Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The little glitch told him he didn’t deserve deactivation. 

He got one thing right, of course; deactivation would have been a kindness. Eternally better than his current existence. Eternally better than the pain and the cold clinical lights and the constant buzz of voices and the professional touch of servos, the humiliating scrutiny of his spark.

Megatron offlines his optics and grits his dentae and, shivering, endures.

This too shall pass.

Chapter Text

Act One

We'll still live in silence like sworn threats of violence.
I long for an end and it's coming 'round the bend.
If we live through this night and we'll still be all right

--Katzenjammer, A Bar in Ampsterdam

It took less than a stellar cycle for everything to go to Pit.

Which was about six orns longer than Ratchet had expected, but it didn’t do anything to ease the sting of watching Optimus droop in, alone and strangely diminished without the Magnus hammer by his side. He pushed a container of oil toward the younger mech. Optimus ignored it and buried his face in his servos. 

“You didn’t fail, kid,” Ratchet said, because it was the only thing to say. “They pushed you out.”

Optimus let out a long, shuddering ventilation. 

“Still under a gag order?”

Optimus nodded, very slightly. 

“Look, kid,” said Ratchet, and leaned forward. “That one restriction they brought up? It’s scrap. Complete and utter scrap. They’re glitched if they think that particular situation’s going to come up again—while it’s certainly on the books it’s sure as Pit not something your average mecha cares about.”

Optimus slowly looked up at him, shocked. “How did you—” 

“I’ve got my ways. Don’t ask. Think you can bend the rules just enough to tell me how Sentinel wormed his slimy way into your place? If I recall correctly, he’s just as unsuitable as you are.”

Optimus returned his face to his servos. “Still sealed,” he muttered. 

“Glitched backwards imbeciles,” grumbled Ratchet. “Just because someone’s still sealed doesn’t mean he hasn’t fragged half the planet.”

“I was irresponsible,” said Optimus. “I shouldn’t have—”

Ratchet snorted. “Don’t give yourself that slag, kid. You weren’t irresponsible, you’re not damaged goods—there’s no reason you shouldn’t go to berth with someone you found attractive.”

Optimus muttered something into his servos. Ratchet pretended not to hear it, even though he already knew it. 

When it came to Sentinel, Optimus would always blame himself rather than face the truth.

Ratchet reset his vocalizer. “So. What did the council of aft-headed glitchmice decide?”

“I am demoted back to the rank of Prime and placed on indefinite leave,” said Optimus into his servos. “The official announcement—and my official resignation speech and apology—airs tomorrow.”

“Apology?” said Ratchet. “They had the neural net to demand an apology?”

“For deceiving the people of Cybertron into believing me a suitable candidate for the position of Magnus,” said Optimus. He still hadn’t looked up. “They’ve told me it’ll be best if I vanish from the public optic for a while. If I’m very lucky, I might get a command again.”

“Frag,” said Ratchet. Optimus didn’t move. 

Ratchet drew a rough intake. “Well. You’re welcome here, kid. We’ll make sure you don’t get too much trouble from the newsbots in the meantime.”

“Sentinel’s messaged me,” said Optimus very quietly. “Three times. I haven’t dared open them.”

“Don’t, and go to berth,” said Ratchet. 

Optimus didn’t. “And one…one that says Megatron wants to talk to me.”

“Frag,” said Ratchet, again. 

“His request was approved. By someone high up. It would have to be. I have to agree to it.”

Ratchet wanted to bury his face in his servos. Last thing the kid needed. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you. It’ll help to have company, trust me.”

Optimus managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Morning came far too soon.

Optimus onlined early, far earlier than he had wanted to, and went in search of fuel. He drank, staring muzzily out the window. Ratchet lived close to the spaceport and the hangars where the shuttles had lived during the war; Optimus could see Omega’s from here, and ex-vented heavily, leaning his forehelm against the transparent aluminum. 

Earth had been deeply unpleasant when he first arrived there, a strange stinking place. They hadn’t known any of the rules, and it always seemed they were doing something wrong. Even when Sari had only laughed at them, it had been embarrassing and uncomfortable, and Optimus had wished for some sort of instructions, something that they could simply read so they could stop making mistakes. 

