Chapter Text
“You did good, kid,” said Ratchet, patting Optimus on the shoulder. Poor kid still looked shocked and horrified. Ratchet felt that way. It was easy to forget what, exactly, Strika was, right up until she did something like this. And Jazz…
He’d been in the medical bay. He’d thought it was a routine operation, and was savoring the first few moments of relief that at least they finally had the personnel and equipment to adequately treat the casualties that an operation of this size would create.
And no casualties arrived.
None.
They could hear the ship’s artillery firing, the deep rattling thoom under their stabalizers, but there was only occasional return fire. And no casualties. No casualties for a megacycle. Not even Autobot, once the firing stopped and the search team went out.
Ratchet got suspicious. He left the medbay in Ambulon, Nickel and First Aid’s servos, and went to the shuttlebay.
He arrived in time to see the search team return, and he’d known something had gone very, very wrong immediately, because it was the Phase Sixers. No one in their right processor would send Phase Sixers on a rescue mission. He’d retreated, flung himself into alt, and gone after Strika.
She was wrong. He wouldn’t make a good Decepticon. His tank turned over and knotted on itself. It was hard to square the Strika he knew with the thing she’d done. It didn’t mean he cared about her any less…but he was horrified and hurt and didn’t quite understand how he could still care for her after this. There was a large part of him that wanted to pretend this had never happened. There was a large part of him that just wanted to look the other way.
He couldn’t. He was a medic. Medics didn’t have that luxury.
He patted Optimus’s shoulder again, in a distracted manner, and Optimus gave him a very wry look indeed.
“Thank you, Ratchet,” he said.
“Is Jazz—”
“He’s been reassigned to Jetfire and Jetstorm’s division, under Slipstream. They’re teaching him a lot of maneuvers, and being surrounded by overly-helpful Seekers is going to keep him busy.” Optimus looked down. “Most of them support his decision. It’s not split down faction lines at all. A lot of AFF lost friends in that raid too.” Optimus sighed heavily. “It doesn’t justify the response.”
“It might do something for Alliance cohesion,” said Ratchet. “If that helps.”
“So should taking Halcyon, and I’d rather do that,” said Optimus. “Tactical meeting in two megacycles, by the way. I’d like you there.”
“Of course. Because I’m have such fun being your SIC, what with my medical duties on top of it. I thought it was only temporary, while we got this little rebellion off the ground.”
“I can trust you not to blow up planets when I leave for three days together.” Optimus’s intake twisted wryly. “If I thought you’d forgive me for it, I’d relieve you of medical duties and make you purely an officer. But I’d be worried about waking up missing important organs.”
“You would,” said Ratchet, absolutely sincere.
Optimus gave him that little wry not-exactly-a-smile again, and left the medbay. Ratchet sank his helm in his servos. Time to go back to healing, he thought, and pulled the datapad on cloning tissue back toward himself. There had to be a way to help Skywarp…
“The Halcyon Junction is open to us,” said Strika. She looked around the table at them. “We could end the war within the orn.”
“It’s their last junction besides Cybertron,” explained Bulkhead. “They can’t supercharge the Cybertron Junction; if they frag—er, mess up, they’d blow a crater big enough to drop Luna II down in the center of Iacon. Not even Sentinel’s that stupid.”
“Don’t count on that,” said Optimus.
“It’ll take them time to make the adjustments in any case,” said Bulkhead. “We destroy Halcyon, they’re stuck.”
“It’ll have to be destruction,” said Shockwave. “We can destroy it. But taking and holding it—that, we don’t have the resources for. That would entail a lot of prisoners. And the Autobot Central Fleet would make things difficult. I believe we could confront them in a major battle, but it would cost us considerably, and cripple our ability to take the war to Cybertron.”
“So we need to do something underhanded,” said Strika. “A small task force. Sneak in, place explosives around the generators, and detonate them as you get out. We need a good cover to get in. Suggestions?”
“Autobots escorting a prisoner might work,” said Shockwave. “It would be the most direct path to Cybertron, would it not? And the most secure? We can deploy a beacon that will send the first message about the prisoner’s capture well in advance, use an Autobot shuttle, and send smaller mecha with Autobrands as the ‘escort’. No one immediately recognizable, of course.”
“They’re not going to bridge just anybody,” said Optimus pointed out. He looked at everyone—most of them seemed politely interested, a few were thinking hard. “It’s a risk. For exactly this reason. They’d have capture someone important.”
“Not Strika,” said Megatron. “I need her here, and the idea of her being captured away from her command would raise questions. Shockwave, likewise, and you’re not a competent enough combatant.”
Shockwave inclined his helm. “You are indeed correct, my lord.”
“Slipstream isn’t infamous enough,” said Strika.
“I could,” said Ratchet.
“You wouldn’t be much help in a fight,” Megatron pointed out.
Optimus drew in a vent. “I could,” he said. “Sentinel would reprioritize everything if they got me, and everyone knows it. I can hold my own in a fight, and they’d certainly recognize me.”
“No,” said Megatron, instantly. “No. I am not sending you into his clutches. No. I will go.”
