, at least on one front.

Collecting the data they needed, the drone sent the schematics to the biggest stasis pod, locking in the alterations it needed to perform on them in order for them to seem like they at least somewhat belonged on this planet, whichever one that was.

Highdrive headed in after Bumblebee, trying to hide his discomfort as he synchronised himself with the pod, downloading the data it had chosen for him. At best it was a painful stinging sensation, but not bad enough that he risked squealing like a sparkling to be teased by the other mini-bot the moment he stepped out.

Dimming his optics, Highdrive watched the pod scan his current form, then download the schematics to his frame, causing it to shift and mould itself in the appropriate areas to ensure a flawless alternative four-wheel form. This was his official first scan since boarding the ship, actually his very first scan since leaving Cybertron, since reaching an age appropriate for him to leave academy grounds. Thinking on this, he felt a pained tug at his spark that he tried to ignore. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past.

After they all transformed into their new forms for the first time, Highdrive wished for a reflective surface to give himself a once-over. From what he could see in Optimus’s sidemirror, he was rather low to the ground like Bumblebee, but not as bulky. No, his form was sleeker, smoother. The way his paintjob mixed in with the vehicle’s natural decals, he seemed to be some kind of emergency four-wheeler, which suit him just fine, considering that it was something he had been studying for fifty stellar cycles ago.

They were about to head out when Ratchet mentioned that he wanted to stay behind with the ship to run some diagnostics, putting in a request for Highdrive to stay behind as well. Having never been on another planet before, Highdrive silently begged their commander to let him go with, surprisingly receiving the option to choose. It wasn’t a hard one.

“If Ratchet stays behind, then I should go with you. I mean, it only makes sense for there to be a medic in the field, just in case something happens,” Highdrive said, using a textbook excuse he’d heard from a senior back at the academy when they had gotten the opportunity to go out in the field for the first time. The hum their leader gave earned a grumble from the eldest bot.

“There you have it. Autobots, let’s roll out.” And with that, Highdrive followed the red and blue truck out of the ship, straight into fluid-like substance that enveloped around them the moment the ship’s doors opened to usher them into the brand new world.

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

is youst a theorie, dont kill me please

I have tried to get it out of my head because I have had problems with a similar controversy and I prefer to remain neutral on the matter. 

But for all the autobots, I've been taking some accounts of the transformer timeline and I think I'm wrong, or maybe I'm right and I don't want to admit it, but the fact is that RBA students may be younger than they appear.

I am not confirming it, I just hope I am wrong as I say. 

According to the accounts I did, prime and rescue bots are supposed to be linked in time, together with cyberberse, keeping the three seasons of RB, they happen next to the two seasons of Prime, and the fourth season of RB, it happens possibly next to the first season of RID2015, meaning that three years have passed since the rebirth of cybertron and the death of OP, which means that the possible new cybertronians are approximately three years old, but, it is also possible that part of the population is made up of fugitives from war, seen in the Prime movie.

Taking into account this information, it is assumed by the appearance of some RBA characters such as cody (my favorite character) that another three years have passed since the closure of RB and possibly a couple more years in cyberberse.

which gives the final calculations of it being possible that all cybertronians, decepticons, minicons, predacons, etc, must have a maximum age of six to eight years, which transforms RBA recruits into infants ..... :( 

Of course it is confirmed that Cybertronians do not have a growth cycle like humans, it is assumed that they are created with a young-adult form and with a young mind being that, which separates them from adult Cybertronians. The possible reason why the RBA recruits look like this is to be able to sympathize with the young audience, that being the objective of the cartoon.

I do not want to raise controversies with this post, they are just data that I wanted to share and maybe know what the opinion of other fans is.

I would like to go further with this theory since I find it very interesting but possibly later if you like the post and share your opinions about it in a polite and friendly way. 

[soundwavereporting]

fic for @doorwingdings for the @transform-or-treat Halloween fic exchange! She requested Jazz/Prowl ala Pet Semetary. Hope I did the concept justice. This is vaguely IDW-flavored. cw for grief/mourning, alongside vague references to pretty much anything you’d expect from Pet Semetary.

“Y’know, I’d always thought of myself as level headed. Reasonable. Willin’ to do what needed to be done, say the right words to the right people, set your processor to it, and it’ll get done. I swore I’d never be one of those mechs who loses it after their sparkmate passes. That wasn’t me.

Taking him to the Acid Wastes was a mistake.”

It was not a legend, or even a myth. Jazz would have had to struggle to call it a rumor outside of the place it originated: a small town on the outskirts of Carpressa, straddling the border between a true city and the desolation of the Acid Wastes. The way the story went, the smelting pit was a relic from the Golden Age, built over a tunnel leading to the Afterspark itself. This tunnel, lined with veins of Primus’s own innermost energon, was the conduit to guide a mech to his final resting place.

Or to bring him back to the living world.

Its original name had been lost to time: there was no way the Primes and Senators would ever have deigned to have their bodies lain to rest in a ‘smelting pit’. But it was a smelting pit, cold and lifeless as the gunmetal gray forms that had been buried there.

Through the haze of rage and grief, Jazz had reasoned that even if this didn’t work, if the smelting pit was just a figment of a mech’s overactive imagination, it wouldn’t do any harm. Prowl had held little sentiment or attachment to his frame: he, Jazz thought, would have done the same thing were he in Jazz’s place.

If there was a chance: even the slightest chance, that leaving a mech’s dead frame in the cold smelting pit would bring him back? Would bring Prowl back?

Jazz would take it.

“Here’s the secret: this whole thing, start to finish? A mistake. We never shoulda pressed our luck.

“I think Sentinel knows. He signed off on ‘Prowl’s’ request for an extended leave of absence way too fast.”

Jazz had also reasoned that if it didn’t work (which it would, it had to), this would simply be an unspoken incident he would shove into long-term storage immediately. He would take Prowl’s frame back to Iacon, let Sentinel or the stylus-pushers handle the details of the funeral. Jazz would fight for Prowl to be smelted in Iacon, not Petrex. And that would be that. He would wallow in his grief for a half-million years and come out of it smiling. And if the smile was a little tinged with insincerity, or his gaze seemed distant, well.

The last thing Jazz had reasoned was that it just wasn’t fair. If Prowl had to go out before his time, it should have been helping someone. The mech had a habit of sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong, and Jazz loved him for it. He had been investigating a mech named Render for selling contaminated energon cubes. If Render or one of his mechs had shot Prowl? Jazz would’ve been competing with Sentinel and a good chunk of his Security Services to get first shot at the mech’s spark chamber.

But an accident left no one to blame.

Not entirely true: Jazz could blame the mech operating the transport. He was a minibot named Greenspark, overworked and undertrained, barely tall enough to see the controls on the vehicle he was required to operate, nonstop, five cycles at a time. He could blame the company that had ‘employed’ Greenspark, who had recruited him from an employment agency that was shadier than a clearance sale in Kaon.

Shaking his fist at the world wouldn’t do anything.

So Jazz took Prowl’s lifeless frame to the cold smelter.

He bribed a mech with six hundred shanix to take him—them—there.

In hindsight, Jazz was certain he could have found it himself: it looked nothing like the nondescript smelters scattered around Kaon or Iacon. This place was massive, a testament to the opulence of the Primes and the mecha they favored. More crypt than smelter, Jazz privately thought, and had things been different, he and Prowl would have enjoyed spending a few days exploring the place.

It was a shared hobby of theirs, one they never had as much time to indulge in as either would have liked. Both enjoyed architecture and history, things that Cybertron had in excess. It was not an unpopular pastime among Cybertronians but prior to his grief-fueled research, Jazz had never even heard a whisper of this place.

As he lay Prowl’s cold, gray form on the ornately engraved platform, he wondered if Prowl had known. Had Prowl known, and kept it a secret? Had Prowl known what Jazz might do of the situation came to it?

No. Prowl wouldn’t do anything like that. Prowl—his Prowl, vibrant and alive, with shining blue optics that caught Jazz’s attention the minute he walked in the door of Kaon Security Services—would trust Jazz’s intuition. Because that had always been them, hadn’t it? Prowl’s logic, Jazz’s intuition. Two sides of a chic-chip, blurring into sameness when Prowl’s leaps of logic came out looking like a hunch or Jazz’s explanations same out looking like a intellectual-class mech’s thesis on statistics and probabilities.

Before meeting Prowl, Jazz had been certain he was complete. He still was his own mech—Prowl hadn’t changed that. But Prowl had come into his life and added something to it: a dash of comforting stability amidst the chaos of a mech trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy in post-Functionist Cybertron.

Now, Jazz was adrift, unmoored. Anchored only by the thin ray of hope that this cold smelter in the Acid Wastes might bring Prowl back.

His quick examination of the place had revealed no trace of corpses, which left two options: mechs came and took the gray frames away after it didn’t work. Or…

Jazz couldn’t bring himself to remain inside. He camped outside the cold smelting pit, optical visor trained on the entrance as he scanned for life signs.

As these things happened, he slipped into recharge.

Jazz awoke to see a mech standing in the grand entrance to the cold smelting pit. His optics registered it as Prowl: his Prowl, standing tall and proud. His frame still bore the damage of the injury; the plating on his torso was warped and dented, but he could see the hint of a spark shining in the early morning light.

“Jazz.”

Prowl’s voice was as flat as ever. Upon closer examination, Prowl’s armor was still desaturated; the brilliant red of his chevron was a muddy shade of rust.

He hadn’t realized he had leapt to his feet, closing the distance between them.

Prowl’s frame was cold to the touch.

Jazz didn’t care.

On the sixth cycle, he commed Sky-Byte.

They met in a Stanzian café. It wasn’t often Jazz visited; he preferred the real thing on his rare trips back to his home city, but today he needed a taste of normalcy.

He tried not to think of the way Render’s innermost energon had tasted on his lips.

“It’s about Prowl,” Sky-Byte said, without preamble.

Before Jazz could reply, Sky-Byte spoke:

“Grief-stricken ending before lonely spark flies beyond the carbon”

“Hell’s that supposed to mean?” Jazz asked, immediately grateful for the distraction.

Sky-Byte’s optics narrowed.

“It means you are in mourning.”

An hour later, Jazz returned home from the café with more questions than answers, accompanied by a slowly-growing sense of dread he couldn’t put a finger on. Prowl was still in the habsuite, secured behind the best locks shanix could buy. Jazz couldn’t find it in himself to muster up the energy to even pretend to be happy to see the thing that was inhabiting his conjunx’s frame.

Jazz headed into the spare room that had quickly been converted into a second bedroom. After a moment’s consideration, he locked the door behind him. He had spent half a day attempting to soundproof the rest of the habsuite to muffle the sound of the shuffling footsteps as he incessantly paced the rooms, before realizing the absence of sound was worse than the sound itself.

“I don’t need to go over all of it again. You know what happened. How I fed him.

“They were—are—bad mechs. Ones who others whisper about when they think no one’s listening. This latest one, Render? Made his fortune selling empty cubes wholesale to th’ Dead End’s energon distribution center, a hundred cubes a shanix. No need to waste money on mechs who can’t be bothered to take care of themselves. What he didn’t tell the center is the cube quality isn’t fit for a turbolouse, much less a mech.

“Or maybe he did, and they didn’t care.

“The number of bad mechs on this planet ain’t infinite.

“If you’re seeing this, ‘Byte—one of two things happened. No matter what, I need you to call Sentinel and get a security team up to my habsuite. The number and my auth codes are at the end of this message.

“I’m not tryin’ to get myself killed. I’ll take him down and be out of the habsuite before security shows up, or I won’t.

“Either way, I won’t be around. I’ll head to Staniz. Maybe Kalis. Anywhere but here.

“Take care, Sky-Byte.”

[afterspark-podcast]

My Little Pony/Transformers: Friendship in Disguise, Part 1 Transcript

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Stinger]

O: So I'm like, “No, I'm just fine with pretending this never happened, honestly.”

[Intro Music]

O: Welcome to our April Fool’s Special!

S: The Transformers/My Little Pony: Friendship in Disguise crossover.

O: Specifically, issues 1 and 2 here.  An episode covering issues 3 and 4 will be released in a few weeks.  Um, so obviously our podcast doesn't normally talk about ponies.

S: For all that it too was a popular Hasbro franchise in the 80’s- I mean, still is.

O: Yes.  I will attempt to give a short blip about My Little Pony characters that show up, but we're gonna kind of assume that you know the mane six.  Which is Twilight Sparkle, Fluttershy, Rarity, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie.  Ah, Specs has seen some of the My Little Pony episodes, whereas I have seen... all of it at this point.  Um, so I'm reasonably familiar with most of the characters.  And uh, for the record, Twilight Sparkle is my favorite, but that's because she's basically me. [laughs]

S: This was a crossover comic that was released in 2020 (for your information).

O: Uh, most of the Transformers characters in here are part of kind of the regular G1 cast that you're all probably used to seeing in various things.  Most of them we've talked about.  There's a few we haven't um, because they just haven't popped up in the series yet.  [Like Arcee.]  The exceptions being Gauge who's from IDW2, and Windblade who's from IDW1, Cyberverse, and several other things.

S: Mm-hm.  They did some fun things with the fonts and some of the other visuals in this.

O: Such as using the Transformers font for ‘Equestria’ and the My Little Pony font for ‘Cybertron’.

S: Mm-hm.  And the character’s speech bubbles use the fonts from their respective series.

O: Some of the issues are done by who I think is the current artist for the My Little Pony comic series.  While the rest are done by Transformers comic artists- like, plural, several of them.

S: And with that we begin.

O: Part 1: Transformation Is Magic!

S: In Equestria, a pony by the name of Quibble Pants is standing in front of a newsstand complaining about some very applicable meta issues.

O: Quibble's a side character.  His whole shtick is that he picks apart plot and whatnot.

S: He's a bit of a nitpicker.

O: The newsstand pony tells Quibble (and by extension us) that this is all for fun.  So don't worry too much about continuity here, guys.

S: Mm-hm, a loud clap of thunder transitions us to a nearby mountaintop where Queen Chrysalis is up to nefarious plots

O: She [Chrysalis] is villain.  She is the queen of the changelings.  She can transform into different creatures, basically, or different ponies.  I think, judging by some of the background characters in some scenes later, that this is after she's lost control of most of the other changelings?  Though she does have a small group working with her here.

S: She plans to bring forth other changelings from other worlds to take over Equestria.

O: I'm sure you can see where- where this is going. [laughs]

S: Mm-hm, and now, on cybertron.

O: The Autobots and Decepticons are fighting, shocker.

S: The Decepticons are clearly trying to take control of a malfunctioning space bridge.

O: A space bridge that Shockwave is convinced is breaching other dimensions.

S: Suddenly, all of the Autobots and Decepticons are zapped away through a portal.

O: Leaving only poor Grimlock to smash into view a few seconds later... thinking they have all ditched him.

S: Poor Grimlock.

O: Poor Grimlock. [laughs]

S: Back in Equestria, Twilight shows up with several royal guards to stop Chrysalis but it's too late and a portal opens, sending the Cybertronians zooming past through the air.

O: Twilight is horrified to see that Chrysalis has summoned living things that are about to go ‘splat’ onto the ground, or more likely ‘crunch’! [laughs]

S: Or possibly clank, if someone slows them down-

O: [laughs]

S: But I mean, who knows?  Twilight speeds off to try and save the newly arrived Cybertronians.  While Chrysalis stays behind to acquaint herself with Megatron.

O: Bee is both surprised and resigned to see himself falling to a colorful death.

S: But Optimus grabs Bee's hand, and intends to break his fall with his own body.

O: Optimus, are you okay?  Do you need to talk?  I feel like you need to talk.  We need- we need to get you into therapy, dude.

S: It's all the self-sacrificing, but yes.

O: [laughs]

S: Yes, he needs some therapy.  The two are saved by Twilight’s a very timely arrival and magical powers.

O: The Cybertronians are just as surprised by the ponies, as the ponies are of them.

S: Bee attempts to blend in by transforming into vehicle mode, to Twilight's consternation.  But Twilight says that doesn't really help him blend in, but it's okay if they're different!

O: She comments on their ‘shape-shifting magic’ and that Chrysalis will be disappointed that they're friendly.

S: To which Optimus says... unfortunately, they are not all friendly.

O: And then we are given the most amazing image. [laughs]

S: Queen Chrysalis, as happy as a kid in a candy store, on top of a tank, aka Megatron.

O: Seriously, it's one of the best images in the comic. [dissolves into laughter] And one that was shared I think, pretty frequently after the comic came out?  So it's very funny.

S: Mm-hm.

O: And we begin part 2 of issue 1: Shine Like A Diamond.

S: Rarity and her staff at her Manehattan boutique have been volun-told to get Starscream all dolled up for his coronation.

O: You know, the outfit he's in in the G1 movie, the purple cape and the crown get up.

S: Rarity attempts to calm him down, because he is being a snippy asshole during all of this.

O: Yes, with vague, implied threats throughout.

S: Mm-hm, so Rarity says, “Happy, healthy subjects show just how good their king is, don't they?”

O: A car is heard in the distance, much to Starscream's surprise, as he didn't think the ponies had cars.  Which, he is correct!

S: Mm-hm, Arcee barrels into him with a flying kick.

O: And Starscream retreats.

S: Leaving Arcee and Rarity to introduce themselves.

O: They seem to become fast friends as Rarity thanks Arcee, and Arcee tries to help clean up the mess Starscream has made.

S: Unfortunately, Starscream returns with the rest of his trine in tow.

O: Arcee intends to fight them alone, but Rarity generates a magic shield to help protect Arcee while she fires on the jets.

S: Thundercracker takes a direct hit, while Starscream and Skywarp are herded closer together by Arcee's fire.

O: Once they're close enough, Rarity uses her magic to wrap the fabric from Starscream's cape, that she was helping make earlier, around the two of them.

S: Skywarp says, “This is stupid!  I'm out,” and teleports away.

O: Leaving Starscream to nosedive to the ground with a boom.

S: Arcee compliments an exhausted Rarity on her help.

O: While they both agree they would do anything for their friends, and for each other!  Now, you may notice that none of the My Little Pony characters have been shown in the Transformers universe, but that is about to change.

S: In issue 2, part 1: Inspiring.

O: It would seem that Twilight's assistant, Spike (the dragon) is wandering around the Ark writing a letter to Twilight.

S: Of course, with Grimlock being the only one left behind, he's presumably found Spike and brought him to the Ark.

O: Spike is of course very enamored with the big old Dinobot.

S: And Grimlock seems to like Spike quite a bit too.  Even holding him in his open palm while they get an alert from Teletraan about an attack.

O: Said attack, by way of the Constructicons, who have come to destroy the Ark while everyone else is away.

S: Grimlock transforms into dino mode and meets them.

O: Grimlock makes the mistake of saying, “Puny Decepticons, even together you no match for Grimlock!”

S: To which, they respond by forming Devastator, and stomping the absolute crap out of him.  “Grimlock and Grimlock's big mouth.”

O: Spike shouts words of encouragement to Grimlock, but quickly sees that the Dinobot is losing.

S: So he thinks, looks at the Ark, comes to a realization, and then runs inside to make his realization happen.

O: Inside, Spike flips through two large books.  ‘Modern Cybertronian For Everyday Conversations’ and ‘Teletraan I For Dummies’.

S: He then climbs onto Teletraan’s console and starts the main engine cycle countdown.

O: Spike yells at Grimlock to get down.

S: Which is, you know, not that hard as Devastator is still stomping on him.

O: Devastator is then blasted by the bit of the Ark that's still sticking out of the ground, causing Devastator to fall to pieces.

S: The Constructicons flee, and Spike checks on Grimlock.  Spike still feels pretty down about himself, because all he did was press some buttons.  But Grimlock says Spike did even more than he did.

O: “Spike learned new language, and operations system in short time!  Spike think of using busted engine as canon!  Spike use pronouns!”

S: Grimlock tells Spike that Spike inspires him, and that he's full of potential.

O: Spike collapses into a happy little puddle of dragon that Grimlock called him, “Inspiring.”  Their friendship is so cute! [laughs]

S: And now it's time for part 2 of issue 2: They Eat Ponies, Don't They?

O: We are brought onto the stage of a cooking show, “Prepping With Pinkie,” hosted by Pinkie Pie.

S: And a special guest, Gauge!

O: And all I can think is- Arcee she still one of her parents in this continuity?  Is Arcee worried about her child!? [laugh]

S: And in the spirit of cultural exchange, Pinkie and Gauge will be sharing some of their favorite recipes in today's program.  I never thought about giant robots having recipes before this, and I didn't want to think about it.

O: [laughs] Pinkie is, of course, making cupcakes.  While Gauge has brought iron filing casserole.

S: Poor Pinkie and ah, several audience members are questioning their decision based on their facial expressions.

O: Pinkie goes to start her cupcakes, but suddenly everything starts shaking.

S:  [singing] Dun, dun, dunnnn!

O: [snorts]

S: A space bridge appears with Shockwave stepping out of it.

O: He has, by his own admission, come to ‘spice things up.’

S: Ah, time for some puns.  Unfortunately, his recipes require a bit more audience participation.

O: Shockwave’s apparently come to discover how much pony it takes to fuel one Decepticon.

S: [sighs]

O: [laughs]

S: He transforms his hands into a grater and a whisk, respectively.

O: Pinkie and Gauge evade him, causing him to demand that they stay still so he can finish his experiments.

S: Oh god, by attempting to whisk them!?

O: [laughs] I know, I know!  I'm not saying it's sane!

S: I know, I mean, I read it too.

O: [laughs]

S: It’s just, now I have vivid mental images of this being attempted and everyone being very…

O: Confused? [laughs]

S: Yes.  Gauge whacks him in the head with a cookie sheet, completely bending it out of shape, and tries to get Pinkie to flee.

O: Pinkie refuses, but in the background the show's audience is running through the exit door- at least part of their audience is running through the exit- exit door.

S: Mm-hm.  Shockwave transforms his hands again, this time to a spork and spatula.  Sporking them to death is not gonna work, dude!

O: Tell him that! [laughs]

S: Mm-hm, again, with the mental images.  Gauge rips off the spork and spatula, sending Shockwave falling backwards, where Pinkie trips him.

O: Pinkie and Gauge grab some frying pans and bean Shockwave's face in between them.

S: Shockwave, thoroughly beaten by a small Cybertronian child and a pony, is kicked back into the space bridge and disappears.

O: The remaining audience claps.

S: And 47 minutes later, the duo tries the other's culinary... contributions.

O: Pinkie declares it as success, though her face implies she didn't enjoy the iron filing casserole.

S: In the background, Gauge is clearly trying to politely spit out the cupcake in a towel. [laughs]

O: And that ends issue 2.  So, join us next time for issues 3 and 4 where we will finish this mini-series.