Though Prowl had never needed such a thing.

He pushed that thought out of his processor hard. 

That failure was one he doubted he would ever be able to face.

At least they’d finally adjusted, learnt how to work with humans, made friends and, alien as the term was, a family. 

Optimus offlined his optics. He’d longed for Cybertron, an ache in his spark that never had truly dissipated. Everything different on Earth had reminded him of Cybertron, of home, and he wanted desperately to see mecha he didn’t know in the streets, to not worry about how small everything was, to not be stared at. 

And then they’d returned and everything had gone wrong. 

Cybertron wasn’t the home he’d remembered. 

He’d been used to the propaganda—anyone who’d been raised in a city was—but it had never taken such a nasty bent before, outright encouraging paranoia. Mecha muttered, watched each other with intolerant optics, stepped away from any military bot with a mixture of fear and reverence that sat very badly with Optimus. They were frightened.

And like any frightened creatures, they had turned with vicious rage on anything helpless. The things shouted at Megatron as the procession wound its way through Iacon still made Optimus’s plating crawl. He’d told Megatron that he didn’t deserve offlining. 

Now, he wondered if his decision to spare Megatron had been a greater cruelty than any sentient being deserved.

There was a movement behind him. Optimus jerked upright and looked over his shoulder. 

Ratchet shuffled over to the dispenser, optics still dim with recharge. “Need anything, kid?”

“No, thank you.” Optimus gestured to the empty container on the table next to him. “I’ve already fueled. And thank you. For offering me a place to stay. I…I should probably be applying to a new set of quarters in military housing—”

“That where Sentinel’s been living?” Ratchet looked suspiciously at him over the edge of his own container. 

Optimus nodded.

“Yeah, stay here,” said Ratchet. “We can keep the rabble out—and believe me, you won’t want to live anywhere the newsbots can get in.” He added something, barely audible, and went back to his fuel.

Optimus returned to looking out the window. Ratchet, perhaps, had the right idea—he’d handed in his resignation and applied for a position as a research consultant at the Iacon Military Hospital. No orders, no politics. Just doing what he was built to do—healing.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” said Ratchet. 

Optimus followed him.

After all, it appeared that following was the only thing he couldn’t frag up.

The question of why he was doing this arose with new immediacy as he submitted to a through search, no less embarrassing for the senior warden’s constant reassurances about these being needless precautions, that he hoped Optimus wouldn’t take offense, and so on. Optimus ex-vented, tried not to roll his optics, and ignored him as best he could, while envying Ratchet. Ratchet had wisely elected to remain in the small office outside security and get caught up on various papers he needed to read.

“And don’t worry, sir,” the warden added, as Optimus stepped into the prison proper. “It will be perfectly safe. He will be fully restrained and will be sedated immediately if he shows any violent tendencies.”

Optimus wanted to say I’m not worried about that, but it didn’t seem appropriate—and it would have been a lie. He remained silent. 

“I would also like to thank you, sir,” said the warden. “It is important to his rehabilitation that he have outside contact from an individual who will not reinforce his previous patterns of behavior. Even if his statements—he may, of course, be verbally abusive—seem to demonstrate no such progress, I assure you that you will be assisting us greatly.”

Optimus nodded curtly. The warden pressed a servo to a reader on the door and it chirruped, sliding aside. “He’s ready to see you, sir.”

Optimus stepped into the room.

And froze. 

A forcefield seperated him from Megatron, who knelt in the middle of the floor, held there by a hard-light restraint around his neck. Warframe-grade stasis cuffs restrained his servos; loops of hard light shackled his stabilizers to the floor, their cold gleam reflecting off the polished white walls and ceiling.

The door slid shut.

“So are you content, former Magnus?” Megatron looked up at him, optics a sullen red glow. The corner of his mouth curled in a sneer. 

“I don’t understand,” said Optimus. 

Megatron tried to straighten up, only managed to move slightly. “Are you content to be ousted because they’ve found a more biddable mech? Are you content to be a toy?”

“Why did you call me here?” 