Stunned silence. Optimus stared at him, tank clenching, and Megatron met his optics and smiled, his usual smug smile. “I will, after all, be able to hold my own best in a fight, if it comes to that. What will the exit plan be?”
“Prisoner escape,” said Strika. “The fact you’re a flight frame will help with that; the spacebridge is in open space. You’ll get loose, the guards chase you, the shuttle comes in to save you, and the Decepticon fleet shows up to make sure you get back to safety at the last instant. We’ll have to be quick about that; the Central Fleet is based only two megacycles away. We don’t want them nipping our tails as we run.”
“I think it’s a damned stupid idea,” said Ratchet. “Not only is Megatron the leader of the Decepticons, not only is he bonded, but he’s bonded to the leader of the AFF and I, for one, would really prefer not to be dropped into command by both of our resident idiotic slaggers offlining at the same time.”
“He does have a point,” said Shockwave. People looked at Optimus.
“There aren’t a lot of other people we could send,” he said, hating every word. “Is there an alternative? Could people disguise themselves as spacebridge technicians?”
Megatron gave him an exasperated look at ‘spacebridge technicians’, and pulsed amusement along their bond.
Are you really so juvenile? Optimus thought at him, and he got the message; his faceplate didn’t twitch, but his optics narrowed with amusement.
“Security’s too good. They’d want credentials and it would take too long to forge them.”
“And Halcyon may still come online,” said Strika. “Soon, too, if our sources are correct. We do not have time.”
“No more arguments. Strika, find my ‘captors’ as soon as you may.” Megatron rose. “In the meantime, I believe I am supposed to be terrifying some of our younger cadets.”
They were ready to go within two days. Optimus saw Megatron and the rest of the team off in the shuttlebay—a number of the young cadets Smokescreen had helped escape, plus two Decepticons who’d changed sides, Tailspin and Lightwing—hiding his unease. Megatron pretending to be a prisoner, stasis cuffs and all, was too close to some of his nightmares to be comfortable, and he’d only managed a wan smile the night before when Megatron had made a comment about perhaps using them in berth when he returned.
They’d both been wounded in combat. They’d both saved each other’s sparks, and they’d grown accustomed to working apart. It was just another mission, Optimus reminded himself, but the stasis cuffs were different, and Megatron’s backup, though the best of the AFF, still seemed very small around him, and the hiding places for the explosives too obvious.
“I can function without you fretting over me,” said Megatron at last, and kissed him soundly, to the evident glee of his ‘guards’. “A leader does not lead from the back, we both know this. Besides, I have some of your finest to protect me.”
Optimus looked under Megatron’s arm at the line of young bots. “Yeah, you do. Bring him back in one piece, would you? Make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid.”
There was laughter at that. “Yes sir! Should we make sure he polishes up and takes his supplements, too?” said one of the wits.
“Do,” said Optimus. “He’s bad about the graphite.”
More laughter. Optimus looked back up at Megatron. Megatron cupped his helm in one servo, pressed another kiss to his nasal ridge, and stepped away.
As soon as the shuttle was out of the bay, he went to the bridge.
Megacycles passed. He paced, feeling the bond grow weaker with distance. Megatron mostly seemed to be amused at his concern, as far as he could tell.
Strika watched him with sympathy. “It gets easier after the first million stellar cycles,” she said.
“Hmph,” said Optimus, and kept pacing. Strika chuckled.
Two megacycles in, Strika ordered the ships to start toward the rendezvous coordinates. Optimus relaxed somewhat, feeling the engines come to life under them. At least they were going somewhere. He sat and fidgeted.
“You’re worse than Terminus,” said Strika, amused. “He didn’t jitter as much…but we used to have to make up a berth by his station when Megatron was away on these missions.”
“And how often was that?”
“All the time. Megatron used to throw himself into danger more often than not. Sometimes more than he should have.”
Shift change came. Blurr came to take over the sensors, and Bulkhead came up as well. “In case they need to consult about spacebridge things,” he said, but he sat close to Optimus and handed him a cube of energon, and chattered about Earth while they waited.
The waiting was broken by Blurr. “General Strika, Optimus, sir, there’s movement in the Central Fleet I can’t make it out at this distance but they might be headed to Halcyon.”
“Onscreen,” said Strika. Optimus swallowed hard. It was definite. The Central Fleet was moving, and by the pattern of movement, it was certainly to Halcyon.
“Frag,” said Strika. “Comms. All ships. Increase speed thirty percent.”
Optimus’s grip tightened on the command chair. They couldn’t warn Megatron and his team. Not yet. They’d blow their cover.
“Blurr. Autobot radio traffic?”
“Normal for fleet maneuvers, sir,” said Blurr. “Should we pull them out?”
“Uh,” said Bulkhead. “It might not have anything to do with us.” He looked around at all of them. “They could have gotten it online.”
“Frag,” said Strika. She looked at Optimus.
“Not yet,” said Optimus, hating the words, hating the uncertainty. “If they got it running, the entire alliance will be offlined. Not just a strike team.”