S: And that just about wraps it up for us today.  Remember to check us out on Tumblr or Pillowfort as Afterspark-Podcast for any additional information, show notes, or links we may have mentioned.  You can also find us on Facebook and Twitter at AftersparkPod (all one word), and various other locations by searching for Afterspark Podcast, such as AO3, iTunes, Spotify, and Youtube, just to name a few.  And feel free to send us questions on Tumblr, Youtube, or AO3.  Till next time, I’m Specs.

O: And I’m Owls!

S: Toodles.

[Outro Music Plays]

[tf-reconciliation]

Prime Megatron vs. IDW1 Megatron analysis that no one asked for

This is really slapdash and was done in like an hour and a half this morning so there’s probably some incorrectness about timeline stuff (especially with IDW1 Megs), but this is pretty much all opinion. This is also really long, so I put it under a read more.

There’s some things to think about regarding Prime Megs vs other Megses with similar backstory (thinking primarily IDW1 [and this is all my interpretation based on what we get in MTMTE] Megs).

In Exodus, it’s implied early on that while Megs does want to reform the government of Cybertron he wants to do it with him at the top as “Prime.” My impression of this is that he has a thought process of “the government sucks, I could do it better, and I deserve to be the one in charge of doing it.”

Here’s Megatron’s speech to the Council in Chapter Thirteen of Exodus, without the narration unless it’s crucial for context:

“In the beginning I had not name. None of us did. We spoke to each other, down in the mines and the smelters, by electronic signature. We indicated each other by function. We assigned each other nicknames. I was D-16, named for the sector of mine where I conducted demolition operations. And then I saw my first match in the gladiator pits. That is where I first learned how life was for the lower castes that none of you ever take a nanoclick to consider. Each Cybertronian in that balcony has seen more Cybertronians die himself than the total of you in the rest of the gallery. Our lives are worthless!

Until--Until we decided we had worth. We, the lower castes. We, the bots who die in subsurface mills and factories creating all of the things that you up here take for granted. We learned that we were individuals by facing off against each other in the gladiator pits in Slaughter City and Kaon, and how did we know we were individuals?” He waited for a moment to let the question sink in. “We knew we were individuals because as we killed our opponents in the ring, we saw in their deaths the realization that they were individuals. And so we knew we were, too. In killing, we understood life. In being the most disposable of commodities--a gladiator, whose remains are thrown into the junkpile to be picked over and scavenged, the healthy pieces sold off to brokers in Iacon and Crystal City--in being disposable, we discovered that we had value. Someone would pay us for what we did. Someone would cheer when we killed, and roar in anger when we died.

So if our lives had worth--even to others just as worthless as we were--then we had the right to names. And that is how the sequence of events started that led to me being here before you today. My friend Orion Pax, I thank you for helping our cause gain this platform; and to the High Council, I express my thanks for your time and attention.”

This is your usual fare for miner-cum-gladiator-cum-revolutionary-cum-tyrant Megatron. The Council goes on to ask him about the bombings at Six Lasers (among others), and he says that he had nothing to do with it and that he “disavow[s] any act that does not ultimately herald a new and better era on Cybertron.” The Council then asks, “Are you not responsible if your rhetoric excites those unfortunates without your willpower, though? Do you not have the same kind of responsiblity that this Council and its members have, if your leadership position is to be taken seriously?”

Megatron does not directly answer the question. Instead he says, “What you have to worry about is what will happen if my leadership is not taken seriously.” I kind of see this response as a thinly veiled threat to the Council.

Now, this chapter is ultimately from Orion Pax’s point of view, so we get his views on things: “Orion Pax couldn’t decide whether to admire him or be scandalized that he could stand up in front of the High Council and ignore the truth.” Orion believes that Megatron is ultimately responsible for these bombings because of his rhetoric.

The plot moves on with Halogen, the main dude on the Council, calling for the Guilds to speak . Orion then gets up to speak, first insulting the Guild representative and subtly blaming the Guilds for loosing contact with the colony worlds. It is Orion who calls for the Council to choose a new prime: “Choose well, for a Prime might either lead Cybertron to a new golden era in history, or stand by as the dark energies of anger and resentment explode into planetwide chaose and war.”

We then move into chapter fourteen.

Halogen then goes on to say that these two have a point the caste system has already begun to be upended. Most of this is just plot and talking about Sentinel Prime and how he’s missing.

Orion has an epiphany: “We cannot count on anything. No existing structure can handle the problems we have raised.” And he realizes that Megatron has realized it as well, but has had a different reaction:

“Megatron looked as if he could gleefully have presided over the permanent and total destruction of every institution of Cybertronian civilization. Orion Pax wanted to be free. But if there were no Cybertron, if there were no Iacon or Hydrax or Sonic Canyons...then what good would freedom do?”

The Council goes on and on about the Matrix of Leadership, culminating with Halogen saying that it has bee lost for billions of cycles and according to Alpha Trion it might be found “in these turbulent times.” Megatron says, very softly, “yes” at this point. He thinks that Halogen is talking about him; he thinks that the council is going to choose him to be the next Prime.

And Megatron starts projecting, in my opinion. He’s angry, which he is allowed to be seeing as things didn’t go his way and anger is a natural reaction to that, he feels betrayed, though he hasn’t actually been betrayed. He accuses Orion of just wanting power. He begins to mock him: “Does Cybertron not call out in its hour of need and find...a data clerk?”

Its at this point that we get back to my earlier point of Megatron thinking that he should be in charge. He reminds Orion that he didn’t know the plights of the lower castes until he met Megatron. He learned from Megatron. I believe at this point that Megatron is having a moment of “Why should the student surpass the master? Why should this more privileged ‘bot be the Prime when I have lived this injustice first hand?” These are fair questions, and I do think that a good portion of why the Council chose Orion as the next Prime has to do with him simply being less confrontational in his speech.

To me, it seems that Prime Megatron wanted the power to change Cybertron himself, and when he was denied it, he resorted to violence. While he was a miner at the start, he is primarily a gladiator. He says it himself that he didn’t truly learn what life was like for the lower castes until he first saw, and began participating in, gladiatorial matches. He knows violent solutions to violent problems first and foremost. He also spends a lot of time in later chapters thinking about “when i’m prime…” and while some of that might be to blame on Dark Energon, I think it’s also a lot of his own thoughts. He first aspired to be the leader of the gladiators, which he became. What’s to stop him aspiring to be Prime?

Now, IDW1 Megatron is an entirely different beast (at least re: early early on ala “Births, Deaths, and Interventions” and Elegant Chaos). I’m not as familiar with him between the events of BD&I and basically the rest of anything. I don’t know how exactly he gets from miner to tyrant.

What I do know is that at the beginning, he does not want to be in charge. Terminus tells him that he has two weapons, his brain and his fists, and he must be prepared to use both of them. Megatron rejects being a figurehead. His job “is to articulate the injustice at the heart of the system in the hope that others might be inspired as one, to push against it.” Terminus is almost pushing him to be this figurehead that he doesn’t want to be.

M: “I’m not a figurehead.”

T: “But you may yet become one—and that’s why you need to listen to me. Never back down. Never compromise. Never bend. The moment you try to accommodate a rival set of interests, you subordinate your own. When your enemies realize they can’t corrupt you, or contain you, or appease you…that’s when you’ll have their attention—because that’s when you become a genuine threat.”

M: “You’re focusing too much on the individual. Lasting power rests with the collective.”

T: “Of course—but the masses need someone to rally behind. Someone to take point. And even after that, even after you’ve forced the world to be fair…the top table is set for one. You must be prepared to sit alone.”

Now. I have opinions about Terminus that aren’t…positive. But here he’s pushing—he’s pushing for Megatron to take control, to lead almost singularly; he’s pushing against what Megatron wants. I think it’s important to realize that at some point you might have to resort to violence of some sort, but I think it’s also important to encourage peacefulness until you get to the point where it is literally impossible to do otherwise.

In Elegant Chaos part 1, present day Megs has a conversation with Orion Pax (we love time travel shenanigans) and he asks, “Why rely on someone else coming along and doing your job for you—someone who may not actually want the job?” This question implies that at some point before the war properly started, he still didn’t want to be the one in charge. I believe that he was somewhat content writing and inspiring people to change the system.  As evidenced in Elegant Chaos pt. 2 when Megatron is talking with Impactor: “Because the revolution will be about ideas. Taking a new step, uttering a new word…That’s what the ruling elite fears the most. Violence solves nothing.” Also, if I remember correctly he hides under the table during the fight in the bar.

[kidknux]

You HAVE to tell us more about your tf au. I'm begging you

I’d love to talk about the au! It’s also @captainofthestars​‘s au, so don’t forget that you can ask him questions too! We’re each handling about half the characters; some of the ones he’s in charge of are Blurr, Metroplex, Spike Witwicky, and Perceptor. We both love getting questions!

In the meantime, I guess have some scattered trivia??

We have a list of the main ‘teams’ to keep track of what characters go where. Some of the main ones on earth are Team Optimus (Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Prowl, Bulkhead, and Omega Supreme) the Rod Squad (Hot Rod, Wheeljack, Rung, Whirl, Arcee, Tailgate, and Byte) and the Rescue Bots (Heatwave, Chase, Boulder, Blades, and Wreck-Gar) plus their various human friends and (eventually) cybertronian visitors. One other team is... unique, and we still have to figure out how they line up together.

Minicons here are a little more common than in TFA, but nowhere near as common as, say, the trilogy. They’re loosely defined as any bot who falls within human size, so around seven-eight feet tall or smaller. Swerve, who’s right at eight feet tall, and Prowl, who manages to hit nine with heels, both barely escape the label on a technicality. Since there’s such a big range of sizes, though, we’ve been thinking about having a lot of different size classes. We’ll have to think on it more before we can get you guys anything solid, though.

Sentinel Prime is Here and surprisingly, having both of his conjunx die and one of them going down with Megatron and ending the war has maybe made him like..... a tiny bit less of a jerk than normal, just slightly. He handled Optimus’s death a lot differently. More on him when we manage to design him, though.

Black Arachnia is in space as Strika’s main scientist, but Strika trusts her like... not at all. Blitzwing also hates her, after she turned him into a triple changer. Her voice and a lot of character beats have been borrowed from GLaDOS to add to her TFA characterization, and she has a cute little lab assistant named Antagony.

Wheeljack and Perceptor are long-time conjunx, and one of them might be amica with Skyfire. Jetfire and Jetstorm have been under their care since they were sparklings. Things might have gone downhill after Wheeljack was pulled away to go into the war effort, and then declared dead. Those five will probably be able to expand on that later in their bios, especially Percy’s.

One part of Cybertronian anatomy is an energon converter, roughly named. it might be able to be considered roughly analogous to like... a stomach before the more obvious fuel tank stomach. It converts edible energon and other fuels like gasoline into a more uniform state that cycles through the body. One quirk of it is that it converts different colors of energon for different bots; blue and pink are the most common, but other colors like yellow or green are seen a lot too. The color is generally reflected by optic color, but that color can change if someone decided to get tinted optics rather than clear ones.

Longarm assigned Punch to spy on the Decepticons as Counterpunch before the war ended. He’s been in deep cover long enough that it’s dangerous, but there’s still no word from Longarm for when he should return.

There are a few different mutations that can happen to protoforms. One of them is obviously outlier abilities, powers that a Cybertronian manifest that go outside of their initial design or intentionally made upgrades. Bumblebee’s stingers don’t count, Ratchet’s EMP generator doesn’t count, but Hot Rod’s overheating ability counts. Flight frames and aquatic altmodes are both considered mutations, and generally result in bots who are much larger than usual after several significant growth spurts late in development; immobile altmodes are another one, but generally result in smaller bots. One mutation resulted in a deformed t-cog that occasionally caused problems during transformations; through experimentation on Blitzwing, Black Arachnia discovered that bots with that mutation could become triple-changers with just minor adjustments.

Byte is the smallest character we have, at an inch tall. Windup and the Cassettes are the closest to that, at around six inches tall.

Cybertron used to circle a star, allegedly, but it doesn’t anymore. The two moons, at least, continue to circle the planet. To imitate the old day and night, the core of Cybertron is illuminated on a schedule, dimming for one solar cycle and returning to full brightness for the next solar cycle. It’s generally expected for citizens to follow the imposed schedule, but it’s debatable if they actually do.

Swerve and Blurr are friends. Like, actually for real friends. Really.

[black-strike-otp]

part 8

me, trying desperately to shove Blackout and Novastrike together

“Just kiss already jfc the wait is killing me”

I love the troll bug. ‘Cade is such a poor bby be kind! All he wants to do is gush over Venus :U Also Nighthawk apparently getting along with most everyone but Blackout is literally my fav. Play nice you two.

At the very least, Scorponok had an eventful evening. Popping out from the ground and firing from the shadows to take down as many of the runaway Autobots as quickly as he could. The return home was a bit time consuming however, considering he couldn’t dock into Blackout’s broad backside with the various wounds and shrapnel broken up and jammed in his back.

But hey, at least someone was happy.

Blackout winced, a growl moving out of him with enough malice to almost have a physical entity about it.

“Ouch,” he snarled softly. “Could you be anymore rough, doctor?”

“I could,” Nighthawk replied softly. “I just choose not to be.” 

Blackout rolled his optics. “Going for gentle on my account. Didn’t know you were so soft-” he instantly winced, feeling a sharp pain in the location where he rotor mount connected between his shoulders.

“My pleasure,” the crimson medic breezily replied, not missing a beat. “Anything for my favorite clients.”

The tension in the room was just about tangible enough to slice with a knife.

An audible metallic clicking came from Scorponok as he walked into the room. His helm tilted slightly, optics blinking out of sync.

Ignoring the grumbling extra large shadow sitting in front of him, Nighthawk sat his tools down and walked over to the bug. Scorponok gave a brief chatter as the medic bent down slowly, inspecting his backside.

“Doing alright there, Scorponok? No injuries?”

An almost cheerful chirp escaped the scorpion. He accepted the affectionate pat from the medic, his tail swaying in almost a cat-like fashion.

“Traitor,” Blackout barely mumbled beneath his breath like a dejected child.

Ignoring his partner’s spite, the bug scurried off to the side as Nighthawk moved to stand. There were nothing more than scuffs on the bugs and a lot of filth that would require cleaning. Things the minicon’s partner could easily take care of, Nighthawk knew that much.

Off to the side,a dragonic Infiltrator lifted his helm up from the datapad he was looking at as he spotted Scorponok. His throat produced a raspy click in greeting to the bug. A surprisingly relaxed Scorponok raised one of his drills up, gingerly patting at Infiltrator’s snout in response.

Satan placed his attention on Scorponok’s vague attempts of ‘play’ to amuse himself with Infiltrator. It was better than focusing on the sadist behind him getting a kick out of his slight shudders as he pulled junk out of his hide and patched him up.

The auto-powered doors opened as the medic continued on, and a blur of black, grey, and violet shot through the door.

“Blackout!” the merry mech all but shouted as he darted in. “Hey, I heard you were back with some nasty wounds. How you doin’ buddy?”

“We aren’t buddies,” Blackout stated flatly.

Nighthawk glanced around Blackout’s large frame. His optics were narrowed behind his soft purple HUD glasses. However, upon noticing who it was, he slowly leaned back in to work. Although he was irritated, anything that may irritate Blackout could, by all means, stay.

“Sure we are,” the mech insisted. “Anyway, looks like you’re in good hands. Nighthawk’s never done me wrong anyway. Hey, thanks for you know- keeping that thing on the down-low.”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, Barricade,” Nighthawk muttered faintly. “Besides, with all the scrap I seen, your case doesn’t surprise me.”

“Riiggghhhtt,” Barricade replied, rolling his shoulders. “So Blackout, it sounds like we’re both assigned to a mission in Vos in two cycle. You think that fragger Starscream will be there too?”

Everyone in the room shuddered simultaneously at the Decepticon’s Second-in-Command’s name.

“I hope not,” rumbled the Hound shortly.

“Primus, please take him,” Nighthawk hissed faintly.

“Yeah well, the debriefing is in a few jours, so I guess we’ll find out then.” Barricade stated, flicking his wrist.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in a few jours,” snapped Blackout.

“Jeez, you’re grouchy. Are you always this pouty when you’re hurt?”

“Worse.” Scorponok stated in a clipped tone.

Blackout shot his bug a furious glare. Scorponok all but chattered with laughter.

Barricade grinned, his purple optics shining brighter than before. Placing a servo against a hip, he leaned in closer to Blackout. “So, remember that femme I was telling you about last time? Venus? The one I met in training? She was sparring today, so I joined in of course. Frag, she hurt me so hard... It was amazing. She’s so beautiful,” he sighed.

Nighthawk made a half-strangled cough, trying to hide his laughter.

Seeing as the annoyance wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, Blackout raised an optic ridge and vented a sigh. “And getting hit is... good?”

“I mean, yeah. She was so close-”

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Blackout interrupted swiftly.

A stifled wheeze escaped Nighthawk, and he stated in a wavering tone, “Oh no- Barricade, we’re dying to hear all about this encounter, please go on.”

Blackout’s optics widened. “No we’re-”

“So, there I was, flat on my back-”

Blackout’s faceplate was mortified. He tried shifting as if to stand, not wanting a lengthy story filled with nonsense and hopeful wisps of love and attraction, but he felt Nighthawk’s servo gripping his shoulder and remained seated.

That damn medic was snickering under his breath the whole time.

~

Starscream didn’t join them on the trip to Vos that day. Blackout settled in well enough with Scorponok, Barricade, and his partner Frenzy on the mission. ‘Cade slipped in to do a little surveillance with Frenzy before Blackout came in with his bug, weapons ablazing on the Autobot seekers who had taken it upon themselves to go to the city of Seekers in hopes of finding any remaining factionless to join the Autobots.

Few made it out alive that day. Blackout couldn’t listen to another sappy story from Barricade though. The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough. Who could possibly be that infatuated with a femme?

~

Weeks later, Blackout could swear he’d seen a familiar flash of white in the corner of his optics while out stalking down a hit for Megatron. He couldn’t be sure though... He almost wished it hadn’t been though. He nearly felt sick with the idea of seeing her again.

Scorponok had nothing to say about how distracted and messy he was with taking out the Autobot in question. Of that, he was grateful.

~

Months later, Blackout’s large shadow was falling over Cybertron as he was doing a fly-over location where sonar had picked up odd disturbances and a few Autobot signals.

Although he never spotted the Autobots said to be in the area; a different Decepticon found them first, he had spotted a small group of four Cybertronians making for cover as he passed.

He thought briefly of engaging, but noticed an uncharacteristically small white figure for a split second before she was hidden among the rubble.

A small, nagging voice in the back of his helm told him to rid of the problem but he ignored it. For now.

~

He saw her for sure, days later. In the middle of his own fight against Autobot’s, she and a team of her own came in to steal supplies from the Autobot’s too occupied in the fight.

One tried to take her out. Novastrike took him down; using his own distractions to her size and underestimating her poweress to get in close enough to strike him hard and fast; tripping him up and stunning his legs so someone else could come in and give him a firm blow to the helm.

They made it out with supplies without incident. It felt disturbingly wrong to feel proud of her, and even more disturbing to feel an unnerving sense of irrational resentment to a mech on her team that had specifically went out of his way to aid Novastrike carrying some of the supplies she’d went to carry and flashing her a stupid, gullible grin.

Blackout could carry at least six times that mech’s load. What did he have to be so damn proud about?

~

Scorponok spotted her and some factionless days later. He pinged Blackout, asking if he should pursue or attack.

Blackout shied his bug away from the idea. They were harmless; factionless rarely caused Decepticons any trouble. They were the more violent of the two factions, so factionless rarely tried thieving from them.

Scorponok let them be, but Blackout could swear he almost felt a sense of comprehension from the bug before the bond faded between them.

~

He never dreamed. He woke up with the vaguest idea that he’d dreamed of something- someone- small and white...

Unsettling. Perhaps he needed a psychiatrist. Didn’t Nighthawk have a degree in something like that?

Nevermind- he’d just deal with it. It was nothing. Probably memory recall. That had to be it.

~

For a split second, he thought that the individual Barricade was describing that they’d captured, he could have sworn-

But then he went into more detail, and Blackout’s spark settled.

It was nothing. He was tired. There was nothing to be concerned about. Maybe he needed more recharge.

~

Barricade went on another of his overenthusiastic spouts about Venus. Blackout found himself listening more intently than listening, offering a few words encouragement. Barricade seemed all but too glad at the responses- almost like a kinship between them was forming.

“Did you just smile?”

“No. I don’t smile.”

“Yeah you did you just smiled! I SAW YOU!”

Maybe Barricade wasn’t so bad, even if annoying at times.

Still, he felt somehow more vexed than necessary on his passionate speeches of Venus’ beauty, her wit, her intelligence, what they’ve been doing and what they were up to later.

Jealousy wasn’t part of his vocabulary. The thought of it didn’t even phase his processor.

~

< Do you ever wonder how that femme’s doing? > Scorponok asked.

< What femme? > Blackout inquired.

< Novastrike. > Scorponok responded, as if the answer was obvious.

< Hardly. > Blackout replied coolly.

A faint thought, close to the sigh of an ‘ahh’, came from the bug before he pulled away from Blackout’s thoughts. Blackout wondered why he’d ask.

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 1: What It Means To Be Haunted

Chapter summary: she's alive, against all odds. But Puncture's situation is no better than it was on the Marshall Islands. The Autobots surely want something out of her.

Trigger warnings: death, gore, injury descriptions

You can find the start of Six Cycles Later here, as well as a description of what it is :] next chapter is here

Word count: 6382

chapter below cut!

Project MS: Log 1

WARNING

WARNING

AUTOBOT INTRUDERS DETECTED

The data he’d been reading disappeared as the screen suddenly turned into a camera view of the invaders. They had just slipped past the initial defenses of Headquarters, the outer walls, by cutting a hole clean through them. Shockwave’s single optic dimmed slightly in his own form of narrowing it. 

There were four of them. A large one, blue in paint. An orange one, about average height. A female Autobot, white with red. And their leader, another female, small and gray with black accents. Too many to be a few desperate rogues, too few to be a serious raid.

The Autobots were desperate for Energon, but not desperate enough to send a fully fledged party. Four was enough to deal with any initial guards, but not an entirely populated facility. Four was just enough to ensure that they could split up without detection, but not enough that their discovery would hurt the cause. Four was enough that losses wouldn’t be extreme, but still felt. 

Four. This attack was planned, thought out, and executed with soldiers specific to the task. He tapped a few buttons on the keyboard, pulling up the controls for the base’s defenses.

As with any proper commanding officer of the Decepticon HQ on Cybertron, Shockwave was occupying the primary control room. It had a circular layout, with the main computers and their respective keyboards completely populating one side, an elevator in the middle, and two exits at the back, each leading deeper into the base. Sealed doors that each required codes stood opposite the elevator. On the ceiling, perfectly hidden panels concealed turrets. 

He was perfectly safe in this room; even the back doors, which always remained open, could not be breached by intruders, unless they somehow dismantled the entire security system. The only access to said security system was locked behind a passcode that changed every single day and was stored on only three computers, one being the device he was currently accessing. 