“Was it worth it, Optimus Prime?” Megatron noted his wince at that. The smirk grew. “Was it worth losing your ally? Who did his sacrifice serve? Cybertron? Or the mewling nobles who hold your leash?”

“To save the innocents who you were content to kill,” snapped Optimus. “Or do organics not matter to you?”

“Perhaps you should ask your masters that,” said Megatron. 

“Is there a point to this?”

“I spend enough time answering questions as it is,” said Megatron. He settled himself as comfortably as he could in the restraints. “Is it too much to believe that I might desire some conversation with an old...enemy?”

“I’m hardly an old enemy,” said Optimus. 

“Or that did not involve Decepticon troop distributions,” said Megatron. 

“So instead you’re taunting me.”

“No,” said Megatron, that damn smirk reappearing. “No. Bringing up uncomfortable topics of discussion. Not taunting.”

“If I learned one thing on Earth it was that you always have a plan,” said Optimus, losing his temper. “So what is it, Megatron? What unimaginably complex and important plan requires that you question me about my emotional state?”

It was a slight movement, a flicker of optics downward, but Megatron seemed to shrink, diminish. The only sound in the room was the deep rumble of Megatron’s flight engines, a rough idle induced by subpar fuel. 

The silence stretched on. Optimus began to feel as if he were in the wrong, that he had attacked unfairly a defenseless and frightened creature. 

“Forget that,” said Optimus, putting a servo to his helm. “It doesn’t matter.”

Megatron looked up at him again, mouth twisting. “Of course not,” he said. “Since when did the motivations of a flightframe matter to a dutiful Autobot?”

Optimus stared at him, utterly confused. 

“Think on those two little flyer friends of yours,” said Megatron. “Flightframes. Built for war, onlined for war. Why do you think they’re so small, Prime? Each on his own is easily damaged, if he doesn’t get out of the way. They’re disposable. Like your big shuttle friend. Ask Ratchet if he has a kill-code—”

The stasis cuffs activated. Megatron arched, mouth opening in a silent cry, then slumped forward. 

The doors on the other side of the forcefield opened, and two orderlies with a gurney rushed in and disconnected the restraints from the floor. The sound of the door behind him opening as well made Optimus turn. 

“I do apologize,” said the senior warden. “He hasn’t had one of these relapses in some time.”

“He didn’t try to attack me,” snapped Optimus. “That was unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, arresting these episodes as quickly as possible is entirely necessary to his treatment,” said the warden. “Our aim is not to punish, but to rehabilitate.” 

“That didn’t look like rehabilitation to me,” said Optimus. 

“I assure you, it is perfectly painless. All the restraints are programmed to do is put the subject into stasis to prevent further agitation. Now, sir, I believe your companion is waiting for you. Allow me to escort you to the receiving area.”

Chapter Text

Optimus was moping again. 

He hadn’t said a thing since they returned to Ratchet’s living quarters, just returned to staring out the window.  Ratchet knew slagging well he couldn’t do a thing to make it better; he simply informed Optimus that Bumblebee, Bulkhead and Jazz were due sometime later that decacycle, and went back to his readings. 

Optimus still said nothing. 

Ratchet retreated to his own rooms to leave him in peace.

What the slag had Megatron said to the kid? For someone who refused to remember Optimus’s name, he was slagging good at getting under the kid’s plating. 

Not that it would take much. Kid still hadn’t dealt with Prowl’s death. Optimus refused to talk about it, slunk away whenever Prowl was mentioned, and stared out the window for hours on end. Jazz wasn’t doing much better. He and Prowl had planned to sparkbond. 

Optimus was assiduously avoiding Jazz, too, which was hardly helpful.

Ratchet was going to have to find something for Optimus to do while he was on leave, or the sheer force of misery would drive him out of his own living quarters. Taking him to the research facility was out of the question; he was undeniably too squeamish. 

Ratchet let out a heavy ventilation and put the paper he’d been reading aside.  The apartment was tidy, so he couldn’t rope Optimus into that. Enroll him in a history course somewhere? No, that was slagging well propaganda and everyone knew it. 