It was true, absolutely true, and he knew it as he said it, even knowing Megatron was on that strike team. He felt sick, but stayed where he was, trying not to show it.
Back to waiting. Optimus watched the ships move and focused on venting calmly, on projecting calm, feeling all optics on him. His servos wanted to shake; he clenched them over his knees and waited.
Cycles slipped by, half a megacycle, a full megacycle. They should have arrived; what was taking them? They should be getting a comm about now.
“Sirs,” said Blurr, “radio traffic around Halcyon just jumped 200%, focused around security sectors. The Autobot Central Fleet has increased speed considerably, still calculating magnitude—”
And the comm they were waiting for came through.
“Discontinue extraction immediately!” Megatron’s voice tore through the silent bridge, and Optimus leapt to his stabilizers. “We won’t leave you!”
“The Central Fleet’s en route; they onlined the terminus,” said Megatron. “Security knows we’re here.” Blasterfire came over the comms. “We cannot leave, and the explosives are taking longer than anticipated. Do not risk the fleet, Strika, that is an order! Optimus, don’t do anything stupid.”
“We will get you out!” snapped Optimus. “We’re closer than they are!”
“It won’t matter. We’ll still be here,” said Megatron. “We cannot fail, Optimus. If we do, all of us will die. All the worlds we freed, they’ll be just a spacebridge away from Sentinel, all our fleets—we will lose. I will not allow that to happen.”
Optimus managed a nod. He reset his vocalizer. Strika wasn’t there, she was doing something on the other side of the bridge, near the door. “Comms. Message to the fleet. Cut engines. Do not approach Halcyon.”
“Thank you,” said Megatron. “Optimus, you must win this war.”
“I will,” he said, and clung to what they had of the bond over all the distance. “I will. I swear it.”
“Strika,” said Megatron, his voice level, calm. “I transfer command of the Decepticon military forces to you.”
“No!” Strika lurched forward, her voice breaking on that word, and it was all Optimus could do not to repeat it. He offlined his vocalizer before he did. “No. Retreat, my lord! There’s still time!”
“Not an option,” said Megatron. “With this operational, reclaiming Cybertron is impossible. We will succeed if we stay, and we must stay. Tailspin informs me we need another ten cycles to complete the sabotage. We cannot retreat!”
He was right. He was right, and Optimus looked at Strika in silent agony, seeing his impotent rage and terror echoed on her faceplate.
“You won’t be able to get out of there, my lord,” she said, her vocalizer fuzzing static. “None of you.”
“No,” said Megatron. “None of us.”
Behind them, the bridge doors opened. Optimus didn’t turn to look, startled when Ratchet came into his field of view, First Aid with him, a gurney with them. Turned his attention away.
Another voice on the line, Tailspin. “My lord, they’re here.”
Metal grated as Megatron drew his sword. “I will ensure you have time to complete your work, Tailspin. Strika?”
“Optimus will survive,” said Strika. “Ratchet’s monitoring him. My lord…”
“No need,” said Megatron. “You know how I hate maudlin displays. Win the war, General.” Blasterfire, then Megatron’s voice, a roar. “DECEPTICONS! RISE UP!”
Optimus reached across the bond to Megatron, pushing aside his grief. Megatron welcomed him gratefully, drew him into the fierce doomed joy of it, and Optimus felt him laugh as they turned to face the oncoming enemy.
Strika knew it had gone wrong when the Central Fleet began to move. But Optimus was right; the possibility Halcyon had come online far outweighed the risks to the team, even if it did include Megatron.
And then the radio traffic jumped, and then Megatron’s longrange comm came through.
“Discontinue extraction immediately!”
Optimus lurched upright, optics wide, and Strika sent a fast ping to Ratchet. It’s gone wrong.
Be right there, he sent back. If Optimus goes into burnout, keep him conscious as best you can. Use the jumpstarter; it should be by the door.
Strika was already moving while Optimus protested. She found the jumpstarter, the clips. She’d never had to use it before. She glanced at Optimus, standing very still, optics overbright, his faceplate stricken as he gave the orders that would kill his bonded.
“Strika,” said Megatron over the comm, his voice level, calm. “I transfer command of the Decepticon military forces to you.”
“No!” The protest was automatic. “No. Retreat, my lord! There’s still time!”
“Not an option,” said Megatron. “With this operational, reclaiming Cybertron is impossible. We will succeed if we stay, and we must stay. Tailspin informs me we need another ten cycles to complete the sabotage. We cannot retreat!”
“You won’t be able to get out of there, my lord,” said Strika, her vocalizer fuzzing static. “None of you.”
“No,” said Megatron. “None of us.”
Another voice on the line, Tailspin. “My lord, they’re here.”
Metal grated as Megatron drew his sword. “I will ensure you have time to complete your work, Tailspin. Strika?”
“Optimus will survive,” said Strika. “Ratchet’s monitoring him. My lord…”
“No need,” said Megatron. “You know how I hate maudlin displays. Win the war, General.” Blasterfire, then Megatron’s voice, a roar. “DECEPTICONS! RISE UP!”
Strika pressed a servo hard over her optics, brought her helm up, and listened.
She owed him that much.