He was safe, but he could guess what the Autobots were after, and knew that if he did not act in some way, it would not be. After the majority of the Decepticon forces had left onboard the Nemesis, chasing the Autobot Ark, their numbers on Cybertron had dwindled. The result was that there were few beside himself to guard their main headquarters on Cybertron. 

The built-in security system helped, of course, but the Autobots were learning to work their way around it. And this, before him, was their most recent attempt. 

If each was handpicked to focus on infiltration, the base defenses would only be partially effective against them. Mostly the defenses consisted of turrets, moving walls, deadly lasers, and energon detectors that would sound alarms and release drones. Those who knew which signs to look for could evade them without much trouble; those who didn’t know what to look for had still proven to, on occasion, survive the traps laid before them. 

Really, he needed to invest some of his time into improving the defenses beyond just the hologram technology. But judging by the appearances of the invaders, he concluded quickly that only one of the group could be specialized in evasion of security tech. 

It was the black and gray one. She was comparatively tiny to the others, yet they still followed the orders she appeared to be giving. As he watched the camera feed, she clambered over one of the inner walls and felt along its length until she discovered its hidden panel. Then, she tapped her servos to it and began to hack it. 

Interesting. He couldn’t say he’d seen an Autobot who looked like that and bore such an ability. Shockwave jotted it down for later, to ensure he remembered her face and frame. Then he pulled up the map of the outer base and began activation of the external holograms. 

It was a kindness, a courtesy, really, that he wasn’t immediately summoning the turrets to shoot all of them dead. But the turrets consumed Energon, and Energon was not in good supply at the moment. The hoard he was protecting, hidden behind four locks and twice as many doors, was the primary source left for the Decepticons on Cybertron. They had no efficient method of producing more at the time, and he needed to make it last.

Who knew, exactly, when the Nemesis would return, after all?

The holograms which formed took the shape of Seekers. He’d programmed them as such: any ground-based Autobot knew to fear the sound of those jet engines. The holograms manifested in the air, as jets, and immediately shot towards the Autobots on the ground. 

They were in the open, standing just before the second wall. At the roar of Seeker engines, the biggest one yelled and dropped, the orange and white raised their rifles, and the gray female darted for cover. 

The Seeker holograms winged around them, discharging fake blasts, shooting just beside or above them to grant the illusion that they were barely missing. The three Autobots at the outer wall returned fire. 

One hit, and the Seeker hologram fuzzed for a moment before regaining its stability. The Autobot who had struck it looked confused for a moment, then fired and hit it again. 

The illusion was up. Shockwave frowned and turned it off. The Autobots quickly announced their discovery, and the female returned to her hacking. The panel sparked, then opened a door in the second wall. She waved her comrades through as they continued their invasion. 

So be it. He had no desire for mercy, only energy conservation. But if the Seeker holograms could not perform their function, he supposed he could regain the power lost by harvesting the Energon of what was left of the invaders. 

They headed for the front door of HQ, the small gray female immediately working to hack the touchpad. In the meantime, Shockwave pulled up the map for the front door, pausing for just a moment to determine which way he should kill them. 

Turrets consumed Energon. Drones consumed Energon. Lasers consumed Energon. What was the most effective way to instantly neutralize them while consuming the least amount of Energon? 

Ah, that way. Of course. One of his favorites, as well. There was something so satisfying about it all. 

Opening the controls for the walls and ceiling, he connected his servos to the keyboard, which pulled him slightly into itself. For just a moment, he became the very walls of the HQ, the very motherboard of the main computer. 

Then he was back in his body, watching the single eye of the front camera as he waited. 

The front hall was empty. It was just that, a front hall–nondescript, save for the keypad next to it and the large, open space that branched into four different paths. The camera he watched hung directly from the ceiling in the middle of all four. 

The double doors to the HQ suddenly slid open, revealing the four Autobot invaders. The gray female at the front still had her servos attached to the external keypad. Her dermas moved as she spoke to the other Autobots.

“Each a’ ya take a separate hall. Remember we’re dark in there. No words, no EM fields, nothin’, or he hears us. If you find it, one ping on my personal channel, and I’ll send it to everyone else. Move out.” 

They all nodded, and one by one, quickly filed in. The female herself did not. She stayed just at the entrance, holding it open. It was as if she suspected something was about to go wrong. 

Clever bot. Or perhaps just full of self-preservation. He would give her the single reward of letting her watch. 

For no sooner had her comrades entered their hallways than did walls suddenly slam down from the ceiling, blocking each. They all backed away, raising their rifles, looking for the cause. 

“Back up!” The female yelled. “Retreat! He knows–”

He ordered the ceiling to descend, and it did. The largest Autobot barely had time to turn before it smacked into his helm. He hit the ground as his two comrades immediately raised their arms to catch it, straining against the metal as it pressed harder with each second. 

“RETREAT!” The gray female yelled again, looking on helplessly. The largest Autobot, energon leaking from the side of his helm, seemed dazed, stuck trying to decide if he should flee or help. 

They would get no such thing. Shockwave pressed harder, ordering the ceiling to descend faster. It obeyed, lowering itself with enough force to snap the white Autobot’s leg. She cried out, but dropped to her knees, still resisting, still holding on. 

“Go!” She screamed. Her comrade, the orange colored construction vehicle, wheezed as the descending ceiling broke off a piece of his back. “HURRY!”

The largest Autobot quickly began to scrape himself along the floor, heading for the open door. As he did so the creaking and snapping of metal grew louder. The white Autobot’s knees had given out. She hit the floor and desperately grabbed at it, trying to slug herself along to the entrance. 

“Please, no, I don’t want to die,” the orange one whispered, his legs rattling like thunder. “Please, no, I don’t want to die. Please, no. Please–”

He went on and on as the pressure broke his leg, then snapped his knees, then knocked him to the floor. The gray female looked desperately at the control pad she was still connected to, then to her comrades. She extended one arm. The largest had just made it, grabbing onto her servos as the top of the ceiling pressed against his back. 

Shockwave reared back ever so slightly and then slammed down. The camera recorded three collective crunches and went black. 

And then it was silent.

He only pulled back when he heard the distant scraping of pedes on metal, quickly returning to silence. Separated from the main computer, his orders were retracted, and the security system reset itself. 

The camera he’d been watching through had retreated into its panelling for safety once the ceiling had slammed down. As it lifted, the device was able to exit its safe haven. Still, the lens was completely covered in bright pink. He couldn’t hope to make anything out from it. 

Tedious. He swapped to the outside cameras and just barely caught a flash of the gray female Autobot retreating through the very door she’d opened. 

A survivor was good. It meant that she would return with news of horrors, and her superiors would likely decide against sending another infiltration team. Autobots were soft–they valued life more than they did progress. It held them back. 

Only once confirming the female Autobot’s complete retreat did he then pull up his contacts.

The information of every Decepticon in the universe displayed before him in seconds on the main computer. He narrowed it from billions to millions, then thousands, then hundreds, then just three. The names of the Seekers he was searching for displayed: Acid Storm, Nova Storm, and Ion Storm. The Rainmakers. 

He pressed the button to call them. It took them a moment to answer, as it always did–Seekers were quite lazy when unsupervised. Megatron’s absence was being felt more every day. 

“Yes, Shockwave?” All three spoke at once, with the unity befitting a proper trine. They were nothing like the cacophonous Elite Trine, which prided themselves on their unique powers while neglecting to mention their horrendous teamwork. Why Megatron even bothered with such failure Seekers, Shockwave would never know. 

“There’s been a breach at headquarters,” he announced. “I have taken care of it. You are to return to clean up the bodies.”

“Understood, Shockwave,” they all said. 

“Throw the remains into the P1U70 lab compactor,” he ordered. “Under no circumstances are you to enter the rest of the lab.”

“Yes, Shockwave.”

“After you finish with those, you are to patrol the base until repairs complete. If you find any other invaders, eliminate them.”

“As you say, Shockwave.”

With that he hung up.

Present Day

Wake up, Breaker. 

Come on, you have to wake up. 

If you don’t wake up, he’ll get you. 

You know how he feels about laziness. 

You know what he’ll do to you if he finds you like this. 

You know you won’t survive this time, with no one to take the fall for you. 

You have to wake up, Breaker. 

You have to wake up. 

There’s someone else with her. Two of them. From her supine position on the floor they loom over her, even if one had only ever come up to her hip. One had a blast clean through his helm, red optic spitting out light into nothing. One had nothing where his optics should be, his own life cord wrapped around his neck, still connected to the broken, crunched brain in his mouth. 

Wake up, Puncture. 

Her optics online and the first sensation to greet her is pain. Puncture hissed instinctively at the pounding in her helm, unwilling to groan, for groaning would signal the pain had enough strength to weaken her, not inconvenience her. The moments when she felt weakest were the most crucial–if she could not power through them, could not prove that she was strong enough to overcome them, she would die. 

And that begged an important question: why wasn’t she dead? In fact, where was she? 

Just like in her dream, she was lying supine on something hard. When she attempted to raise her arm, she found it bound to the object she was laying upon. The same was true for her legs, though at least she still had both of those. Her neck was equally tied down, and a thick band was clasped around her waist. 

Wherever she was, they didn’t want her escaping. It hurt her to turn her head, but she did, slowly taking in her surroundings. 

The first thing apparent was that she was not where she had passed out. The last thing she remembered was bitterness, bitterness that Invert had gotten away with hurting her, siphoning her Energon, and abandoning her. She also remembered a roaring headache, brought on by the Autobot Channel, and that something skeletal and silver had fled the beach alongside Invert. 

Beyond that, she recalled nothing else. She’d clearly passed out and since been moved. But by who? 

Judging by the orange-yellow walls surrounding her, the gurney she was currently strapped down on, and the blue computer on the wall playing gentle scenes of scenery on Earth, she could take a guess. 

“Oh! You’re awake!” 

It was a masculine voice, though one she felt belonged to someone who had never thrown a punch in his life. She tilted her head in the direction of it and made out a red and white Autobot approaching her. He had a large blue visor and a squarish helm, and wore his Autobot insignia on his leg. 

“I’m probably one of the only ‘bots who will say this, but what a relief!” He spoke through a white mask. “For a moment we were concerned you wouldn’t make it.” 

“Who the frag are you?” She growled. “Where have you taken me?”

Despite the mask covering his face, she could make out how he frowned at her comment. “Language,” he chided. “I’m First Aid. You’re in the Ark after we found you on the brink of death at the Marshall Islands.” 

She threw her head back and let out an exasperated groan. The Ark?! They’d taken her to the fragging Ark!? How was she supposed to escape the Ark!? Her comrades certainly wouldn’t launch a full scale invasion of this place to get her out. How typical of the Autobots, to take her somewhere to “save” her life, only to then imprison her forever. 

“...so you aren’t going to tell me your name?” First Aid asked, arching an optical ridge. It was hard to do so with his visor covering his face, but he pulled it off, somehow. 

“What, you haven’t pulled it from my memory files already?” She huffed. 

“Of course not. That’s an incredible breach of your privacy–”

“You really carried me all the way here, repaired me, and didn’t even bother to review my memory files to learn about me first!?”

“Of course not,” First Aid repeated, his frown deepening. “As I said, that’s an incredible breach of your privacy. Plus, your brain was in such a damaged state, it would have likely killed you if we had.”

“Damaged?” Of course it was damaged, Channel had clearly fragged her up. But killed her? “Just how damaged?”

First Aid in-vented and retrieved a datapad from the nearby computer. “Well, I’ve seen worse, but the ones I’ve seen worse in didn’t survive their experience. For starters, there were five holes burned into your brain, and your circuits were partially melted.” He tapped on the datapad, pulled up the report, and read it off. “‘Patient exhibits severe burn trauma directly to the brain. Wiring of patient’s helm is shot. Only essential wiring connecting to the life chord remains intact.’ And that, of course, doesn’t account for your facial trauma.”

Facial trauma? Oh right. She’d forgotten about that. 

“Speaking of, how is your new optic?” He asked, then produced his pen, moving it slowly across her vision. “Can you follow this pen?”

“Frag off,” she snarled. 

“Alright, I see you’re in a bad mood.” He lowered the pen and turned away from her. “Fine, you don’t have to be cooperative.” Moving to the computer, he began to type into it. “But just so you know, we did save your life, despite the fact that you’re a Decepticon. Regardless of your allegiance, I, and the other medics here, have a duty and obligation to try and help you. We aren’t doing this because we’re Autobots, we do it in spite of it.” He cast her a side look. “So think of that when Hoist comes to perform your physical, alright?” 

She narrowed her optics at him and said nothing. It was true, probably; medic bots were among the most prized on each side. Even warriors like herself knew that medics were to be left alone and respected. 

Still. Didn’t mean she had to be nice to him. She didn’t ask to be plucked off that island and brought into the heart of an enemy base. In fact, it likely would have been better if she’d died out there. She’d still be free, if so. 

“Hoist will be in in just a moment,” First Aid told her as he crossed the medical bay, tapping on his datapad. “You have the right to request a full copy of your medical information, as well as to deny medical care, even the life-saving stuff. Some Autobots might prefer that you do just that.” 

“So you do have some bite,” she sneered. 

“I’m just returning the favor. Anyways, if you need immediate medical assistance, there’s a controller by your remaining servos. Press the red button on it, and I’ll come running.” 

And with those final words, he left the medical bay. 

She laid alone on the gurney for only a moment before checking around for cameras. There were three, all hanging from the ceiling. Two were trained on her, with the third having a wide focus on the entire medical bay. 

So they hadn’t assigned a guard, but they were watching her. She tested the bindings keeping her tied to the gurney and found that they held. She felt for her claws, trying to transform her arm enough to flip her large sickles out. Though her T-cog spun, the bindings restricted her movement too much, and her arm locked up momentarily before quitting and reverting. 

Frag. They had her tied up properly. She felt along the inside of her masked maw, trying to stimulate her venom glands. 

They’d been drained. Her intake was drier than the Wastes. She cursed internally and ran over her options. 

In a few moments an Autobot doctor (Hoist?) would see her, check her over, and do whatever to her. After he was gone, if he provided her a clean bill of health, she would likely be thrown in a cell. Once in a cell, she would probably be interrogated and her brain picked clean. 

So her future was looking like being locked in a cell for the rest of her life, or, if she was lucky, locked up, taken to trial, and executed. 

Technically it was a better fate than anything her brethren would do. Pit knows what happened to those bots sent to Shockwave’s labs, though she could take a guess. But it was still a horrible fate for her–warriors were meant to die on the battlefield, not in an executioners chamber. 

She had to get out of here. She’d much sooner offline by her own claw than serve as an example of ‘Autobot justice’. 

Heavy pedesteps alerted her to the arrival of another Autobot, this one green. He also wore a visor as well, and when he spoke, his voice gave her the impression of a foreigner. She assumed he was “Hoist”.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Decepticon! I had heard you survived your wounds.” 

She gave him an irritated look. There was no time for pleasantries, not in her mind. 

“What are you going to do with me,” she asked flatly. “Tell me. And how long has it been since I was knocked out?”

“Ah, miss, well…” He paused, flubbed on his script a little. “It’s been approximately seven earth days since we found you. I assure you, we’ve treated you well in that time. Your memories have not been–”

“The nurse told me. You repaired me, but only partially. Why’s my arm still missing?”

“Well, we–”

“How’d you drain my venom glands?”

“I–”

“What are you going to do to me after this?”

“Miss, if you please! I’m just here to give you a check-up and ensure everything is functioning. Frankly, I have no idea what it is that will be done with you. As for your other questions, well, the obvious, of course! We drained your venom because it is dangerous, and we did not repair your arm for the same reason. Now, Miss Decepticon. Will you please consent to a full-body scan?”

She rolled her optics. Why give her those back, but not her arm? Primus, she must look awful right now. “Tell me, exactly, how I can say no in my present condition.”

Hoist shrugged. “I suppose you cannot. Alright, please hold still…”

—

Hoist released her with a clean bill of health. Despite her prior condition of almost having her brain melted and losing over 50% of the Energon in her frame, she’d made a full recovery, and would be in fighting form upon discharge. 

Once he’d declared her healthy enough to be removed from the medical bay, First Aid had arrived to do just that, carting her bound form to the Ark’s brig. She was wheeled down a hall, passing a few Autobots she didn’t recognize on the way. They cast her looks of disdain, which she returned. 

They paused before a cell. There was already an enforcer waiting at it, who placed stasis cuffs on her single good arm before First Aid had even begun to undo her bindings. From one slab to the next, Puncture was pulled off the gurney and dumped into an empty cell. Behind her, a wall of lasers formed the jail bars, threatening to electrocute her if she even brushed against them. 

The enforcer who’d thrown her into the cell gave her a contemptuous look and huffed, then turned away, standing at his post like the dutiful little soldier he was. She glared at him, picking herself off the ground with only a bit of struggle. 

“Hey,” she said, “what are you planning? You and all your buddies. You’re keeping me alive for a reason, aren’t you? You want me for something.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he answered, not even looking back at her. “My job is to make sure you don’t escape, and telling you our plans isn’t a part of that.”

“So you are keeping me alive for something. Alright.” She grinned slyly. “You do know who I am though, don’t you?”

Silence. 

“My comrades will gladly raid this place for me, you know. I’m not just some useless foot soldier you scraped off the ground. If they realize I’m here–”

“You lost the war,” he said, hard. “And your comrades are dead. You, Decepticon, are the last of your kind on this planet.” She could just barely make out his optic as he cast her a side glare. “No one is coming for you, no matter who you think you are.”

“Liar.” She hissed the word, but already, Invert’s words were catching up with her: they’re all dead. 

“Argue all you want, you can’t deny facts.” And with that he stopped talking to her. 

Her grin faded, and instead she focused on trying to access her comms. They were open, but a signal was jamming them–of course the Ark would have a signal jammer. Perhaps Soundwave or his cassettes could get around it, but the average bot would easily be deafened. 

She still tried, anyways, casting out a line into the dark, emitting a few beeps, hoping anyone would answer. All that she was met with was silence. 

They’re all dead.

That couldn’t be. The Decepticons were too strong, there was no way they’d lose. She’d arrived late, but not late enough that the war was over. That wasn’t possible. For over four million years it had been going, with no end in sight. It couldn’t be over now. 

And yet all that spoke to her was silence. Grumbling, Puncture turned and lowered herself to the ground, taking in the empty box that was her cell. 

There was a single bench and a recharge slab. That was all. Already, there was someone curled up on the slab, looking over at her. Part of his head was missing, courtesy of Megatron’s fusion cannon, though his destroyed optic somehow still stared out at her. 

She tried not to focus on him. Sparkripper and Strutsnapper had haunted her for years before this all, but they were never so brazen. It had to be her brain nearly melting–the two of them were more active than ever now that her defenses had been damaged. Once her mind was properly, fully restored, they’d both vanish again. 

‘Clean bill of health my aft…’ she thought to herself. 

Something brushed up against her EM field. She jolted at the sudden sensation–no one dared mess with her field, be they Decepticon or Autobot. She kept hers held close, almost entirely cut off from everyone else. To access it would require another to be practically on top of her.

Yet as she checked around, she saw no one close enough for it. The enforcer was her most likely suspect, but the strange force dancing at the edge of her field didn’t feel nearly as big as him. 

‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, trying to reach through her field to feel back against whoever was bothering her. At first, nothing. 

Then…

‘You’re alive.’ 

It was a familiar hatred, and she felt her dermas stretching into a grin at the antagonization. The EM field, however, remained foreign. 

‘Yeah, I am. Wanna try to change that?’ She challenged, and was met with an immediate flare. 

‘Twelve mega-cycles. Twelve mega-cycles, and you’re–’ The other field suddenly pulled away. 

She waited for it to return, but it didn’t. Puncture huffed and rolled her optics. It was some Autobot hotshot thinking they were enough to take her down, probably. She’d give them the fight they wanted in time, but first…

First, she had to figure out how to get out of this damned cell. No venom, no claws, one arm, and stasis cuffs weighing her down. Her situation wasn’t looking the best, but she still had one trick she could utilize: her camouflage. It didn’t seem they’d disabled that. All she had to do was wait for a changing of the guard and use it. Then she could take her alt mode and wait for them to open the bars. Once those were gone, she’d creep out. 

It was a bare bones plan, but it was better than compliance. She focused her gaze on the guard and away from Sparkripper, who had cocked his draconian head and let his broken jaw hang open. 

A new figure appeared from the other side of the cells, approaching the guard. He was white, with a vehicle alt mode and a red crest. She recognized the style immediately: a Prowl. Another one. 

She’d seen a few in her time. Prowls were strategists and enforcers, and like how the Decepticons made Seekers by the hundreds, she assumed the Autobots made Prow’s by the hundreds as well.

Or maybe a dozen bots had just decided collectively to adopt the same stupid alt mode and share the same name. Who was she to assume?

Whatever the case, the Prowl at her cell bars wasn’t one she recognized. The differences were minor between this one and the two or three she’d seen in battle, but his star was in a different spot, the horns of his crest were a bit smaller, and his headlights had the wrong shape. 

No matter the differences, though, she could guess why he was here. 

Her guess was proven when, only moments later, the enforcer turned and deactivated the bars of her cage, turning and pointing his rifle at her. 

“Move, Decepticon. You’re wanted in the interrogation room.”

Prowl gave her a look of contempt as she flicked her antenna. 

“Color me surprised,” she grumbled.

—-

The interrogation room was a single empty chamber with a table in the middle of it. A screen was on one wall with a window opposite it. A camera hung in one of the corners, trained on the middle of the room. 

She was ‘gently persuaded’ into the room, and her single cuff was attached to the table. The Prowl sat opposite of her, retrieving a data pad from his chassis. The enforcer took his position in the corner, rifle at the ready. 

“Decepticon,” the Prowl began, tapping on his datapad, “it’s good to see that you’ve made a full recovery. I imagine you know why you’re here.” 

She flicked her antenna. 

“...As I’m sure you’ve been made aware, your memory was not examined upon your admission to our care. Such would be considered a violation of your rights as a mech. However, I would like to make you aware that we can skip this entire process if you would consent to a mnemosurgery exam. We only want a few things from you. This doesn’t have to take all day.” 

“You’re not sticking any needles in my brain, pigatron.”

His doorwing twitched. “So be it. With that said, there are a few things I’d like to ask you about. First things first: why are you here on Earth? This planet is entirely under Autobot control. Your final retreat was ordered six months ago. We gave you time to collect your dead. Why are you here now?”  

“Why? Because this planet isn’t yours, Autobot, and you’re a fool to think we’ve lost it.” 

“Hm. You’re not in any of our databases. Your preliminary scans revealed that you are an Insecticon. Are you a clone?”

“No. And don’t lump me in with those traitors.”

He raised an optical ridge. “Traitors?” 

“Yeah, traitors.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.” 

“Hm.” He narrowed his optics slightly. “Alright. How did you hide for so long? We scanned the entire planet and picked up no Decepticon life signals.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, little Autobot?”

“...are there more like you, hiding beneath the Earth? We found your base, the Nemesis. We can use its tracking abilities to locate any others you have remaining on this planet. If you surrender the location of them, we can offer preliminary communication to avoid further conflict. For the safety of your fellow Decepticons–”

“I don’t care about my fellow Decepticons,” she challenged. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anything.” 

The Prowl tapped something down on his datapad. The enforcer in the corner gripped his rifle all the tighter. 

“Good to know then, Puncture,” the Prowl said. “If you’re really so keen on resistance, perhaps I can offer you some information that might change your mind.”

Her optics narrowed slightly, antenna pricking at the same time. This whole time, he’d known her name? No, of course he did, he was a Prowl. Prowl’s were strategists, they offered and withheld information as part of their wars. 

“I take it from the sudden increase in your spark spinning as well as the flick of your antennae that my offer is of interest to you. Good.” The Prowl crossed his legs. “First and foremost, seeing as you are in no Autobot database, I take it you aren’t nearly up to date with what’s occurred on Earth or Cybertron in the past four million years. You’re in the complete dark, and you’re all alone out here. There is no one coming to save you. Now that you’re in Autobot custody, you’ve lost any and all freedom you could have hoped to have on this planet. You will spend the rest of your days in a cell in a foreign prison until you eventually stand trial for your crimes, after which you will be executed.” He looked up from his datapad with sly eyes. “Just one Autobot fatality carries the death penalty, you know.”

She snarled behind her mask. “So I’ve heard.”

“But I can help alleviate that sentence, if you cooperate with me.” He returned his gaze to the datapad, scrolling through it casually. “Instead of an eternity in a jail cell, waiting for execution, you could become a public servant. Or maybe a prisoner working in the mines, extracting resources. It’s still slag, but better than waiting to die, no?”

She bristled. 

“So you have a choice, Puncture. You can resist, rot, and die alone, far from your comrades, your home, and whatever perceived notion of honor you have clouding that half melted helm of yours. Or you can give me a few small answers, and I can see to it that you at least spend the rest of your miserable existence in a yard that lets you see the sun.” He leaned forward. “Your choice.”

Die horribly, or live horribly. There was a bot with his brain in his mouth, staring at her from the corner. Solvent was streaking down his faceplate even as he made no sound. 

What a waste, he had been. 

“Frag you,” she spat. The honor she had fought so immensely for would not be squandered slaving under the eye of an Autobot. She would rather die. 

The Prowl’s optics flickered slightly as he sat back. “Alright then. Don’t cooperate. But that won’t get you out of that chair. Now tell me, Decepticon, what do you know about Sparkeaters?”

She blinked, surprised by the sudden topic change. 

“They don’t exist,” she answered. “Are you Autobots deluding yourselves with sparkling tales now?” 

“Hm. What of Project Spark Storm do you know, then?”

“What.” Her confusion was genuine.

He sighed and lowered his datapad. “Alright, that’s enough. Take her back to her cell. I’ll see to that mnemosurgery appeal.” 

With that he stood and headed for the door. The enforcer moved towards her, rifle trained on her helm. She bristled at him, trying to build up some venom in her dry glands. They ached and clenched, producing nothing.

The door suddenly opened. The Prowl froze, servos still reaching for its touchpad. A blue, red, and white bot was in the doorway–and he was massive. She recognized his double pronged helmet, large blue optics, and blocky shoulders. How couldn’t she? Every Decepticon who had ever lived through sudden Autobot reinforcements would. 

“Ultra Magnus!” The Prowl said, surprised. “I wasn’t aware you were on Earth, sir! What are you doing here?”

“Interrogations,” he answered, peering in at Puncture. “Is that the Decepticon you captured?”

“Yes, Puncture the Insecticon. If you’re looking for information, she isn’t particularly cooperative, sir. I would recommend a mnemosurgeon examine her memories.”

“Hm. Maybe. Bring her to the space bridge.”

Prowl’s door wings practically shot up. “What?! But she’s–”

“She’s needed on Cybertron. I’ll take over her interrogations from here. I expect to see you both at the space bridge in twenty kliks.” 

And with that he walked away. Another bot passed behind him, also in stasis cuffs. She recognized a familiar gray and black head, awkwardly clashing with the cheerful white, green, and blue palette of its body. 

It turned and their optics met. The sensation from before of another brushing against her EM field arose once more, vanishing as the Autobot passed, moved along by another enforcer.

So that was who it was. She rose from her seat without issue and almost took a step forward, but the enforcer stopped her, training his rifle on her helm. She gave him a look, then returned her gaze back to the doorframe where the Prowl stood, still in shock. 

Ultra Magnus was here on Earth? He was far too valuable to be reduced to such a base place, let alone be interrogating prisoners. Something didn’t feel right about the entire situation. 

And Channel was alive. She was, somehow, riding on the bot Puncture had killed—Uptick, was his name? Perhaps he’d survived too then?

Her dermas curled down. She didn’t like this. The prospect of a rematch was always exciting, but its context was leaving her wary.  

They said she was needed on Cybertron. Cybertron was under Decepticon control, it had been for millions of years. When had the Autobots formed a base on it? Invert’s words echoed in her mind again.

They’re all dead.

You lost the war.

No one is coming for you.

Strutsnapper lingered in the corner, the solvent running down his faceplate growing in volume.

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 2: The Price of Freedom

chapter summary: we're finally on cybertron! unfortunately we're also in enemy territory. and they've got a specific request of Puncture...

Trigger warnings: death, robogore, cannibalism, desecration of corpses (if you want to consider it that)

word count: 4829

chapter below cut! prior chapter can be found here. next chapter is here!

Project MS: Log 2

Metal. Fuel. Charge. Shockwave stood before the Distiller, watching its tubes fill with silver and pink. From the viewing window there were only two stages to witness: the start, and the end. He knew exactly what occurred in the hidden portions, sensitive to light as they were, and felt no need to peel back the layers he’d carefully added to protect the vital substances within. All that mattered, to him, was the beginning, and the end. 

The middle could commit whatever atrocities it wanted, so long as it eventually provided favorable results. 

The Distiller was one of many creations harbored in the P1U70 lab. Connected directly to the compactor, it was created with a single purpose: to convert the enemy into resources. He’d tested it before, on turbofoxes and other Cybertronian wildlife. Anything close in biology to a Cybertronian would suffice. But actual Cybertronians? 

He hadn’t managed to acquire any subjects fresh enough. The issue with the Distiller was that it required its victims to still hold some form of charge within them. The brain could be long dead, the metal could be cold, and the Energon could be stale, but the spark must still be warm in some form. Without the spark chamber’s residual charge, the machine could not recognize the metal within it. 

Such characteristics differentiated it from a common smelting pool. Anyone could throw a few mechs into a smelting pool and pull out their dead sentio metallico later. But they could not keep the metal alive, as if it was freshly forged. They could not turn it into fresh protoform, ready to be shaped into a new bot. They could only destroy and reduce, turning a once living bot into a clump of hardened, deceased metal. 

Metal, fuel, charge. Scholars had debated for many millennia just what made up a Cybertronian. Just what made up a spark. Shockwave had already come to his own conclusion, requiring no philosophical insight. 

A Cybertronian was made of up three things: sentio metallico, Energon, and a spark. Metal, fuel, charge. These could be reduced even further to the exact mineral composition of sentio metallico, the exact chemical composition of Energon, and the exact atoms that formed a spark. 

That was all they were. Metal, fuel, and charge. 

He watched the end tubes of the Distiller, hard at work, the sound of thick liquid sloshing through them. Below the Energon tube, he had placed a cube. Below the sentio metallico, a small tub. And connecting to the most delicate, glass line, he had connected a copper chamber. It had been hell to acquire that rare material,  but it was worth it now. 

Bright pink began to drip. Silver, not gray, began to slip forth. And the chamber began to fill with charge, indicated to him by the monitor to his right. 

The distiller was in perfect working order. All it needed was a few fresh subjects. 

He watched the Energon drip until it filled half the cube, then stopped. Mentally, Shockwave frowned. The Rain Makers had cleaned up much more than that. And comparatively, half a cube to three mechs was operating at an immense loss, far beyond the cost of actually powering the Distiller. He would have to adjust for the values, figure out just why it produced so little Energon in comparison to its sentio metallico. 

And speaking of the sentio metallico, it was coming thick now, easily filling the lower half of the tub. He dipped his servo into it and brought it to his optic, observing how it behaved when he rubbed it. The warmth it produced was undeniable. The metal was alive and, judging from its reaction to his circular motions, ready to be molded. It was as if the spark had never left the body. 

It suddenly shifted. The metal oozed down his servos, coalescing into a small ball in his palm. Shockwave watched it for a moment. The orbular form it took began to quiver slightly, then developed a few notable features. 

He’d recognize something attempting to take the form of an optic anywhere. Dismissively, he tossed it back into the tub. 

There were kinks to work out in the Distiller, it seemed. Keeping the charge of the spark to produce constant living metal had a few side effects. Watching the metal in the tub, however, he observed that it did not attempt to take any shape or form. It merely sat still, shifting only occasionally from the fresh drips being added to it. 

It bore a striking resemblance to mercury, he thought. He jotted that down mentally and removed the Energon cube. A plate on his other arm slid open, revealing a small tube with a needle at the end. It arose like a snake from its den, slithering towards the open cube. The tip dipped into the pink substance, and Shockwave sampled it. 

It had no particular taste, not that he had ever cared about taste. The charge was entirely neutral despite having been freshly harvested from other bots. And there were no impurities that he could detect. 

The Distiller was working perfectly in that aspect, at least. Energon was being harvested, distilled, and prepared as if it was occurring from any other natural energy source. But why, when fed so much, did the Distiller produce so little? It could not be that the source Energon was so impure.

Those were questions he would have to ponder. The final test was on the artificial spark chamber. He moved to his monitor, checking its readings. 

There was enough charge for two sparks within it. His mental frown deepened. Enough for three had been tossed in. How was it that only two were properly harvested? 

He ordered the monitor to pull up the specific charges. It produced a graph detailing the levels, and how they’d fluctuated. In the beginning, the charge had been almost entirely null, then mixed, then began to decrease towards the negative. After exactly seven kliks and three nanokliks it shot into the positive, the negative completely snuffing out. 

His optic narrowed and he zoomed in on the charge levels again. There had been enough energy for one spark in the chamber when the charge had been primarily negative. The end result, now, was that there was enough energy for two sparks, both positive. 

Oh, how humorous. If he had any sense of the emotion, perhaps he would laugh. In their desperation to make their environment more appealing for them, the Autobots had snuffed out their ally, simply for its differences. 

How truly humorous. 

—----

The Autobot space bridge wasn’t exactly what she’d expected it to be. The Decepticon ones she’d observed, created by Shockwave, were simplistic things, often designed as little more than a circular structure with a power source. The original one formed on Earth, handed to her courtesy of the data packet Soundwave had left on public Decepticon air, had been a bit of an extravagant structure, but it was made that way because of technological restraints. 

Future space bridges were made to conserve as much power as possible while ensuring that they sent their occupants to their destination with only a slight chance of accidentally killing them. She could respect that last part, what was the fun in life if one didn’t have to guard theirs on occasion? 

The Autobot space bridge reminded her of that original one built. In fact, looking at it, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Autobot’s had just taken the original one and painted it orange. Considering the Decepticons had little need for it after Shockwave had begun working on more, she didn’t doubt it. 

She was marched out in stasis cuffs, a rifle trained on her back. They’d elected to cuff her single arm to her leg in the absence of her other, and her joint was already growing sore from how much she was having to arch and move it. The irritation only added to her foul mood. 

Awaiting her at the space bridge was Ultra Magnus, who watched her like a hawk, and the Autobot Channel. She’d gone through quite an upgrade since their last encounter; it was like she was riding on the body of Uptick, and she didn’t quite fit his frame. 

The head thing would have been more of a shock to her, really, if she hadn’t almost died at the same time it had been revealed. Now, knowing it, Puncture’s greatest feeling on the matter was disappointment. Well, disappointment and perhaps a bit of disgrace. She’d really almost had her brain melted by a parasite whose alt mode was a head?

Channel scowled at her as she approached. They were almost on eye level now, thanks to Uptick lending her the entirety of his frame minus a brain and spark. 

“Here she is, sir,” the Prowl who’d accompanied her announced, stepping forward. “Will you be safe traveling without any additional security?”

Magnus gave him a curt nod. “They’re expecting us. And I think I can handle two cuffed prisoners.” He looked between Puncture and Channel, then at the space bridge controls. “Please power it. Time is of the essence.” 

The tiniest twitch of a doorwing told her that the Prowl was displeased with his order, but he obeyed. The rifle at her back fell away as the additional enforcer moved back as well. No one, it seemed, wanted to be anywhere near the space bridge when it charged. 

At the controls, the Prowl flicked a few switches, and the lights of the space bridge turned on. She could feel charge in the air as they walked down what looked like it had once been part of a race track. Now, it almost had the air of marching to a smelting pool. 

A swirling purple portal manifested, horizontally, at the end of the space bridge. She almost snorted at the sight. Oh, they were using old Decepticon tech alright. Couldn’t any Autobot scientist hold a candle to Shockwave?

“Somethin’ funny?” Channel asked, narrowing her optics. Puncture gave her a snide look. 

“You’re behind,” she mocked, and left it at that. Magnus, who’d followed behind them, was unreadable. 

“Move,” he ordered. And what choice did they have, with the size of the blaster he held in his servos?

Stairs rose just before the portal. Channel took them first, hesitating for a moment before promptly dropping in. 

Puncture wouldn’t be nearly so meek. She took each in stride, overly aware of how many optics were on her (only eight, but hey, eight was still a good number). This was no different than marching out from her chamber in The Pit, approaching the empty, Energon soaked center as her name was cheered. 

BREAKER! BREAKER!

There were ten optics on her now. Struts couldn’t see anymore, though his head was still trained in her direction. 

You know he did it to save your life. 

It would have been better if I died. He’s ruined my life is what he’s done. 

You say that like his actions didn’t almost cost him his own!

SHUT UP!

She looked away from him and reminded herself this was a performance. All of life was a damn performance, a performance proving you were the strongest and you deserved the respect your station called for.

She directed her smirk to the Prowl as she jumped for her death. 

—

She did not, in fact, die. As with any space bridge portal, she merely emerged at the other side after confusing turbulence that somehow saw her dumped out of a vertical portal on her back. Puncture grunted as she hit cold metal, hard, knocking the back of her helm against it. Momentarily, her vision swam, black spots appearing at the edge. 

Then she was grabbed by her shoulders and pulled up. She snapped at whoever touched her, mask flaring open to reveal her rotted intake. The Autobot who’d grabbed her promptly turned her around, then smashed her face on the floor. 

Pain exploded over her helm, pounding at the back. The spots were back, this time accompanied by stars. 

“Kid! If you kill ‘er she can’t talk!” 

“She wants to fight, I’ll give her a fight.” 

“Save it fer later. Mags’ll let you duke it out when he’s done.”

She glared up from her position on the floor, Energon leaking from her intake. The pounding in her head felt worse with every sound. Even so, she found it in her to hiss. 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, kid.” She could make out a teal Autobot with a cygar in his intake standing over her, servos on his hips. “Yer the scariest ‘Con left on Earth, big deal.” 

The other Autobot from before grabbed her again and this time lifted her up entirely, holding her until her pedes found the ground. As he did so, the space bridge portal released its third occupant, who touched down without any issue. 

“Springer. Kup.” He nodded to them both. “It seems you had difficulty with one of the prisoners?” 

Springer, who was still holding her shoulders, released them. “If she wants to fight, I’ll give her an answer.” 

Magnus frowned, and the disapproval in it was strong enough to make Springer flinch. Despite it, though, he still stood in defiance. A tense moment passed between the two. 

Finally, Magnus broke it. “Take them both to the viewing chamber,” he ordered. “We don’t know when they might attack next. Time is of the essence.”

He passed between them both. Kup, who held a blaster in one hand, nodded to both her and Channel, who’d stood by as Puncture was abused, waiting patiently next to the space bridge. “You heard the mech! Move out.” 

Springer, who had abandoned his rifle for his fists, plucked it up from the console he’d left it on and trained it on Puncture. She bristled at him, and he returned her energy. 

“Move. I might have an itchy finger if you don’t.”

She obeyed, but not without spitting on the ground where he’d walk first. 

–

The space bridge room they’d arrived in was only a small part of what she was learning was an unfinished Autobot base. The walls were up, but the majority of the rooms they passed were empty or only had bare essentials. One or two were powered, with proper monitors and equipment within them, but as she was guided down one of the many halls, she observed the majority of the base to be empty. 

Clearly, they’d begun their set up on Cybertron, but hadn’t come close to completing it–yet. She’d only been out for about four million years; if this Autobot installation wasn’t new, then she wasn’t currently trapped in the plating of a fragging bug. 

That gave her hope. A new base didn’t mean they were winning. It only meant they’d carved out a space they felt safe enough to settle in. Perhaps the Autobots had taken some of Cybertron, but not all. Her brethren had to still be out there. 

The hall came to a stop, and she was guided into what seemed to be a large conference room at the end of it. There was a screen on the wall, and a large table to sit at. Controls for the screen were found in a panel next to it. Magnus had already positioned himself opposite the screen, at the head of the table. Channel sat farther away from him, almost looking guilty as she stared off into space. 

Puncture took the first chair she saw, caring little of its positioning, and sat down. Springer and Kup both lingered at the doorway, which sealed behind them all. 

Magnus looked between Puncture and Channel, producing a data pad from his subspace. 

“I assume no introduction is needed as to why either of you are here,” he said. “If for some reason you’ve forgotten, you’ll know by the end of this session. And just so you both know, this is intended to be a one time occurrence. Nothing said in this room will be repeated.”

She rolled her optics. “So what, are you asking for a confession, then? Is this your trial?” Casting a glance back at Springer, she scoffed. “The jury is biased against me, isn’t it?”

“This is not a trial,” Magnus responded, casting her a look. “But its outcome will determine your fate, so if you have strong feelings regarding that, you’d best listen.”

She shut up, albeit begrudgingly. Channel cringed, refusing to look at either of them. 

“Channel.” The sound of her name drew her gaze. “You violated the terms of your vow when receiving your Autobrand. As you understand, the punishment for this is a revocation of your badge. You have also waived your right to sanctuary in our bases and cities by violating the terms of your contract regarding your habitation on Cybertron.” 

Her expression spoke of anger and defiance, but she said nothing. Instead, her fists closed, opened, and closed again.

“Puncture.” Magnus turned his gaze on her. “You’re a Decepticon. While interspatial law provides you with multiple protections under the Warfaring Species Act, you have lost the majority of them following your actions on planet Earth.” He looked at his datapad. “And beyond that…your crimes within the Cybertronian underground have not gone unnoticed. I have you on here for more counts of mechslaughter than I can list in a timely manner.” 

She huffed. “So?”

“So,” Magnus continued, “neither of you are in favorable positions at the present moment. Puncture, you are slated for execution no matter where in the universe you demand to stand trial. Channel, you face possible imprisonment and exile from Cybertron.”

“As if I wasn’t already exiled from here,” Channel grumbled so lowly, Puncture barely heard it. 

“That is all just to preface what I am about to propose to you.” Magnus continued to type on his datapad. “What I am about to tell you is private knowledge. If either of you share this with anyone else–” at this he gave Channel a knowing look “--then you face indefinite imprisonment. Puncture, you will be authorized for on the spot execution.” 

Springer favored his rifle a bit too much behind her. 

“So, with that said, I have a proposal for both of you. If you choose to accept it, I can guarantee your charges–all of them–will be completely eliminated from your record, at least according to Autobot records.” 

Puncture blinked. “You aren’t serious.” 

“I am more serious in this moment than I have been in the past seven battles commanding my soldiers.” He didn’t even hesitate. 

Channel narrowed her optics and arched an optical ridge. “Magnus, what’re you getting at? Prowl’s the sort to offer this kinda protection. You don’t pardon mechs. I’ve never seen you let anyone off the hook.” 

“The situation we find ourselves in is demanding of capable soldiers whose sparks we can afford to lose,” he responded. She grimaced. 

“So that’s why,” she spat, looking away. “That all I am t’ you all? After all this?”

It made sense, to Puncture. Of course they’d want to get rid of her. Kill her with a smelting pool, a rifle, or a suicide mission, as long as they killed her, the Autobots were happy. Her antenna twitched. Though it was, admittedly, funny, to see that they’d turn on one of their own. 

“Well?” Magnus said, ignoring Channel’s question. “Does this offer interest either of you?”

Trial and execution, or a suicide mission she might just escape. The answer seemed clear enough. 

“Yes.”

“No.”

She and Channel spoke at the same time. Puncture met her gaze, and for a moment, a shared bond of animosity passed between them. 

You don’t get to kill me, she thought, letting it spill into her EM field. Your best friend dies unavenged.

Magnus looked over to Channel, about to speak. Her fists clenched tighter than ever. 

“Yes,” she grit out, gaze locked onto Puncture. “Frag my previous comment. I am interested.”

He nodded. “Alright then. If you’re both in agreement, then we can proceed.” 

Kup moved away from the door, heading to the control panel for the screen on the wall. Magnus tapped on his datapad, then nodded at him. 

“As I said before, what I am about to show you is entirely confidential. You can tell no one about what you witness in this room, is that clear?”

Puncture shrugged. Channel huffed. 

“Then I believe a demonstration of just what it is we want you to pursue, execute, and detain, would be best. Kup, if you will.”

Kup flicked a few switches. The lights went out. The screen blared to life. And on it, a video log began to play. There was no audio, not that she much cared.

It showed the outside of an Autobot base. Two Autobots, one with a motorcycle alt mode and the other with a truck of some kind, were patrolling. They passed beneath the camera, chatting to one another. They stopped for a moment, just before what looked like the back wall of the base. 

The time indicated it was early morning on Cybertron, approximately forty-two kliks before the light would return. Artificial light poured down from glowing spots on the wall. 

Puncture cocked her head slightly. Why a video? Why not just a data package? If this was so confidential, wouldn’t it be better to pass it wordlessly? Then again…

She looked at Channel again. Perhaps the tiny little parasite had more abilities than she’d originally thought. 

On the screen, one of the Autobots paused and pointed at something off screen. The other followed his servo and raised his blaster slowly. They were speaking, but whatever they said was inaudible. 

Whatever it was began to approach. They both stepped back, training their blasters on it. She recognized terror on their faceplates. The pipes on the truck spat out a small puff of fumes, visualizing his distress. The motorcycle one transformed his legs partially, to permit him to zip away. 

Neither of them would see the chance to flee. A blur shot across the screen, smashing into the motorcycle one and pinning him against the wall. Energon sprayed as the creature tore off his arm before he could even pull the trigger on his rifle. 

Oh, she recognized that shape, albeit just barely. Her helm pounded slightly at the memory, which was mixed with hatred and pain. 

It was on the island. She remembered. It was with Invert. 

The creature was thin, almost skeletal, and six tentacles emerged from its back. It had been those tentacles that tore off the Autobot’s arm. And as they all watched, the claws tipping the tentacles dug into his plating, crackling as electricity surged through them. 

The truck one jumped back and aimed for the creature. Before he could shoot, a blast pierced clean through his hand, causing him to drop his weapon. He cried out and staggered away from the creature, who was now crouched over his partner, tentacles flaring defensively.

Another bot approached from off screen, originating from the same direction the Autobot’s had originally come from. She recognized an Autobrand on its arm, though its back was to the camera. The truck bot looked shocked as it approached, his optics widening with recognition and terror. He was saying something, and judging from how his dermas moved, it was the same thing, over and over. 

The strange bot walked right past the creature. Then it lunged after the truck bot, tackling him to the ground. And with the fury of the possessed it assaulted him, beating him again and again and again, until a pool of Energon as large as its victim had formed beneath them both. His body twitched, spasmed, struggled, then weakened, slowly stilling as each blow took more and more out of him. 

The creature watched, flinching a few times when Energon droplets flew past it. Then it turned back to its victim and wrapped two tentacles around him, lifting his limp form with ease. The other four were used to lift the creature itself, carrying it ever so slightly towards the other mysterious bot.

Expectantly, the creature waited just behind it. It was hunched in a strange way over the truck bot. A sudden light illuminated over them both, reflecting off his plating. Then it extinguished, and the bot stood. 

It grabbed the truck bot’s leg, turned its head towards the creature, and began to walk back the way it had come. Puncture’s optics widened at the sight of its face, her spark spinning faster in her chassis. Channel gasped. 

The creature bowed its head to the bot, and together, they carried their victims off screen. Only now was it revealed–the truck bot had a hole torn in his chassis, right where his spark chamber should be. Already, he was turning gray. 

The video cut when they both disappeared. Puncture’s single fist clenched tight. She could feel her head pounding and her spark spinning.

The bot she had seen, the one which had beaten the other to death and, seemingly, consumed his spark. The one who walked like it wasn’t familiar in its frame, who attacked with such unnatural aggression. She didn’t recognize the bot itself, but she recognized the single feature she had seen: 

The bot’s face was missing. And it’s optics were white. 

Channel had retreated into herself, her in-venting hastening. Her arms were trembling as she stared into nothing with wide eyes. 

“That is what we would like you to hunt,” Magnus said, cutting through the tension like it was no thicker than common Energon. “That duo has already claimed six Autobots. We have theories as to what they are, but no idea where they came from.” He rested his arms on the table, tenting his servos. “Your mission would be to capture both, alive or dead, and bring them back.”

She should be excited, but something about the familiarity of them both left her feeling a tiny sliver of…what was it called? She’d lost the ability to feel fear long ago, but it was some kind of…wariness? Self-preservation? 

There was no use letting the Autobots see that, though. 

“That’s all? Your soldiers must be slipping if they can’t handle a single turncoat.” 

A strange kind of darkness clouded Magnus’s optics for just a moment, though it quickly dissipated. 

“He wasn’t a turncoat,” he explained, focusing on his datapad. “The Autobot you witnessed, the ‘turncoat’, as you claim, was set to patrol four mega-cycles earlier. We found his empty frame a chord later, directly beneath the camera that recorded this.”

She huffed. So not only was this problem duo deadly, they were bold.

Channel whispered something almost inaudible, something only Puncture heard. She turned, raising an optical ridge. “What was that?”

Channel only shook her head. “You’re sendin’ us to die,” she muttered. “You’re sendin’ us to die.” 

Magnus vented. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that. You’ll be provided with appropriate equipment.”

“Those were sparkeaters,” she spat. “You’re askin’ us to be bait for sparkeaters!”

“There is no confirmation that either are–”

“Yes, they are!” She practically screamed it, slamming a fist on the table. “You’re better than this, Magnus! When did we Autobots go from savin’ to sacrificin’ one another!? You of all bots–"

“I’ll do it,” Puncture interjected. Channel glared at her, looking very much like she wanted to rip her head off. “Sparkeater or not. But you’d better hold up your side of the bargain, Autobot.” 

Magnus hummed and looked to Channel. “Channel?” 

She was shaking with rage, and it took her a moment to speak. “I-I’ll…fine. I’ll do it. For him.”

Magnus vented. “Then we have an agreement.” He stood, handing his datapad over to Puncture, along with a pen. “Please sign.”

“What for?” She took it skeptically.

“The official record. This will be reviewed–”

As Magnus poured into legal jargon about the importance of contracts and reviewers, she tuned him out. A contract was pulled up on the datapad. What was it that Sparkripper had taught her? Always read the full conditions? 

Well, it wasn’t like she had anything else to lose. With only a bit too much difficulty, she scrawled her new name, Puncture, onto the line. Magnus repeated the process with Channel, who looked as ready to attack him as she did Puncture.

“We’ll have you both accommodated for your mission, then,” Magnus said after reviewing the signatures. “Springer, take Puncture to the medical bay for additional repairs. Channel…we’ll see about what can be done regarding your ‘condition’.”

“I’m not leavin’ him,” she snapped. “No matter what you say, no matter what you do–”

“We won’t separate you. You can relax.” 

Channel vented in relief. Puncture felt servos on her shoulder and cast Springer a glare, which he returned. As she stood and was led away, she cast one final look at Channel, who was glaring at the table, lost in thought. 

Just what had she meant when she whispered the name Luster? 

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 4: (Not) One of Us

Trigger warnings: gore, violence, body horror, death

Chapter summary: Luster struggles to escape the base, while Puncture chases him down and something runs wild in vengeance.

word count: 5795

Prior chapter is here. next chapter is here.

chapter under cut!

Project MS: Log 4

MOBILE METALLICO SPARK ADHERENCE TEST 1

Spark color: blue

Anomalous qualities: unusually bright

Charge: positive

Spark type: ferrous

Adherence method: delivered by servo into a formed spark chamber. metal was encouraged to produce a spark chamber by introducing electrical pulses of code. 

Results: metal engulfed spark readily. a face was observed to temporarily form. metal quivered for exactly 14 kliks 12 nanocycles before violently recoiling. formed faceplate was expulsed. a scan of the metal revealed its charge to be primarily positive. the initial spark chamber could not be located. 

Notes: potential charge of metal may influence whether the metal absorbs sparks. 

MOBILE METALLICO SPARK ADHERENCE TEST 2

Spark color: red

Anomalous qualities: spark exhibits a strange black core. organics seem drawn to it.

Charge: negative

Spark Type: caesic

Adherence method: spark enveloped in an artificial spark chamber and dropped into mobile metallico mass.

Results: metal rejected spark chamber. chamber was expelled from the tub and cracked upon impact with flooring. metal was observed to pry open the glass and engulf the spark within. exactly 147 kliks and 36 nanocycles later, metal would begin to stabilize into the shape of a frame. frame split and became two individuals. following 4 kliks of stability both forms melted. metal returned to original formation. scan of metal revealed its charge to be both positive and negative.

Notes: color did not develop in either form. the blueprints for cybertronian life are present but seem unable to be properly processed. the presence of opposing charges, usually incompatible with cybertronian life, is worth investigating.

MOBILE METALLICO SPARK ADHERENCE TEST 3

Spark color: white

Anomalous qualities: spark is twinned and incredibly unstable. conventional spark casing methods seem incapable of containing it for long.

Charge: variable. readings fluctuate between positive and negative.

Spark type: unknown

Adherence method: spark was thrown with force into the tub containing mobile metallico

Results: metal absorbed the spark readily. for the first time the metal completely ceased movement. no additional formations observed.

Notes: the variable aspect of the unstable spark may have balanced the mobile metallico. at present the substance is as stable as sentio metallico. if an unstable spark is introduced to mobile metallico, does it create sentio metallico?

M̶O̶B̶I̶L̶E̶ M̶E̶T̶A̶L̶L̶I̶C̶O̶ S̶P̶A̶R̶K̶ A̶D̶H̶E̶R̶E̶N̶C̶E̶ T̶E̶S̶T̶ 4

The metal took form. Upon my arrival it sat up. It does not speak, only stares. Its form is shapeless, as basic as any protoform can be. 

I have provided it with the basic blueprints of the common Seeker. It took the shape after a long period of deliberation. It does not appear to have been forged with a name. There is much mobile metallico left in its wake. I suspect I will have plenty left to make more. 

For now I have entrusted the care of the newly forged into the hands of the Rain Makers. They are quite drawn to the thing, and have given it a name after their own.

MOBILE METALLICO SPARK ADHERENCE TEST 4

Spark color: purple

Anomalous qualities: the only purple spark that has been discovered.

Charge: negative

Spark type: phthalic

Adherence method: spark was gently coerced into a seeker shell created from the now inert mobile metallico. 

Results: inert mobile metallico is as functional as sentio metallico. the frozen spark was accepted readily. the body warmed itself and a new cybertronian forged in 20 kliks 59 nanocyles.

Notes: this one is as odd as the prior. markings reminiscent of a cityspeaker are naturally etched into the metal around its optics. they resemble a teardrop at the bottom, with an eye at the thickest portion, and an 8 on the corners. upon onlining its optics these markings were observed to glow bright purple. for inexplicable reasons, the subject's optics are completely black.

the subject stared at me for a long time before it began to cry. I have isolated the subject. it seems distressed by the presence of other cybertronians. 

MOBILE METALLICO SPARK ADHERENCE TEST 5

Spark color: green

Anomalous qualities: point one percenter. radiation from this spark seems to empower other sparks.

Charge: negative

Spark type: isomeric

Adherence method: spark was placed into a previously forged seeker shell with great caution. additional measures were taken to ensure the radiation produced did not damage the mobile metallico.

Results: the shell accepted the spark with great difficulty. enough mobile metallico was not present for the spark to reach its fullest potential. additional mobile metallico was provided, at which the frame restructured itself and finished development.

Notes: subject is larger than originally expected. the seeker frame was overridden, though its influence is felt in the formation of wings. subject is a flier as intended, albeit an enormous one. 

CLOSING THOUGHTS

The ability of the Distiller to convert enemy soldiers into usable material is a resounding success. Mobile metallico, the side effect of an internal error, has proven more than capable of utilization as a birth metal substitute so long as its charge can be tamed. As the three soldiers produced are all Seekers, I have dubbed them MS-01, MS-02, and MS-03: “Mutant Seekers”. Trine bonding will begin after the submission of this log. A copy of the final report, as well as the results of trine bonding, will be submitted in the upcoming future. 

Signed, 

SHOCKWAVE

—--------------------COPY TO MEGATRON----------------------------

Luster hissed with pain as he charged through the upper ceiling, tearing up shards of metal and scattering droplets of his life fluids with each step. He didn’t stop until the noise from below had quieted down completely, finally stilling when silence fully engulfed him. Panting, he quickly scanned his surroundings and ducked into a nearly alcove. 

Warm, golden light washed over him from just below. He’d stopped somewhere above an empty room with what looked like a meeting table. There was a screen on one of the walls. 

All he cared about was that it was empty. Shakily sitting, he moved a servo to an open wound on his side and immediately gasped with pain. 

They’d shot him. They’d actually shot him. For the first (second?) time in his life, he’d been shot. Without any armor or plating to protect him, it’d gone straight into his wires and sensitive internals. 

The pain had been so great he’d frozen up and collapsed. The fact that he’d managed to escape and flee had nothing to do with his own willpower, but with the apparent mind his tentacles had developed. In just seven solar cycles they’d become as intelligent as turbofoxes. He didn’t even have to think about controlling them anymore–they very much piloted themselves now. 

Already, the two which bore servos were moving to his side, covering it and wrapping their lengths reassuringly around him. Those which bore claws were alert like sentries, turning their weapons back and forth over and over as they held watch. 

Pain throbbed from both of his sides alongside his upper chest. He’d expected a bit of a fight, but not this. It was luck alone that saw his worst wounds being in mostly non-fatal areas. 

He would still need fixing. His chest was fuming, with a good amount of its wires shot, but the opalescent substance leaking out of his side was far more important. If it entirely drained, he couldn’t be sure what would happen to him. 

They’d shot him. That part was really only sinking in now. They’d actually shot him. He’d been shot by Autobots. He’d been shot by the bots he had allied himself with and learned to trust. 

Luster.

His comms triggered. Luster opened them, seeing a notification from Spark Storm. Immediately he opened their channel. 

“I need help. I didn’t manage to get his T-Cog. They shot me, I’m bleeding out. We need to get back to the lab. Help.”

Silence for a few moments.

“They hurt you?”

“They shot me. I…well, I mean…I know why they…it-it doesn’t matter! We have to retreat, this has been a total–”

“Who hurt you?”

“Uh…the triple-changer, and…”

Kup. He’d recognized Kup. But the other one…

He didn’t want to say it, and he wouldn’t, not until he could confirm for sure.

“And…Kup. But they–”

“Call Skyrend and report your failure. I will settle this.”

“Wait, Stormy–!”

Their channel slammed close. Luster grimaced and forced it open again. 

“Stormy, don’t! They were just defending themselves! We’re not supposed to reveal–”

“They hurt you.” There was nothing in her voice. He recognized the tone. It made his spine tingle with fear. “They know that we’re here. It doesn’t matter if we reveal ourselves now. Either we run, and become the hunted…or we fight, and become the hunters. Ultra Magnus is in this building. He is second to the new Prime.” 

Her bloodlust was leaking through their connection. He felt solvent growing in his intake. 

“You won’t need to worry about failure if the new Prime is dead. I will bring about a second Haumerian Massacre here. And this one won’t be removed from the official record.”

She closed their connection again, and this time, he couldn’t find the strength to force it back open. All he could hear were the sparkbeats below, pounding in his head like hammers. Sparkbeats, and that damnable humming, louder than ever. 

Primus, he was hungry. There was a veritable buffet below just waiting to be harvested, and here he was cowering in a vent instead of rampaging, feasting, and treating himself to–

The blaring of an alarm snapped him out of his daze. The golden light from below turned red. Luster blinked a few times and shook his helm, regaining himself, and wiped his maw. No. He was better than this. Maybe she wasn’t, but he was.

Skyrend. He had to call Skyrend. This mission was as good as aborted; they’d been found, and doubtless there would soon be Autobots searching the corridors for him. His window of escape was rapidly narrowing. 

Diving back into his comms, he found Skyrend’s somewhere in the middle and reached out, trying to forge a connection. After several kliks that felt like eternities, the channel opened. 

Skyrend was silent, as usual. Luster began. 

“Mission abort. We were discovered. I’m injured and bleeding heavily. Stormy and I both need immediate extraction.”

“You failed?” Skyrend’s booming voice sounded back through their connection, rattling in his helm. Luster cringed at the sound, still unaccustomed to its magnitude. 

“We…yes, I failed. I know, Shockwave won’t be happy. But I’m injured, I can’t complete this mission. Please, get me out of here. Primus, I’m…” He looked down, saw his own opalescent fluids oozing out over his servos and forming a pool beneath him. “I’m bleeding out, Skyrend!”

Silence for a few moments more. 

“I will land at the front.” 

“The front!? Why–”

“They’ve armed the back. You struck there too many times. They expect it now. The front is less heavily armed. If anything, they’ll expect you to try and flee out the back.”

“But the front has multiple turrets and sentries! The base is on high alert, there’s probably twice as many now!”

“You’ll have to find a way. I can’t do much for you up here. Not unless you want to be levelled with the rest of the facility.”

He bit his dermas. “Fine, fine…I…frag, ow.” The fluid loss was starting to catch up with him. Black spots were appearing at the edge of his vision. The humming was beginning to waver. “Ok. Wait for me, please.”

“I won’t leave until I have you. What of Spark Storm?”

“She’s…”

“About to rampage, isn’t she.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Unfortunately.” 

“Hm. Oracelle said something like this could happen. Make your way for the front of the facility. I’ll ask him for guidance. May Primus defend you, Luster.”

He closed their connection and in-vented sharply, slowly trying to find his feet. His legs had practically atrophied into vestigial organs at this point, but they helped a little with balance, which he was quickly losing. His tentacles accommodated, extending more on one side and shortening on the other. 

Pulling up a map of the base in his HUD, Luster tried to pinpoint just where he was on it. The medical bay was a good start, and it was surprisingly close to the entrance. Which direction had he run in? If he could only pinpoint that, he could determine how close he was to escape–

tink tink tink tink

He snapped out of his HUD view at the sound of thin, clawed legs on metal. 

“Stormy?” He said aloud, poking his head out of the alcove. “Is that you?”

Not even ten feet away a large, black head came into view. Golden antennae curled forward on it, and red eyes made up its round optics. A piercing rostrum was folded just beneath its head and large, golden scythes attached to thick, black forearms lingered just below it. 

Panic surged through him at the sight. The two met optics for just a moment. The alarm blared in the background, red light flashing over his silvery, skeletal, vulnerable form. In the dark seconds between each flash he could only make out the glowing eyes of the monster.

And then it charged, blocking off his escape. Luster yelped and dove for the vent cover. It gave after only a moment, and he spilled into the room. 

Its door was locked. He jammed a tentacle into the keypad just as the creature gripped the edge of the broken vent, slamming down as he barrelled out the door, trailing fluid. The distinct tschu tschu tschuke sounded as it stood up, becoming the hulking Insecticon he’d once seen broken and defeated back on Earth. 

Its pedes seemed to shake the very ground as it pursued him. He charged through the hall, wounds throbbing with each step. Turning a corner, he spotted a group of Autobots, armed to the teeth. 

Frag. He looked back, spotted the Insecticon coming after him. For a moment he froze. 

You can’t find me if you die here.

No, he couldn’t. Grabbing the ceiling with his tentacles, Luster hoisted himself up and darted back, narrowly avoiding a swipe from below. 

He dropped down from the ceiling behind the Insecticon and bolted back the way he’d come, this time bolting down the other hall. According to the map layout he was at the back of the base. In five halls and two turns he’d be at the med bay. From there it was a left and a mad sprint for the start. 

He could do this. For Solace. Even if he had to down his own kind and run from ‘cons who could rip him in half with their bare servos. He could do this. 

“Wait, what are you doing out!?”

“The prisoner’s escaped!” 

“Get OFF of me!” 

Sudden chatter erupted behind him. He dared to cast a look back and saw the prior Autobots pointing their weapons at the Insecticon, who had its scythes bared. 

A lucky break on his behalf. Luster managed a tiny smile as they disappeared from his view. He dashed down the hall, turned once, and sprinted for the corner to the medbay.

And the sight there froze him in tracks. 

The hallway was painted with Energon. It was so thick on the floor that he couldn’t make out the pattern of the tiles. Four different mechs were scattered in pieces across the hall. One of them had a massive hole in his gray chest, his faceplate torn from his helm and still hanging on by a few thick threads. Blaster fire had singed his plating and burst his wires. His limbs had been torn from their sockets and half of his helm was missing. 

As Luster stood in shock at the scene, the alarm stopped, and a message in Cybertronian sounded over it: 

ALL AUTOBOTS EVACUATE NOW IT IS NOT ONE OF US AVOID THE FACELESS ONE

All of a sudden, Luster felt immensely concerned for Kup and that triple-changer, whoever he’d been. It wasn’t like either of them knew what they’d been invoking when they’d shot him. Was he partially responsible for this? Should he have said anything?

The sound of pedes behind him broke him out of his thoughts. Luster shook his head and tentatively stepped over the dead in the hall. By now he’d stopped purging at the sight. It disturbed him, it always would, but there was nothing to be done now. 

Still, he peeked in the med-bay one last time before breaking for the exit. The floor was covered in Energon, but no one was there. 

He considered that to be for the better.

The entrance of the base was closed. He met no additional resistance as he spilled into its open area, though plenty more Energon stains along the way that told a fine story as to why. The front was like a hangar, with an open floor and high walls that supported a single, large door. Turrets were nestled in dozens of coves in the walls. Monitors stood on small podiums on the left and right, and a map of the base had been drawn on one of the walls. 

Flecks of energon littered the floor, alongside the scuffs of pedes and a few burn marks. Spark Storm was moving fast, it seemed. Skyrend and Oracelle had both warned him of her efficiency, but he’d yet to see it firsthand. And frankly, after witnessing the aftermath of just one, he felt he could go the rest of his life without anymore. 

Luster beelined for one of the monitors, which was blaring EMERGENCY on its screen. An evacuation order had been given, so why hadn’t the front of the base been opened? He frowned and tapped on the screen, pulling up the controls for the door. 

They’d been locked by the prior user. He ordered it to be overridden, which prompted him to input a password. 

It felt like the wrong time to ask for such a thing, considering the situation. Luster frowned and tried ‘password’. His single attempt was met with a blaring BEEP, as well as a warning that in two attempts the terminal would lock. 

He really didn’t have time for this. Activating the electricity in one of his claws, he jammed it into the computer, overloading it with charge. The monitor crackled and beeped, showcasing a dozen error messages and a spasm of colors. Then the door began to open, slowly but surely. 

He vented a sigh of relief and immediately hissed at the pain it caused him. Running on his wounds had worsened them. No matter how many times he attempted to turn his pain sensors off, they resisted, insisting over and over that disabling them was more dangerous than leaving them on. 

And behind them was that damnable humming, turning into shrieking static now. 

Moving for the door, Luster waited for it to rise just enough for him to barely fit under it. Then he lowered himself and crawled under it, leaving behind a drag of energon and opalescent sparkeater blood. 

It was significantly harder for him to get up than before. His legs dragged behind him as he crawled forward, passing beneath the final arch of the entryway and the half-built road leading into it. Before him was a metallic expanse of ruins, barely standing after the last onslaught from three million years ago. 

“I’m out,” he called to the air, then collapsed, just inches from the end of the road. “Skyrend?”

No response. He opened his comms, called out into them. Silence. All that sounded was the humming. 

You can’t find me if you die here.

Primus, not now. He couldn’t keep going. The fluid leaking out of both his sides was getting dangerously low. The black spots on the edge of his vision were forming holes in it now, and his helm felt dizzy. His entire body was heavy, too heavy to drag further. 

He couldn’t die here. 

Look up. Call for help. Call to him for help. 

“Skyrend!” He screamed into the abyss of the sky. A moon Cybertron had only recently developed stared back. 

The sickening CREAK of warping metal behind him shrieked. He didn’t even have to look to recognize the loud pedesteps that pounded towards him. 

The Insecticon had caught up. Luster panted rapidly and gripped the floor, trying to drag himself forward. It was a useless effort. It was on him before he had gained an inch. 

Claws wrapped around one of his tentacles, dragging him back like a fish on a line. He gave little resistance, optics flickering as the threat of offlining grew by the second. Lifting him off the floor, the Insecticon dangled him before it, a threatening scowl twisting its features. 

“YOU,” it growled. “Sparkeater. Where the frag did you get those claws?” 

He blinked, head lolling weakly to the side. The black spots were meringing into a black hole. “My…arms? I…”

“You should put him down, if you value your life.” 

The voice boomed so loud it hurt his head. His optics offlined just in time for him to make out a massive form uncloaking itself. 

Then he was out, and once again, alone with the humming in his head. 

—-----------------

It was like watching the scenery melt. As she reared up, holding her prey in one claw, the scenery not even five feet away disintegrated. It became black and gray and took on the shape of a mech, a massive one, a flier who had no business attaining such bulk and height.

He was a stealth bomber from the looks of it. His chest was huge, more than enough to accommodate a bot as large as Springer with room. His legs were solid and thick, more than capable of holding him straight even when grappled. Two large wings pointed downwards from a bullet-like shape on his back. The helmet wrapping around his faceplate was almost entirely encompassing, leaving only a small gap for the silver of his face and the tiniest sliver of his golden optics, which glared down at her from far above. 

For he was even bigger than she by at least half a mech. There was no mistaking it–she was facing off against a point one percenter. 

Perhaps some ancient part of her was concerned, but that part had been drilled out long ago. Puncture scoffed at the sight of him, gripping her prey harder. 

“Is that so,” she threatened, opening her mask. “Make one move and I melt his brain. You want him alive, don’t you?”

The flier narrowed his optics to slits. “You’re a Decepticon.”

“So I am.” The same insignia emblazoned on her chest was present on his. “And so are you.”

“This doesn’t have to end in violence,” he offered. “We’re on the same side. Put him down, he’s with us.”

“I don’t care,” she spat. “You. What’s your name and who do you answer to. Where the frag is Megatron? Guerilla attacks aren’t his style.”

The flier’s optics momentarily vanished. “Megatron is dead. He was defeated during the battle of Autobot City and met his fate after being discharged from Astrotrain. He’s been dead for over six cycles now.” They reappeared. “I am Skyrend. I answer to Shockwave, the new leader of the Decepticons. We are scattered, but we remain strong. I’m guessing you’ve only now got the news.” 

Her arm was shaking, grip tightening so immensely that metal bent. “You’re lying.”

“I have no reason to.”

“No.” 

She spoke the word like it would change anything, but it was all hitting her now. 

They’re all dead. 

The war is over. 

Megatron was defeated. The Decepticons were scattered. Cybertron fell to the Autobots. 

They’d lost.

“What is your name?” Skyrend asked. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before. Are you from Earth?”

Her arm wavered, lowering its prey to the ground. “No,” she muttered. “I was trapped there. I’m from Cybertron. I’m…”

Helmbreaker? Puncture?

“I’m…Puncture. Megatron? He’s really dead?”

“He is.” Skyrend shook his helm pensively. “We mourned for days.”

“No. He can’t be. He can’t.”

“Starscream was oriented–”

“FRAG STARSCREAM!” She screamed, dropping her prey and throwing her head back. “FRAG ALL OF YOU! NO!”

“It…isn’t as hopeless as you would think,” Skyrend offered, slowly extending a servo. “Shockwave leads us now. He has a plan–”

“FRAG SHOCKWAVE!” She spat at him, several acidic droplets hitting the ground just before his servo. “I will NEVER answer to that one-eyed freak!” 

A pained grimace came over his faceplate. “I don’t want to either. But he’s all we have now. Puncture. Come back with us. We’ve got a base beneath Cybertron. Soon, this planet will be ours again.”

But Puncture was already gone, turning away and gripping her helm. It was over. Megatron was dead. She’d failed. She’d failed. 

How much for the weakest one, then? 

Hm. 1200 Shanix. I’ll even halve that for a round in the Pit with you, Megatron. 

Such an offer! You have yourself a deal, Overlord. 

Hehe…good. Know that we hold nothing back in The Pit, Megatron. If you lose, your everything is mine. 

And if you lose?

Then you gain two soldiers today.

Their voices were echoing at the back of her helm as she kneeled next to Sparkripper’s twitching frame. Energon was spilling out of his head in a fountain so swift it could not be stopped. She’d already brought her cannon to it and heated it enough to cauterize. 

The flow would not stop. His single red optic watched her, quivering in its socket. Her servos found their way under his head and lifted it, ever so slightly. Something was wrong with her optics. They wouldn’t stop blurring. 

Breaker… 

Her name had come out in a choked, glitched whisper. His vox box was failing. 

Finish…what we…started…please…don’t…let them…win…

His claws brushed against her servos, trying to hold them one last time. 

We love you…Breaker…you’re…the best…of us all.

Her servos shook wildly as his claws went limp in them. The single red optic watching her extinguished. And gray spread throughout the wyvern’s frame as his spark extinguished. 

Behind her, two mechs clashed, one who had owned her all her life, and one who would soon own them both. 

And something in her broke. 

Six hundred Shanix. That was the cost of her life. Six hundred Shanix. 

Megatron was dead. 

Finish what we started.

She had failed to achieve the one thing her caretakers had asked of her. 

You’re the best of us all. 

And here she was, a Decepticon brand on her chassis, faced with her own failure and hatred. In the years since she’d been annexed into the Decepticon forces, she’d convinced herself that they’d died because they were weak. She’d convinced herself that she was one of the strongest Decepticons, and that part of that was conquering others. In the beginning it would be organics, Autobots, and her fellow cons. Then she’d move up, take on the Elites, and finally, Megatron. And once she’d ripped Megatron’s helm from his shoulders, she’d return to the Pit, impale it on a pole, and…

And what? She’d failed. Optimus Prime had gotten to him first. She wasn’t as strong as either of them. She wasn’t even strong enough to give Springer his come-uppance. Here, back on Cybertron, abandoned by her fellow Decepticons, haunted by her fellow gladiators, and in the captivity of the enemy, Puncture was alone, alone and face to face with her own failure. 

She hadn’t even managed to find out what happened to Overlord. Primus, as far as Cybertronians went, she’d been such a waste. 

“Puncture? Make your decision quickly!” 

Skyrend was trying to reason with her, distantly. She looked up at him, followed his gaze back to the entrance of the Autobot Base. Channel had made her way to the front, accompanied by a pink and white femme and Springer. Shadows in the hall foretold of more arriving soon. 

She didn’t care. If they killed her now it didn’t matter. She had failed. It was what she deserved. Why had she even come out here? Why had she even fought? There was nothing on this planet for her. Nothing…except…

There was something silver in Skyrend’s servo, which he quickly loaded into his chassis. She recognized those claws, the ones she’d held as the life drained from them. They had been gray, not silver, last time she’d seen them. 

Shockwave. They answered to Shockwave. They answered to Shockwave, and he’d put them back together, and he’d been there when Sparkripper and Strutsnapper died. He’d been there to hand off the Shanix to Overlord, who’d then turned and jerked her chain, telling her to behave, dog. She’d seen him point to their bodies, watched as other Decepticons approached the fallen gladiators, before she’d been yanked away. 

Shockwave. It wasn’t Megatron who she was after now. It was Shockwave. 

Finish what we started. 

Her claws lowered from her helm, clenching tightly into fists. Her spark burned in its chamber as she reared her head back, venom dripping fresh from her intake. As she turned on Skyrend her optics blazed with a new fire. 

“Frag you,” she growled, dangerously low. “Frag you and your master. Frag the Decepticons.” Raising her claw, she dragged it across her brand, tearing it like paper. “I am going to kill Every. Last. One of you.” 

A darkness overcame his faceplate. “So be it.” The wings on his forearms flipped forward, revealing their deadly edges. “Know that I loathe violence. This doesn’t have to end in your death.”

“You aren’t the first point one percenter to face me,” she snarled, unsheathing both of her scythes. “And you won’t be the last.” 

“PUNCTURE!” 

It was Channel. She didn’t look at her. 

“BY THE PIT, PUNCTURE, LOOK OUT!” 

She diverted her attention for all of a second. In that moment Skyrend swiped, his blade catching her clean across the helm. The impact knocked her off her pedes, throwing her to the ground. Her vision momentarily glitched from the impact.

And just overhead, missing her by half a second, a bolt of white, crackling energy shot. Cold filled her chassis. She recognized that energy. 

Skyrend looked up in its direction in relief. “Spark Storm! At last, you’re out!” 

A bot was rapidly approaching them. As she looked up, she made out white pedes and a blue frame, topped with a pointed crest. His faceplate, white in color, was only partially attached to his helm. 

“Blurr!?” The pink and white femme gasped. He didn’t once look at her as he leaped over Puncture, slamming down just beyond her form. 

And as she watched, he suddenly convulsed, jerking and spasming wildly as his chassis began to deform. 

The glass on his front shattered. It’s metal warped outward, ballooning up until it burst. Six deadly sharp legs in the shape of daggers poked out, gripping the edges of the body they were trapped in. Skyrend lowered and held out his servo. 

Then, in a burst of Energon and sentio metallico, the thing leaped out of Blurr’s body, tacking down onto the extended platform. Puncture’s optics widened at the sight. 

It was like a spark chamber out of a horror film. The coloration was white, with six sharp dagger legs extending from its sides. At the bottom of it were rows and rows of saw-like teeth, practiced for tearing through a chassis. The top was open and radiated energy, sparking with the light of the very thing it contained. White lights on the side blinked and moved, and she realized, disgustingly, that they were optics. 

All of them were locked onto her as Skyrend quickly loaded the thing into his chassis. Laser bolts singed uselessly against his plating as he turned on the others. 

“Know this, Autobots. What you’ve witnessed here today is only a small portion of what power Shockwave wields. We are more than you could ever know, and we are stronger than you could ever guess.” 

A loud tschu tschu tschuke sounded as he lifted off the ground, engines firing up to carry his transformed body away. 

“And we will take this planet back.”

—----------------------------------------TRINE BONDING RESULTS---------------------------------------------

Subject MS-03 “Skyrend” 

Alt mode: stealth bomber

Colors: black, dark gray, light gray

Optic color: gold

Power: subject displays the ability to share the enhanced power of its spark with others for a limited time. side effects vary, with intensity as great as death and as low as headaches. 

more interesting is the subject’s ability to hide itself from others. the cells which make up its plating reflect light at abnormal frequencies, resulting in many Cybertronians struggling to see it. movement does not affect this. it is suffice to say that MS-03 is only seen by those it wants to be seen by.

Trine Bonding Results: a resounding success. MS-03 is amiable and cooperative with its fellow Seekers. subject displays behavior and affection becoming of a carrier towards others it cares about. it has been observed that the subject will shield others with its body. considering the subject’s size along with its affectionate tendencies, it may prove suitable for the covert transport of soldiers. 

MS-03 is bonded to MS-02 and MS-01. 

Subject MS-02 “Oracelle” 

Alt mode: seeker jet

Colors: purple, silver, gray

Optic color: black

Powers: subject possesses the ability of foresight. on multiple occasions the subject has correctly predicted events which had yet to come, including deaths, actions, words, weather patterns, and test results. the subject claims to have seen its own death, as well as the downfall of the Decepticon and Autobot forces. 

Trine Bonding Results: success. MS-02 bonded with MS-03 and MS-01 with minor difficulty following its search into their futures. additional encouragement in the form of anesthetizing injections was provided to ensure MS-02 remained calm during the process. 

MS-02 is bonded to MS-03 and MS-01. 

Subject MS-01 “Spark Storm” 

Alt mode: seeker jet

Colors: white, gold, dark gray

Optic color: white

Powers: subject possesses an unstable spark which permits the manipulation of spark energy throughout it. by channeling this energy, the subject can discharge bolts which induce glitches and breakdowns in normal Cybertronians. the subject does not speak, and appears hostile to all other forms of Cybertronian life. 

Trine Bonding Results: success. with great difficulty the subject was coerced into bonding with MS-02 and MS-03. subject was anesthetized for the entire process and mnemosurgery was utilized to ensure subject’s coercion. 

Additional notes: subject previously bonded with the Rain Makers, but was discharged following several bouts of aggression. subject’s body is beginning to gray despite its spark holding strong. subject is not distressed by this. mnemosurgery into subject’s thought process revealed enough neural activity for four cybertronians. one repetitive phrase echoed consistently: 

“I am not me.”

subject will be isolated for additional brain scans and mnemosurgery exams.

MS-01 is bonded to MS-02 and MS-03. 

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Interlude: The Pit

Chapter summary: a long time ago, before the war, mechs fought to death for the entertainment of their Overlord. During one such match, an odd occurrence fell from the sky.

trigger warnings: gore mentions, injury, some violence

word count: 3487

prior chapter here.

fic below cut!

“RIPPER! RIPPER! RIPPER!” 

There was something off about The Pit that day. He couldn’t quite place his talon on it. Perhaps it was the way the crowd cheered his name. Perhaps it was the glaring, unkind light of the nearest sun, bathing the entire arena in an inescapable, brilliant light that cast not a single shadow. Perhaps it was the way Overlord was grinning down at him, watching him even from within his cage. 

Tickets had been sold for this match for weeks, and the mechs who participated in it had been kept a secret. He’d been informed the day before that one of them would be him. All Sparkripper(Sparks for short) had been told otherwise was that it would be a match to be remembered. 

It made him uneasy. The Pit was a volatile and dangerous place to be on the best days, and a practical smelting pool on its worst. Being able to tell the difference between those days and act accordingly was what kept one alive in it. He’d been here for years at this point, and the recent days dragged on like such. How much longer he was destined to survive here, he didn’t know. 

Overlord certainly didn’t like it when mechs stayed champions for too long. His position as the Pit’s second greatest was maintained by his fan favorite status and his merciless executions. But those were surely growing stale now. 

There were only so many ways he could remove a spark while maintaining its integrity, and he’d long exhausted his resources. Even his recent attempts at weaponizing them, wearing them as jewelry and shattering them to produce explosions, hadn’t drawn as much raucous applause as it once had.

Still, today, the crowd cheered his name, which meant they surely weren’t done with him yet. Whether that be because they wanted to see him torn apart and hung up on display, or because they wanted to see him doing the tearing, was impossible to tell. 

Sparks vented as he crept forth from his chamber, wings folded on his back and talons clicking against the stone floor. Beneath the bleachers that housed the audience, he followed a pathway that led him directly into the Energon stained arena that Overlord had laid out. The gate for his arrival was already open. Its light blared down the unlit tunnel, like the beckoning of the Afterspark. 

He didn’t know who he’d be facing, only that it would end in one of their deaths, and that he had to put on a show the whole time, or Overlord would rip his head off, impale it on a spear, and use him as a decoration for his throne. 

With that in mind he fired up his engine, gathered flames in his throat, and opened his wings. Shooting out of the exit, he practically leaped into the sky, roaring and discharging his flamethrower at the same time. The silver of his draconic body shone as it reflected the harsh light, casting a blinding glint over everyone. 

The audience roared with cheers, their fists pumping into the air. He could feel their bloodlust like he could smell the Energon in the air. Today would be a bloody execution, no doubt.

Pity for the poor soul he was to face, then. Flapping his wings, Sparks circled over the crowd, roaring a few more times before settling back at the edge of The Pit with his spine arched, bladed tail poised for killing, and deadly sharp claws on display. 

Overlord’s face, somehow, was almost cloaked in shadow as he stared down at him. Only his red eyes shone, glistening with anticipation. The display, while impressive to the crowd, had not phased him in the slightest. 

Sparks felt his spark cool a little as Overlord tilted his helm back and grinned. There was not an ounce of warmth in it as he stood. 

“My fellow mecha!” He announced, holding his arms out. “Today I have a special treat for you! For as long as you can remember, three mechs have held the titles of champion in this arena! One stands before you now, poised for his next kill…”–he gestured to Sparks–“and one speaks to you, as your Overlord!”

The crowd had quieted, their expectation palpable. Sparks shifted unsteadily, his claws scraping at the ground nervously and his tail lashing. 

“It hasn’t escaped me that these death matches, for which you all pay great sums, have become stale! Where’s the fun if the outcome is always decided?! So today, I give you a match to end this reign of champions! Today, I give you the opportunity to really, truly bet on an unpredictable outcome!”

Sparkripper felt a jolt of fear travel down his body, causing each individual spine to point towards the sky. 

“TODAY I GIVE YOU SPARKRIPPER VERSUS STRUTSNAPPER! AND THE WINNER SHALL FACE ME, FOR THE TITLE OF OVERLORD!” 

The audience erupted with cheers. He felt his spark seize in its chamber. The bloodlust had grown so thick that it was raining down on him, making his metal feel like it had locked up from rust. Sparks tore into the ground without even realizing it, his claws creating deep gouges as his wings lowered and his tail curled between his hind legs. 

“IN ONE CORNER!” Overlord yelled, “SPARKRIPPER, THE DRACONIAN EXECUTIONER! IN THE OTHER! STRUTSNAPPER, THE BLUNT-FORCE BRUTE!”

The gate opposite of him, barely more than four mechs away, opened, its bars rising up to reveal an enormous form cloaked in darkness. Sparks flinched as each of his steps shook the ground. 

The mech who stepped out was clearly nautical in origin. His fists were as big as Sparks’ head, and his gray plating was reinforced and heavy. His helmet almost completely hid his pale face, from which blue eyes glared out. They locked straight onto him, then trailed up to Overlord. 

Strutsnapper (Struts for short) dwarfed even him in height, and his frame wasn’t even built for war. A tense moment was exchanged between the two, which ended when Struts focused his gaze back on him. 

He was painted for an execution, this time with bright pink and Decepticon purple. Logos had even been carefully etched onto his shoulderpads in a mockery of the recent political turmoil. 

Sparks felt a surge of panic seize him as his wings shot out, ready to take him into the air. 

Today was the day he died, for he could not fight Struts, and not just because the other mech was more than three times his size. His claws couldn’t hope to pierce through the thick plating. If he took even one hit, or if Struts managed to grab him even once, it was over. 

It was his execution going on today, then. 

At best his claws could sever the weakest links of Struts’ joints, and perhaps his flamethrower could take out an eye, which would make it impossible for him to last even a chance against Overlord. 

He would never take away that tiny chance, if it even existed. There was only one way this could end. 

“RIPPER! RIPPER!”

“SNAPPER! SNAPPER!”

“TEAR HIM APART!”

“RIP HIS SPARK OUT!” 

“GIVE US BLOOD!” 

The audience’s shouts were deafening. Struts’ optics were unreadable as he looked around at them all, then turned on Sparks and took a single step forward. 

No words were exchanged. Overlord hated it when his gladiators tried to negotiate. If either of them were to speak with each other, they’d be met with a rain of bolts from his cannons. So they didn’t. 

All that needed to be exchanged were blows. Sparks shot into the air, immediately using his primary advantage to his benefit. Struts was aquatic; he had no chance of ever catching him if he was in the sky. He hung just above the crowd, circling, shooting past Overlord and looking for an opening on him. 

If it was to be a fight of the champions, well, he supposed he could always go straight to the highest. And straight to Overlord he would go. Sparkripper flew up high in an arch, to the very ceiling of the Pit, where, if he went any further, he could expect the Megajet on his tail. Tucking his wings against his body, he turned and dove straight down. As he picked up speed he opened his claws and readied his flamethrower. His angle was straight for Overlord, who, realizing, stood, his glare locked onto him as he braced for assault. 

If he was to die, he’d go down making sure he did something to the one who ordered his death. A scar would be nice. Best would be to take his eyes, so he couldn’t see as Struts broke him in half. Ha, that was a sight–the triple changer who split himself to transform being ripped in half. It was a distant dream he’d never live to see, but Primus, could he dream.

Struts yelled something. Sparks chose to ignore him. This was it–this was what his life had been building to. It wouldn’t be a waste. He’d die fighting for someone he loved, and that was good enough for him. 

And just before he passed the ring of the Pit, a streak of light, different from the harsh sun beating down on him, shot out of the sky and straight into his back. The impact was so great it knocked him off course, sending him flailing into the audience, who screamed with terror as their toy turned on them. Overlord yelled something he couldn’t make out as he fell over a dozen mechs and tumbled over the bleachers, spilling back onto the harsh floor of the Pit. His jaw broke as it smacked, hard, against stone. 

Strutsnapper was on him before he could even react, surprisingly fast for how big he was.

“Are you alright?” He crouched over him, shielding him with his body, hiding him, just for a moment, from the gaze of their tormentors.

“F-fine,” he glitched out, voice crackling from the damage to his voxbox. “What…happened?”

“I don’t know.” Huge hands cradled him with all the caution of holding a newly forged. Thick servos gently nudged his broken jaw as Strutsnapper vented and cringed at the sight. “Your jaw…”

He drew his wings in close and focused on the warmth around him as opposed to the discomfort in his jaw. Overlord had taken his pain sensors long ago; he couldn’t quite feel the agony he should, though he absolutely felt how wrong it was. 

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated, peering out over the rushing crowd, trying to find Overlord. “If…if anything, take this chance now. Break my neck. Offline me immediately. It’s better than–”

And then he saw it. They all did. Something small had touched down in the middle of the Pit and sat like a glowing meteorite. It was blue in color and pulsed faintly with the gentle light of life itself. 

It was a spark.

A spark? A newly forged in the hellish depths of the Pit? He couldn’t believe his eyes. 

Strutsnapper followed his gaze and saw it as well. The crowd had calmed down, a hush falling over the arena. Even Overlord had paused in his stride toward the edge of the Pit, guns trained for battle. 

There was a spark in The Pit. A new transformer was about to be forged. 

Struts acted before anyone else could. Carrying his first love in one servo, he crossed the Pit in two strides and stooped, wrapping gentle, massive fingers around the tiny spark. It was like a tiny gemstone in his servos, light reflecting off the navy gray plating which made them up. Then he raised it to the sky for all to see. 

“Overlord!” He yelled. “This match is over! A new spark has touched down! This moment is sacred, and must not be desecrated with our Energon!” 

It was painfully, overtly bright, but there was a shadow of rage on Overlord’s face as he glared down at them both. His event had been spoiled, and someone was going to pay. 

“I will not fight!” Struts challenged. “Not when my opponent is so inept! Not when Primus has demanded we celebrate, not mourn!” 

Harsh. He’d killed other mechs with worse damage to himself. But it was true–he didn’t stand a chance against Struts on the best of days anyways. This was putting off the inevitable, but…a delayed death was still delayed. 

The crowd had turned towards Overlord, hundreds of optics all focused on him. The guns on his abdomen were smoking, preparing to fire. His fists were clenched so tightly the metal threatened to bend. 

“So be it,” he said, that shadow vanishing. “Today’s match is cancelled.”

A collection of boos rose from the crowd, along with angry protests. Overlord looked ready to pop a vein. 

“Silence, all of you! Just because this one is over doesn’t mean all events are cancelled! You two!” He glared at them again, and Sparks winced. “Get back to your chambers! Do whatever with that spark.” His lips curled in disgust as he spoke. 

Struts bowed his head, saying nothing, and quickly crossed back to the tunnel from whence he’d come. The blistering light of the Pit was left behind as the three of them returned to the shadows beneath it. 

For the first time since he’d awoken that day, Sparkripper allowed himself just a moment to relax, knowing that finally, even if for a moment, he was safe. 

—-------

“So what are you going to do with it?”

Sparks sat on the enormous slab Struts used for recharge, taking his root mode for the first time in days. His spine was sore from maintaining his draconic alt for so long, and his short stature was proving quite problematic, as it always did, in Struts' much larger chambers. But it was better than holding his larger alt mode for longer with its broken jaw. 

At least in root mode, the jaw only made up his lower ribbing, and didn't bother him nearly as much. 

Struts was on the floor, cradling the tiny spark in both palms, watching it pulse. Its light had become fainter than before.

“Raise it, of course,” he said, not looking up. “It will mature quickly if we give it enough sentio metallico.”

“Where are we going to get that?” Sparks huffed. “We’re not exactly upstanding mechs that the local medics will just sell to. Isn’t it supposed to make sentio metallico itself?”

“It can’t,” Struts explained. “The stone down here is too resistant. It’ll need to be supplemented, then shaped. Otherwise…”

“It’ll go out?”

“Yes.” He looked up at last. “Do you…do you think you could steal some? From the medical ward?”

“Overlord’s already pissed at me,” he said. “If I get caught, I’m worse than dead.”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Struts said firmly. “Please, if you don’t, it’ll die.”

“It’s just a spark…” he frowned, leaning back. “I mean…I can get you a new one, if you’re hellbent on raising one. I have, what, seventy-six at this point? They’re all basically newly forged, if you don’t mind that they previously lived full lives.”

“Sparks.” Struts said contemptuously. “For shame. It’s a new spark, not some poor soul who threw his money into the wrong thing. It saved us! If it hadn’t touched down, you’d be dead.” 

He huffed and looked away. “I…well…can’t you just give it some of your plating?”

“Not without smelting it! I’m a heavyweight, too. My plating might kill it if this spark turns out to be too small.”

“And my plating–”

“Please don’t try to sacrifice your plating. You’ve been through enough today.”

He wanted to bark back that Struts was asking him to go through much more by requesting he steal, but chose to hold his glossa. It wasn’t like he was being asked to steal Overlord’s personal coin card, and sentio metallico wasn’t exactly the most uncommon item. The medics used it for almost everything that required a limb to take or regenerate. It was stored behind lock and key, yes, but his talons were sharp, and locks were no match against a bit of jiggling with them. 

“Alright, fine.” He unfurled his wings and dropped off the slab, gliding down to the floor. “I’ll steal some.”

Struts’ chambers were barely decorated, consisting of only his recharge slab, his vanity for painting (required for matches, Overlord liked it flashy), and a few printed photos on the wall. Why, exactly, he insisted on them being printed, Sparks could only guess, but printed they were, on thin slabs magnetized to the walls. 

They depicted him with mechs Sparks had never known, and likely never would. If they existed in Struts’ past, they were probably dead. He wouldn’t talk about them when asked, so that was the most likely explanation regardless.

Struts watched him head for the exit, only speaking when he was at the door. The spark in his servos was glowing even less now. “Please, be safe. If he’s there–”

“I’ll turn right back. Don’t worry.” 

He. Overlord. The one mech they had to fear above all else. If Sparks encountered him while out of his chambers, he would probably see his head pulled from his body. It wasn’t like refuel was anytime near, either. 

He’d just have to avoid being caught at all, which was his goal anyways, and which he was very good at. No one expected the giant dragon who ripped sparks from their chambers and hoarded them as decorations to have a root mode that was only fifteen feet in height. 

It meant he was small, and he was fast. And that was all he needed. 

In no time at all, he returned to Struts’ chambers, an alloy of sentio metallico larger than his leg held with both arms. Struts hadn’t moved from his position, back hunched, face drawn close to the spark. He was whispering something to it–Sparks recognized it as that old lullaby he used to hum, before the Pit had thoroughly silenced him. 

���Back,” he announced, stepping through the open doorway (for they were not granted the privilege of a door) and placing the alloy on the floor. “Got your sentio metallico. There was only one medic on duty, and he was high on nucleon.” 

“Hm.” Struts hummed, sitting up and plucking the alloy from the floor. “A lucky break for us, then. Thank you.” 

“Ah, it’s nothing.” He unfolded his wings and took to the air, lifting himself to Struts’ shoulder and perching placidly on it. “So…how are you gonna help it, yknow, forge?” 

The spark was pulsing quickly in his servos, its glow brighter than before. Its color had taken on a slightly greenish hue. Sparks cocked his head. 

“Was it like that before? The color, I mean.”

“I imbued it with a small bit of my own.”

“What?!” He started. “Why?! You’re a point one percenter, that could have killed it!” 

“It was fading,” Struts muttered. “I couldn’t let it die. Now…”

Taking the metal, he gently carved out a hole in its center, then placed the spark inside. Sparks watched as the metal almost seemed to liquefy, then began to take shape. A warmth rose from it as the spark began to properly forge itself. 

“In a few hours, we should see a face,” Struts explained. “Then, we can guess an alt mode. She should be done before the sun finishes its cycle.”

“She?” Sparks gave him a look. “It's not even done forging, and it’s she?”

“Of course she is. The metal shines a certain way when it’s a femme. Can’t you see it?” 

He shook his head. “Nope. You’re crazy.”

“Hm.” His focus returned to the protoform. “We’ll have to name her. Any ideas?” 

“I’m of the mind that you name yourself.” Sparks leaned against the practical wall that was his lover’s helmet, letting his legs hang off the cliffs of his shoulder. “Besides, whatever name she gets, it’ll be replaced by however she kills. So, we shouldn’t–”

“I like Starfall,” Struts interrupted. “Because she fell from the stars, and saved us both.” 

He could point out how she only put off the inevitable. How Overlord wouldn’t be glad she survived and would likely take her away. How this moment, sweet as it was, would never last, and the horrors of the Pit, ever waiting at the edge of the door, would soon creep back in to attack them again. 

But what was the point in any of that? They’d been given a single, rare blessing, one that was almost never afforded to monsters like them. A rare moment where, instead of taking life, they could watch it emerge, instead. 

He sighed in false exasperation, curling his tail around the great width of Struts’ upper arm and smiling. “Alright then, big guy. Starfall it is.”

Together they sat in silence, watching her form. 

[malewife-overlord]

HI EVERYONE REMEMBER HOW I ANNOUNCED SIX CYCLES LATER WOULD BE GETTING A SEQUEL AND LIKE 3 PEOPLE LIKED THE POST! well that sequel has officially started :] im happy to announce Puncture, Invert, and Luster are going to be back and suffering adventuring just as much they did before. I will provide some warnings ahead of time for everyone though: six cycles later: cybertron will absolutely have much more gore than six cycles later >,> its going to get a lot darker too. i'll be sure to tag things appropriately of course! but do expect some heavier topics to be broached as we encounter the fallout of being a decepticon in a world where your side lost, and a sparkeater in a world that doesnt want you alive. nevermind whats going on with the new characters who will be introduced!

oh and another heads up! there will be actual canon characters in SCL:C! wow, who wouldve guessed. maybe a fave of yours might appear right <,<

that said, im posting the first chapter tonight :) thank you to everyone who read the original six cycles later, and i hope you will also enjoy six cycles later: cybertron as well.

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later -- Part I

Hello and welcome to the start of Six Cycles Later! SCL is an OC fic based in a bit of a G1/IDW continuity soup. It will feature TF OCs, but there will be a few canon character mentions and appearances. Mostly, however, it will focus on original characters, so if that is not your thing, you probably shouldn't read this fic.

SCL takes place after the 1984 movie. Optimus and Megatron are dead, Unicron is vanquished, and Rodimus Prime has stepped up to lead the Autobots, while the remnants of the Decepticons hide on Chaar, awaiting the return of their leader. But what about the two Cons left behind on Earth?

This fic will follow those left behind, but not just on the Decepticon side. A lost ship has crashed onto Earth, and the single bot inside of it has been missing for the past four million years. Worse still, he wasn't alone when he disappeared...

This is the first chapter, and thus contains two perspectives: that of Invert, a Seeker eager to prove she's worth something to her cause, and Luster, a mysterious Autobot stuck in a world he doesn't belong in.

If any of that sounds interesting to you, feel free to read on! Trigger warnings will be placed at the beginning of every chapter if it contains any. Chapter below cut! If you want to read the whole hulking fic in it's original state, not fucked by Tumblr, you can find it here. If you're intrigued and liked this start, the next chapter can be found here.

If you like these characters, art was done for Luster and Uptick by the amazing @scarlettaagni! Now go follow her!

Word Count: 7494

Orbital cycle: 6.3. Approximately 182.5 solar cycles since initial launch for attack on Autobot City. Diagnostic report: no structural damage detected. Energon levels: 27%. Energon levels of 50% recommended for full functionality. Defense systems: offline. Offensive systems: offline. Cloaking systems: online. Communications: partially online. Power saving mode recommended at Energon levels of 25%. 

She records the report in her datapad down to the final recommendation, which really was not necessary, considering any proper engineer would have understood that by now, the ship should have entered power saving mode eons ago. If it had been placed in that mode when the other Decepticons had initially left, the current Energon levels would sit comfortably at the recommended 50%, and she would still have the long distance communications beacon up. But that was in the past, where they were supposed to have returned after a few solar cycles. 

It had been dozens now, and Invert was starting to wonder if her brethren were going to return. A far more patient bot like Shockwave would not have felt any doubt up to the first double digit million years–how else had he held down Cybertron for so long? By comparison she was young, having barely lived for over a million. The hundreds of solar cycles that had passed as she was left alone on the Victory were now starting to seep into her processor, bringing with them questions of uncertainty.

The raid was supposed to last barely a few days. They’d brought everyone in the local system with them. The greatest warriors the Decepticon cause had were deployed. With all of them attacking at once, even the heavily fortified Autobot City should have been leveled in under a deca-cycle. 

And yet there was silence. No cries of victory. No chaotic messages on the airways calling for aid. No declaration of retreat. Just silence. 

They couldn’t be defeated. If they’d been defeated they would have retreated back to Victory. If they’d gone back to Cybertron on Astrotrain, then surely Shockwave would have contacted her on earth. He knew her name. He knew he’d sent her there orbital cycles ago. He’d know they’d left her behind to hold down the fort. 

There was, of course, one other option. Silence was begetting of only a few characteristics when it came to the living. The Autobots, surely, wouldn’t. They were too soft-hearted. But if the attack had truly gone so badly, and they’d deigned it necessary–

Total obliteration. Total razing. Total loss. 

She pushed the thoughts swirling in her processor aside and focused back on Victory’s main computer, typing in a few commands. 

“Victory, run an internal scan. How are your habsuits looking?”

A map of Victory’s internal structure appeared on the screen before her. Dozens of rooms were selected and zoomed in on, each of which specifically served as living space. One by one they started as black, then turned white as they were provided the all clear. 

Structure: stable. Living conditions: adjusted. Doors: unlocked. 

“Alright, that’s good…” she muttered to herself, swapping to the cameras on the outside of the ship. They revealed an empty sea around her, dark and creeping with small organics. Their crude forms made her cringe, even in the restricted view she had of them. “Gross…Victory, illuminate your external hull.” 

Victory obeyed, revealing a vast expanse of metal currently covered in the earth version of space barnacles. The white-shelled creatures had opened their filthy maws, extending forth feelers characteristic of some kind of horror show. Invert grimaced and swapped the camera views, checking instead on the door to the airlock. It was immaculately clean unlike the hull, though a few many legged organics crawled across it. 

She checked the back of the ship, its thrusters, its scope, and finally its body. Making a note of each location that needed proper cleaning, Invert tapped the information into her datapad and closed the camera system before issuing another command. “Victory, check the wavelengths for any signs of communication.” 

The screen before her went black, turning to a single unmoving flat line. She stared at it in silence, waiting for a peak, a leap, a blur, a single beat to indicate that anyone was out there. 

Nothing happened. 

Frowning to herself, she tapped a button on the keyboard before her–the one for “broadcast”. 

“Fellow Decepticons,” she said, “if any of you are out there, I am Invert of Cybertron, broadcasting from the Earth base Victory. I am alone here and have been so since the attack on Autobot City. If you are hearing this message, please respond.” 

Her servo left the button and she waited. And waited. And waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

And nothing came, as it never did. 

She vented and focused back on her datapad, the frown perched upon her face seemingly eager to make it a permanent home. There was her chore list, plain and simple. It would take her several megacycles to complete: clean the habsuits, clean the storage vault, clean the weapons vault, clean the hallways, feed Victory, scrape away the organics on Victory’s hull, manage the outside of Victory, air another message after seven megacycles, spy on the Autobots if possible.

If possible. The last one was becoming an increasingly harder task to pull off. She was no Soundwave, and Victory’s listening equipment had been down for a while now to preserve power. Furthermore the equipment in Soundwave’s habsuit was either completely foreign or off-limits to her. He may not be here now, but he would return, like the others would, and if he found out she’d been messing with his items, well. She was only a lowly foot soldier, and he was the head of communications of the Decepticon cause. 

She’d be lucky if only her wings were broken off and used to decorate his sparsely covered habsuit. 

Speaking of her wings…she cast a glance down at the inverted things, which pointed towards the ground as opposed to the air. They would do her no favors in navigating the outside of the ship and certainly no aid in reaching the higher spots in the larger habsuits. Her boosters were functional, but the Energon they’d consume to keep her airborne would drain her at twice the levels of a normal Seeker. 

She’d have to use them sparingly if she wanted to continue her present consumption rate of only one Energon cube a day. If she offlined from low power, that was fine; eventually her brethren would return, find her, and bring her back. But without her, no one would feed Victory, who would eventually offline from low power. Victory had to stay online, no matter what. 

Where else would the Decepticons go when they came back, if they didn’t have Victory? 

“I’ll keep you going, girl…” she whispered as she left the control room, reaching a hand out to run along the walls of the ship. Victory, as usual, was silent. It always was. 

Perhaps none of the other Decepticons had shared her sentiment, but Invert had always thought of The Victory (Victory for short) as a fellow ‘con. It was a crashed ship, yes, but it was alive and functional, and it provided them a home within its body. Victory could respond to commands and hold conversations if it so wished; just the majority of the time, it preferred not to. For all she knew Victory was just trapped in permanent stasis lock, and would perhaps free itself one day. 

As such, it was important to take care of Victory, for more purposes than just maintaining a Decepticon earth base. Victory was an ally with much greater might than her. If it fell, everything was lost. 

That was why they’d left her behind when the entire cause had prepared for the assault on Autobot City–it had to be. Someone had to take care of Victory and it was for the better that that someone was her. Perhaps it had been said to her in a less kind way, but the others had had a point when they said that someone who couldn’t contribute properly to a fight would be better off staying behind. 

Okay, they’d said it a lot less kindly. More so, they’d chided her that a flightless Seeker was utterly useless on the field despite whatever “special talent” Shockwave had promised she possessed. And for the battle of Autobot City, they needed soldiers who were functional, powerful, and wouldn’t prove dangerous to their allies as well as their foes. Besides, for swelling their numbers, they had the Insecticon clones. So someone like her, broken, glitched, and more of a liability than anything else, would only be good for ensuring that Victory didn’t somehow miraculously break while they were gone. 

Because really, if Victory was invaded, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The ship was equipped to deal with invasions. Its defensive systems were more than adequate for dispatching invaders both inside and out. Invert was only present within it to mop up the Energon remains of whoever was fool enough to try. 

No one had been–but that could also be attributed to the fact that the Autobots didn’t seem to know where the Decepticon base was. That, or they just didn’t care. Invert preferred the former. Why would it be inconsequential to know where the enemy’s base was, where they were likely to crawl back to and lick their wounds? And surely they were licking their wounds somewhere out there, weren’t they?

So why hadn’t they come back?

She pushed the thought away again and threw open one of the few cleaning closets the ship possessed, grabbing all the equipment she’d need to properly clear out all the habsuits. Nowadays it was more dusting than anything else, but she still brought along a mop and bucket, just in case. 

The habsuits would start with Starscream’s, of course, because if she cleaned anyone else’s first and he found out, he’d throw a fit. And a fit from her commander was not something Invert wanted to sit through. He always treated her with more vitriol than any of the other Seekers, no matter how inconsequential her mistakes might be compared to theirs. She had an ounce of resentment towards him for it, countered only by the fact that, no matter how awful Starscream could be, he was deserving of respect for his flight abilities. 

But that was a low bar. Any winged Decepticon could fly circles around her while all she could do was watch and seethe. 

She vented and tapped the passcode to his habsuit’s door into its keypad, the double doors opening to reveal a pristine and lavishly decorated room. Starscream was nothing if not dramatic and narcissistic. All the valuables and self-care items stored in his habsuit spoke lengths to just what he’d do for a decent polish. Cleaning it was always a nightmare, even after all the times she’d done it before. If even one item was an inch out of place, she’d hear about it later. 

A tiny chuckle escaped her at the thought–when was the last time she’d heard Starscream’s voice for any purpose? Be it admonishing her for attempting even once to be a proper Seeker, bossing her around, treating her as his personal slave, or verbally abusing her to let his Megatron-induced anger out, it had been so long she almost found herself forgetting how cruel the insults had been. 

Almost. She entered his habsuit with her cleaning gear and checked everything over–berth, vanity, table, overly expensive one of a kind statue in his image, all the data-pads he pretended didn’t contain failed plans to assassinate their great leader, full length mirror that somehow hadn’t been broken, each and every one of his polishes and maintenance equipment, and of course, the additional weapons he kept on the wall. 

There wasn’t a speck of dust on anything nor any indication of water damage. The berth was made perfectly.. The floor was clean save for her own pedeprints. And the metal of the walls gleamed like it’d been treated with the same care as Starscream himself. 

There was nothing to clean, but she still gave everything a dust off, just to be safe. Giving everything one final look over for rust, Invert confirmed there to be no contamination on any of Starscream’s immensely precious belongings and left his habsuit, locking it behind her.

One down. At least fifty more to go. She vented again and moved to the next.

—-----

Maintenance was finished by the time the Earth’s sun moved high into the sky. Her internal clock read 16:23, a new method of telling time that had been adjusted for her when she’d arrived on Earth. The planet operated on a twenty-four megacycle basis, working around when the sun would orbit to the other side of the planet. The absence of the sun was named “night”, and could occur anywhere from 17:00-21:00, sometimes later. Having spent much of her time on Cybertron, she had been unaccustomed to Earth’s time, and figured it to be useless for the majority of her stay on the planet. 

“Night” had its benefits, though. Its darkness concealed well, and most organics chose to enter recharge when it came on. It was the perfect time to enact plots, schemes, and occasional terrorist attacks on Autobot City. 

The season Earth was presently in was dubbed “summer”. That meant night would not come until 21:00. She had time. After finishing with the habsuits, Invert focused on maintaining Victory. 

At 16:28 she scraped away the organics on the outside of the hull, using her thrusters to properly climb up onto it. Finishing the front at 17:34, she headed to the side, then the back, ending at 18:20. Once back inside, she accessed the Energon vault and took stock before feeding Victory. 

92 cubes left. Victory sufficed on ten per day. Power saving mode was beginning to look tempting now, if not for the risk that it would cease cloaking. And considering how often she had to transmit, the loss would be nothing short of catastrophic. 

More Energon was needed, then. She’d have to ration herself more. She fit eleven cubes in her arms and brought them to Victory’s engine. As they were tossed in she held the one extra up. 

“To another cycle, Victory.” It was brought to her dermas and promptly consumed. 

Victory gave no response, as always. Invert stared at the empty cube in her servos for only a second before turning to take it back to storage. 

At which point Victory’s system suddenly lit up. The screen turned on behind her, displaying a map of the planet and pinging a specific point somewhere in Asia. Invert looked back and raised her brows. 

“SOS signal of Decepticon origin detected,” Victory stated in its monotone voice. “Displaying coordinates on screen. Incoming message. Playing now.”

Before Invert could even brace herself, an unholy buzzing suddenly sounded through the speakers, so shrill and constant that she collapsed to one knee, instinctively slamming her servos over her audials. Gritting her dentas she opened her hub and turned her audials all the way down, which made the buzzing just tolerable enough for her to reach Victory’s main computer and slam her fist on the OFF button. 

The sound stopped so suddenly it left her processor ringing. She blinked several times, then knocked a fist against the side of her helm, shaking it a few times to properly orient herself. 

Victory had gone silent again, but continued to display the ping and its coordinates. Invert looked up at them, transcribing them in her memory. What kind of distress signal had that been? Victory’s audio systems must be going, perhaps from too much time spent under the Earth’s water. An SOS signal usually captured the sound of blaster fire, of desperate voices crying for help, of bitter regret as whatever ‘con was on the other end laid aside his pride to admit he needed back-up. 

That thought made her uneasy. Buzzing. Why have an SOS signal that was nothing but buzzing? 

“Victory…” she paused, winced, and told herself that it wasn’t going to hurt as badly the second time. “Play the SOS signal again. At a decreased volume!” 

It complied, the loud, painful buzzing sounding over the speakers once more. Invert increased her audials this time, even though the sound made her want to rip them out of her helm. Listening closely, she focused on differentiating corrupted audio from what might be beneath, be it voices, blaster fire, or the sound of fleeing pedesteps. 

But the clip ended without any differentiating sounds. She found that odd, and replayed it in her processor again and again, trying to filter through it. Nothing. Just buzzing.

“Victory, run a diagnostic on your audio systems,” she ordered. The screen changed as Victory did just that, then returned several cycles later with a clear report: nothing was wrong. 

The Energon she’d consumed sat uneasily in her tank. Invert grimaced. “Display the coordinates again,” she commanded, though they were already saved to her memory. Seeing them on the screen solidified her doubts. 

Bali. There was a ship in Bali that she knew about, one that had harbored several unsavory occupants of the Decepticon cause. They, too, had disappeared after the attack on Autobot City. 

Insecticons. Members of the cause notorious for how untrustworthy they were. She hadn’t been around for all the cases where they’d proven themselves to be nothing but hassles who only cared for endless consumption, but she’d read reports of actions and abilities. They were a self-contained group and stuck to their own–why would they call for help now, several orbital cycles after their last appearance in Autobot City?

Buzzing. Their entire signal had just been buzzing. She frowned, thinking it over. Their alt modes were based off of filthy organics, and as such, carried some characteristics of the ugly things. Was the buzzing a possible side effect of that? But they could speak, so why wouldn’t they?

Unless they weren’t able to, for some reason? During an SOS signal? 

An SOS signal from a self-contained, proud group, perfectly capable of surviving on their own, that contained an off-putting buzz likely made to avoid speaking.

Just what were they facing out there that would cause such behavior?

“Victory, open a comm to the Insecticon ship,” she said, leaning over the control panel. “Insecticons, this is Invert, speaking to you from the Decepticon base The Victory. Come in Insecticons.”

Silence. 

“Come in Insecticons.”

The ping repeated itself again and again. SOS. SOS. SOS. 

No one was going to answer. Her frown deepened and she stepped away from the control panel. The only Decepticon here was her, the last on Earth, for all she knew. If they weren’t answering, they could be offline for all she knew. Or worse, it could be an Autobot trap, and she’d be playing right into their hands. 

But if it wasn’t, and someone was there on the other side, waiting for help, desperately trying to reach any other Decepticon on this planet…

Even if they were gross Insecticons…

Rescue would fall to her. And though she would be taking a huge risk, with no guarantee for results, with the possibility of capture or permanent offlining…

It was, finally, something to do. Something beyond just maintaining Victory. Something that was a real mission. Something that could get her honor, respect, and maybe even a friend!

Her frown gradually gave way to a grin. Her first real mission. Her first real rescue. Her first chance to make a decision on her own, with no one ordering her what side to choose. 

Oh, she was excited. It didn’t matter that her jet mode struggled to fly and that she’d need to pack away six cubes of additional Energon for the journey and her weapon–she was getting out, and she was going to rescue those Insecticons. 

“Victory, open the weapon’s vault,” she eagerly commanded, taking off down the hall. “And prepare the hangar for take-off.”

—------------------

“I think you’ve had enough, bud.”

He raised tired optics from the glass currently gripped like a lifeline in his servos, the pink Energon within rippling from how his arm shook. Upon the bartender, a shorter mech with a white and yellow paint job, did his gaze land. Whatever was in it seemed enough to cause them to flinch, but they held their ground, clearly experienced in dealing with the far more unruly. 

“Seriously. You’ve had five of those in the past Earth hour. How you’re not horrendously overfueled by now, I dunno, but you’re on your way to an early grave if you keep that up.” They gave him a hard frown, narrowing their optics behind their visor. “I’m not havin’ it on record that someone died at my bar because of my negligence.”

Luster didn’t answer them at first, letting his gaze drift back down to the Energon swirling in the glass he held. How it hadn’t cracked yet spoke to its quality, or perhaps how weak he’d become. Either worked. 

The glass was half-drained. It hadn’t tasted like anything in particular. He never ordered for the flavor, since anything they could provide him would be irrelevant. His glossa didn’t taste like it once must have, even if the memories of what had been felt like they existed just beyond a fog barrier. And besides, no matter how much he drank, his tank never felt full. 

Not anymore. 

He pulled up a report on his tank capacity in his hub–93% capacity. Ignoring the bartender, he brought the glass to his derma and promptly chugged, feeling his frame protest against more. Another tank report came in–100%. If he consumed anymore, he’d have to purge. 

There was still a drop at the bottom. He forced it down despite the warnings and slid the glass forward, looking just past the bartender, never at them. 

“One for the road,” he rasped, venting harshly. “Please.”

“Absolutely not. If you’re not at capacity by this point your sensor’s faulty.” They took the glass with what almost seemed like disgust. “Aren’t you supposed to be here with your guardian, anyways? Where is he?”

Guardian. He coughed at the word, not because he wanted to, but because it reminded him of what his life had become. The motion jarred the Energon inside of him and he felt sick. Swallowing down the urge to purge, Luster moved to shaky pedes, gripping the bar for support. 

“I don’t need him,” he grumbled. “I’m not a Sparkling. I’m not a protoform. I’m…I was someone, before, I don’t need a guardian.” 

The bartender grimaced. “Luster…look, buddy. I didn’t know you before the war. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of your work. I know Magnus says you did somethin’ important before the retreat from Cybertron. But all that’s in the past now, aight? This is Earth, not Cybertron, and we all know whatever it is you were lookin’ for, you…”

They paused as his cold optics finally focused on them, reconsidering their words. 

“...We all know you had some tragedy while you were out there. Real sad. No one here wouldn’t feel bad for you. But you can’t keep drinkin’ yourself to death over it. And I know you’re a grown ‘bot, but considerin’ the memory problems and all…well…course we all think you could use a guardian.”

A low rumble escaped from somewhere deep within him. Tank capacity at 99%. He needed more Energon. 

“One more for the road,” he asked again. “Please. I’ll pay you double for it.” 

Their frown tightened. “I’m calling Uptick.”

“No.” It came out harsher and faster than he intended, sounding like the warning growl of a tiger. His optics widened and he closed them, the gentle lighting of the bar suddenly too much. “Please. No. Don’t call him.”

They had their hand to their helm as they grimaced at him. Luster growled and turned away, almost falling over as he did. His balance equilibrator was off courtesy of overfueling, and focusing on what was normally a clear beeline for the door was difficult. One pede in front of the other. One pede in front of the other. 

“Luster! You’re not goin’ out alone?” The bartender called after him. He ignored them, turning down his audials to focus on walking. 

Spilling out of the bar, he stumbled for the nearest wall and rested a hand against it, leaning on it for dear life. His head was spinning. Standing was becoming increasingly difficult. 

Tank capacity at 98%. 

It wouldn’t stay there long. He needed to be back in his habsuit before that happened. Which way to his habsuit? He focused on his internal map, pulling it up in his hub and searching the coordinates. A small box lit up on Metroplex’s form, his tracking systems illustrating a path for him to take milliseconds later. 

It was late. Autobots didn’t sleep, not really, but it was likely that, due to the time of the planet, he wouldn’t run into anyone. Luster vented again, feeling warm Energon slip out from between his lips as he did so, and began the journey back to the place he was temporarily calling ‘home’. 

The path his systems had picked took him through some of Metroplex’s tighter corridors. On Cybertron, back before he had launched on the fateful mission that took his memory from him, he would have once felt nervous. Now he felt nothing, nothing besides urgency, urgency that did not originate from fear of being attacked or robbed. 

No, it was urgency that sprouted from the deepest recesses of himself, telling him to hide for his self-preservation, for if he did not, the symptoms would soon manifest, and in his present state, he didn’t know if he could take them. 

He made it about halfway before his proximity sensor went off. With his audials turned so low, he realized he hadn’t picked up the voice of whoever was calling to him, and they’d approached, their presence now close enough to seemingly reach out and touch him. 

He turned his helm, uncaring, for whoever it was could not be worse than–

Him. 

Uptick was following within grabbing distance of him, his dermas moving as he ranted on about something Luster was glad he couldn’t hear. He paused in his movement and Uptick did the same, though he didn’t once stop talking. Of course he didn’t.

Slowly, Luster turned his audials back on, just enough to make out the slew of Uptick’s commentary like the gentle, cooing sound of a cyber pigeon. 

“--and furthermore you are in direct violation of your curfew, which states you aren’t to be out beyond the Earth hour of 21:00; it is presently 01:20 and here you are wandering the passages of Metroplex like a lost turbofox!” He put both hands on his hips, glaring Luster down. “This is your second warning. You know what happens if I have to issue a third.”

He shuttered his optics and stared blankly just beyond Uptick. “You lock me up in the clinic until I’m completely fixed or I don’t function anymore?” 

“What?” He sounded incredulous. “No! I’m not here to–do you consider this some kind of torture? Luster, I’m trying to help you!” 

“Then can you leave me alone?” He grumbled, turning away and continuing on his predetermined path. “I’ll be fine…I just need to go back…”

Back to where? The habsuit? The ship? The planet of fog in his memories? Back, back. Always back. 

“You need to stop drinking,” Uptick scolded, grabbing his shoulder and bringing him to a halt. “And stop these late night wanderings. Everyone’s concerned for you because of them.”

He let his shoulders slump. 

“That’s a lie and you know it. The only ones who still care about me are the medics who want to poke my processor. Now can I please go back home?”

The buzz was starting to fade. He didn’t get that nice warmth from Energon overfueling for long anymore. Balance was restoring. And worst of all, the reports were coming in. 

Tank capacity at 95%. Fuel proficiency at 20%. Uptake at %$^&&*^# levels. Seek alternate methods of refueling. 

Uptick let out a long sigh. “Let me walk you back. There’s no point in you getting lost and scaring others again.”

He didn’t fight the offer. There was no point in it. Once Uptick was convinced of doing something, he wouldn’t stop until it was done–especially if that task regarded protecting someone else. 

So he trudged along, the ‘bot slated as his “guardian” trailing just behind him. “Guardian”. “Caretaker” was more like it. Uptick followed him everywhere, kept an eye on how much Energon he was consuming, tracked his recharge cycles, kept a close eye on just what activities he engaged with on a daily basis, and probably had a tracker installed beneath his aft to keep him from ever having an ounce of privacy. 

Of course he did, though, after that night with the other ‘bots. He knew what he had been doing and why he had been doing it. He just didn’t know why he’d stopped.

The Autobots he’d frightened were significantly less green than he was. That wouldn’t keep them safe. They’d returned to their habsuit to begin a cycle of “enjoying one another’s company”. That was why he’d picked them. Two for one. It would have made the whole situation easier on them all.

Except it hadn’t been easier on anyone, especially him. They’d both become creeped out when, upon discovering him in their personal quarters, staring at their recharge slabs with optics more devoid than a moon, he’d purged his dinner and collapsed, whining like a sick turbofox. 

That was when Uptick had been assigned as his caretaker. There wasn’t anything wrong with Uptick, by any means, and he didn’t hate him. He was, like all Enforcers, large and imposing, and tended to play by the rules too much. His paint was cheerful colors of blue, green, and white, meant to match with the new planet he was eager to call home. And his personality was surprisingly forgiving–for being the sucker stuck with the mental patient, he had quite a tolerance for nonsense.

No, Luster despised Uptick’s company for an entire other reason. One that didn’t have to do with how closely he watched him, how constantly he reminded him to attend his appointments, or how constantly he changed his curfews and rules.

It had to do with his sparkbeat. With how close he insisted on staying, Luster could hear the damnable thing’s constant pulsing despite the layers of glass and metal and wires separating them. It was loud and full of vibrant life. 

He could feel the solvent building in his mouth. 

Tank capacity at 93%. 

—-------------------------------

The habsuit allotted to him was at the very end of Metroplex’s furthest row. It was close to the wall, away from any streets or alleys. The original request put in regarding a space for him had placed him near the clinic, where other Cybertronians would be passing by. His vehement rejection of the idea had only been approved after the arguing had made him purge. 

Uptick brought him right to the sliding door, inputting the code to open it on its keypad. The metal let out a quiet shff as it slid open, revealing the small space within. He turned, giving Luster a look. 

“Your visit tomorrow is at 09:20, Earth hours. I’ve already sent you the data package. You seem to have ignored the first four.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice as he raised a servo to his helm. “I’ll send you another. Be there on time, please, so I don’t have to come here and convince you, alright?”

“Convince”. Luster almost scoffed at the word. The heaviness that came with overfueling had left him by now. With its cloud gone, he found himself choking on bitterness again. 

Instead, he vented, giving a tiny nod. 

“Alright.” Stepping past Uptick, he paused in the threshold of his habsuit when a hand suddenly landed back on his shoulder. 

“Luster. You know these visits are for your health, right? No one here wants to hurt you. We don’t see you as a processor to be poked.” 

“I know.” He didn’t turn around. The lights in his habsuit, motion activated, had turned on, illuminating the sparse few belongings within it. 

“I mean it.” His grip tightened ever so slightly, then released. “We want to help you. All of us.” 

“I know,” he repeated. “Now please leave me alone.” 

Uptick said nothing as the door slid closed, sealing him, and the outside world, away. Luster stepped fully into his habsuit and paused, gaze fixed on the berth. 

It was a recharge slab, standard issue. They’d tried to pull a better one for him due to his circumstances–the medic’s had posited that he may have recharging terrors. They’d been right, of course, but he knew it wasn’t the fault of the slab, so he’d let it lie. They didn’t need to know about the terrors that plagued him, for they were meaningless, and besides, if they knew, they’d want to keep a closer eye on him. 

Who cared about terrors that only consisted of strange humming noises, anyways?

Besides, a closer eye was the exact opposite of what he needed on him. If they watched him more closely, they’d take him away from the bar. They’d take him away from his quiet habsuit. They’d take him away from his place at the edge of their world and draw him right into the middle. 

And if they did that, he had no idea how long he could ensure their safety. 

He stepped over to the slab, observing his reflection in it. They’d taken away the mirror after he’d shown distress staring into it. Something about his frame just didn’t feel right, and the more he looked at it, the more out of place he felt. 

His paint was blue, a gaudy blue, one with a sheen to it that made him literally shine. One of the medics had stated his color was particularly reminiscent of a bird known as the “peacock” on earth. He’d never met the thing, but from the way they’d snickered, he assumed it was excessive. 

On his chassis were diamonds, which, according to the doctors, had been placed there, willingly, by him. He couldn’t imagine why he would have ever reasoned to do such a thing. The stones weakened the integrity of his armor, and furthermore, they drew attention. Cut into varying shapes, they were arranged into delicate patterns that continued on his faceplate, where several more had been embedded just below his optics. Had been. When they found him, all that were left were the indentations of what had been. They now felt like ugly scars. 

The gemstones were gaudy enough, but worse, in his opinion, were his drills. Their blades rested comfortably on his arms, with the largest sitting on his back as a heavy extension. His treads were on his legs, which, combined with the weight of the drill, made even lifting the damnable things a chore. According to the medics he hadn’t even been a miner back in the day, but a scientist of sorts, so why he was so equipped for drilling, he couldn’t even say. 

All of this shaped up to make his frame bulky and uncomfortable. His steps were heavy. His pieces tended to bump into things. And his excessive decorations drew gazes and snickers alike from other mechs. 

He hated the face that looked back at him. The optics were green, a gaudy green, because apparently, he’d once been obsessed with fashion, and made himself a different pair of colored optics for every day of the week. The others were lost, but the green he’d been wearing when he disappeared weren’t. 

His faceplate was a pale gray, like most mechs tended to be. Pale, with those intricate, delicate etchings, designed to make him look ‘beautiful’. His helm had a sharp point in the middle, reaching about halfway down, and of course, in the middle of it was another gemstone. This one, however, was cracked. 

A cracked gemstone accompanied by diamond shaped holes that had once held something supposedly precious. That was all he saw when he looked at himself. 

He tore his optics away from the visage and sat on the berth, keeping his pedes on the floor as he turned to look around his habsuit. It had a desk, a window, a few datapads, and a small storage shelf. That was all. 

They’d offered to bring him some of his surviving “collection”, whatever that meant. He’d declined.

The ceiling lights dimmed as he tried to lay down on his back, found it impossible, and instead did so on his side. He’d never get used to the damnable drill on his back, he just knew it. It wasn’t supposed to be there. It hadn’t been there before. Why did he have a drill on his back? He couldn’t ever remember a time where he did. 

But that was the problem with remembering. He couldn’t remember much of anything. 

It had been only three Earth “months” (solar cycles?) ago that he had landed on the planet, in an unmarked spaceship that had been dated back to the middle of the war. The bots who had discovered him found his frame locked in a stasis pod, almost offline from how little power he’d had left. Taking him back to Autobot City, an emergency transfer of Energon and a strong shock to his processor had brought him back online. 

And that was when the trouble had begun. He’d awoken in a room he didn’t recognize, in a time he didn’t know, in a place he’d never been before. He still remembered coming online. For so long it had been just darkness, darkness and the very hum of the universe, the electrical pulses that dictated the existence of life, making up the entirety of his world. When he’d come online, that hum had ebbed, becoming less than background noise. 

It had felt like being cut off from a lifeline. His optics had onlined, and he had been greeted with the sight of one of the Autobot medics, First Aid. There was celebration to be had as he had groaned and tried to sit up, confused, delirious, and wondering just how he’d gotten to this strange place. They’d insisted he stay down until his energon reserves were replenished. 

But even when his tank hit its safe capacity, a feeling that should have left him satiated and energized, he hadn’t had the strength to properly move. He’d known in that very instant, as the question arose as to why, that something was wrong with him. 

Another electrical shock had returned the ability to properly move to him. They’d released him from the medical bay after he’d demonstrated he could walk–right into the hands of their Enforcers. For according to their records, he was not to be alone, and the question of just what had happened on his mission was hanging heavier than a spaceship in orbit. 

The issue of his memory had arisen almost immediately. They’d asked him his name. They’d asked him why he had been alone. They’d asked him what had happened. 

He couldn’t remember any of it. 

“His processor seems to have been damaged, sir.” He remembered one of them saying, looking over the scan that had been provided from the medical bay. “They’ve found evidence that a code was written to delete some memories, but even more than that…” The datapad had been handed over, and the interrogator sucked in air through his denta. “How is he even still functional, with scrambling that bad?”

It looked like his processor had been ripped out, smashed, and placed back into his helm. He had no recollection of any of it. 

“Do you remember why you left?”

“Do you remember the name of your ship?”

“Do you remember the research you’d been engaging with when you’d decided to leave?”

“Do you remember what you found?”

“Do you remember Solace?”

“Do you remember what happened to him?”

“What happened to Solace?”

Who’s Solace?

The interview had ended shortly after. 

He vented, watching the lights in the ceiling turn down. Uptick’s data package pushed at the edge of his internal hub. He accepted it because he had no other choice. 

Solace. The name haunted him like a specter. Solace. Who was Solace? Solace had been someone he’d been very close with, apparently. Solace had been someone so important to him that he’d left Cybertron with him, in search of something mysterious to help the Autobot war effort. They’d been joined at the hip all their lives, apparently, 

And he couldn’t remember a single thing about the mech. But why?

He shuttered his optics and tried to think back to the day he’d left Cybertron. It had been sometime in the middle of the war, apparently. He’d made some big decision and gotten a ship somehow. He was going to prove something, or save them all, or change the tide of the war. Something heroic, or whatever. They’d said he had once been outgoing. 

He tried to picture himself standing on Cybertron (did he even remember Cybertron?), chassis puffed out, engine revving, the diamonds on his faceplate and chest glittering. A huge smile was on his face. He stood before the ship he’d arrived on, except instead of its decrepit state, it was a fully functioning spaceship, fresh off the factory line, without a single chip on the paint. 

Before him was a crowd of Autobots. They were cheering his name. Optimus Prime himself was there to see him off. 

He looks them over and grins widely, holding his arms out. Yes, he was going to save them all. He was going to travel far away, find something, and help end the war. He would be so full of hope, nothing could dampen his spirits. 

And there, beside him, would be Solace. Solace, his best friend, his one in a billion, his greatest ally. 

But when he looks beside him, there is no Solace. 

There was only fog, and blank space, and when he looked back, the planet of Cybertron was empty, a barren wasteland of gray. The sky was dark velvet blue. Stars glittered like diamonds overhead. 

There were stars in his chassis. He blinked once, twice. The planet was empty, and he was full of stars, and he was alone. 

And here, alone, in the emptiness of space, he floated, watching all of existence fall away and turn into the hum of electromagnetic pulses indicating life. Life that he could not see or touch. Life he could only listen to as he lay dreaming, drifting through the universe alone. 

In his cradle of stars, dead $^%#%&* waits dreaming. 

Not alone, really. He had not been alone while he was dreaming. He had heard something else in the hum.

He replayed the sound again, the hum he was so familiar with. It was millions of years worth of noise, stored within his processor because he had nothing else to comprehend for all of it. 217 gigabytes of nothing but humming. His processor ran through all of it in mere minutes, then ran through it again. 

There was something beneath all of the noise, something explicitly subtle. He opened his internal hub and pulled up a spectrograph. The noise was replayed again. 

The waves showed up as nothing in particular for a long time. Then, slowly, they began to form a curve. One by one, each contributed a single line, through millions of years, until finally, he reached himself now, still intuned, just barely, to the electromagnetic pulses of life. 

The image looking back at him was in the shape of a crescent. It was the very shape which he saw in his recharge terrors, the one which, ever present, hung in the background, watching him like a cybercat would a mouse. 

His spark felt cold. He closed the spectrograph and opened his optics, staring at the gentle light of Earth’s moon shining in through the window. His internal clock beeped a warning to him–five hours until he was designated to be at the clinic. A pop-up recommending he enter recharge appeared. He moved to close it.

Tank capacity at 68%. Fuel uptake at &%#$^*(&%$$%&&%$%^^^&* Seek alternate fuel source. Seek alternate fuel source. Seek alternate fuel source. 

Dozens more appeared at the death of the one. He pushed the notifications away. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

They came back, one after the other. His frame felt like it had been starved of Energon for years. 

Seek alternate fuel source. 

He forced his optics to shutter, letting the notifications drown out the fear he felt. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

It was going to be a long recharge. 

[malewife-overlord]

SO WHATS GOING ON WITH SCL

HI EVERYONE WHO HAS READ SIX CYCLES LATER AND FINISHED THE "FINAL" CHAPTER. AS IM SURE YOU NOTICED, WHAT KIND OF AN ENDING IS THAT? AND IM HERE TO TELL YOU...

IT ISNT! YEP, THATS RIGHT: IM GONNA MAKE A PART 2! YIPEE!

i say as i have maybe 4 readers including my close friends. BUT IT MATTERS NOT BECAUSE YOURE PROBABLY GETTING BLINDSIDED BY THIS ANYWAYS.

THATS RIGHT! I HAVE A SEQUEL PLANNED! but why?

bc tlets be real this fic is SO long. it's at 60 thousand words. a fucking novel. and the google doc lags when i try to update it. looking at it and how much ive written on what was originally planned as a thirty page oc drabble, i felt ive come really far! and im kinda proud of it all. but looking at it, ive come to realize i have SO MUCH MORE to write before im done. so i think it'd be best to separate six cycles later into two parts

Part I, Earth, and Part II, Cybertron. so thats what im gonna do! the six cycles later posts will all have their names changed to adapt to this new scheme :) i hope everyone who has enjoyed six cycles later has been getting interested or at least "what" at the mystery going on within it :3c what happened to solace? what turned luster into a sparkeater? did uptick survive? who is channel, really? who is contacting luster from cybertron? and the most important question of all...

what the hell are you, invert?

ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND MORE WILL BE ANSWERED IN SIX CYCLES LATER PART II: CYBERTRON!

but first, im going to take a break. ive written an entire book for free this year and made it available to everyone because im just here for a good time, man. but i need to rest up before i can write another one. and believe me, its going to get long, intense, and a LOT darker than it currently has.

if youre still around, thank you so much for reading six cycles later. the folks who leave me nice comments and share my stuff mean the world to me. you guys have kept me going even when i felt like quitting. thank you @callsign-relic and @scarlettaagni for your kind words as well as letting me borrow your amazing ocs! and i hope six cycles later did them justice. special thanks to you both for the awesome art you did of my ocs too!!!!!

and as a final send off, and a thank you for everyone sticking around, im going to share a small secret for you: it is not an error that Invert's optic bulbs when she lands on the beach to face Channel are white, even though Luster later describes them as red. remember the moment when he became sentient again and look closely at the text :)

here's your closing song for six cycles later! hope everyone doesnt mind the probably short hiatus before i begin working on six cycles later: cybertron!