The idea popped into Ratchet’s processor so abruptly that he sat up straight and grinned. The medical library. Dusty old datapads. No oil or lubricant or components, just datapads. Historical datapads. Kid would love it. It would give him something to do, and he’d feel really useful while he did it. And Ratchet did need that information in any case… It certainly wouldn’t be work for the sake of work, which was absolutely essential—Optimus was bright enough to know that it was useless and would simply mope more. 

The doorchime interrupted his thoughts. He grumbled, “On my way,” and stomped out to answer it. Optimus had put the datapad he’d been reading down—at least he’d stopped staring out the window—and was trying to neaten the already neat table up. Ratchet pretended not to notice. 

The little room exploded into noise as soon as the door opened to admit Bumblebee. Ratchet covered his faceplates with a servo as Bumblebee made directly for Optimus, “I can’t believe the Council were so glitched that they threw you out! And they picked Sentinel? Bot wouldn’t know his motherboard from a trash compacter! Oh, oh, and is it true that you don’t—”

Ratchet clapped a hasty servo over Bumblebee’s intake before the little glitch could say anything worse. “Enough, kid,” he said. “The newsbots are bad enough without you joining in.”

“What do you mean, newsbots? There aren’t any newsbots around!”

Ratchet debated resisting the urge to roll his optics, decided not to. “That’s because they don’t know he’s here yet.”

Optimus looked down at his servos, shoulders hunching. 

“Hey, boss-bot,” said Bulkhead, sitting down next to him. “We got a ping from Sari. She’s coming to visit. She can’t wait to see you.”

Optimus forced himself to straighten up. “That’s...good to hear,” he said after a moment. “When will she be here?”

Ratchet ex-vented, relieved, and settled himself in his usual spot. 

Bumblebee was chattering excitedly about all the things Sari had told him about her new school—the humans called it college, apparently—and all the pranks she and her classmates were planning when there was another chime from the door. Ratchet went to answer it, and found Jazz on the stoop. 

The bot who had returned with him to Earth and the bot who’d accepted the fictitious Longarm Prime’s post as head of Autobot Intelligence were two very different mecha. It should be sparkbreaking, but Ratchet had already seen far too much of it. Ratchet just nodded to him—a good thing in and of itself that he was here at all, instead of buried in work—and stepped aside to let him in. 

Jazz met Optimus’s optics, and looked away. Optimus pretended to examine the table closely. Ratchet sighed, allowed the door to close, and steered the conversation onto a nice, neutral subject. Arguments over lob teams were, after all, perfectly distracting, even if he didn’t care about half of it.

And it didn’t involve Optimus’s current difficulties. 

Optimus had something of an idea of what was going on, and could at least watch Jazz and Bumblebee bicker—a rather subdued bicker on Jazz’s part—and Bulkhead occasionally step in on Jazz’s side. There was even the ghost of a smile from him—

And then someone’s comm went off.

“Sorry,” said Optimus, getting up. “It’s mine. I have to take this.” He vanished down the hall. A moment later they heard his voice rise as he answered the comm, brittle and professional.

“He’s not doin’ too well,” said Jazz quietly. 

“No,” said Ratchet. “He’s not.” 

“Is it about…” Jazz didn’t say anything more, only looked aside, mouth tightening.

“I think so,” said Ratchet, too used to that little gesture for it to be unclear.

Bumblebee opened his mouth to say something, but Optimus reappeared around the corner, and Bumblebee for once in his life thought better of it and went quiet.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” said Optimus, not looking at any of them. “Orders.”

“What sort of orders?” Ratchet clambered to his stabilizers, articulators creaking in protest. 

“To meet with Sentinel Magnus,” said Optimus.

Chapter Text

Sentinel had taken over the office thoroughly. There was little of Ultra Magnus’s austere, obsessive neatness left, still less of Optimus’s equally austere but brief tenure. There were thin-sheet documents on the walls, a new and shiny plaque on the desk. Optimus would have been quite willing to bet that Sentinel had filed down the legs on every chair but his to make himself seem taller.

He hid those thoughts behind a blank mask of neutrality and stopped before the desk, standing to attention and saluting. “You asked to see me?” he said, and then belatedly, “Sir?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” said Sentinel. Even with Optimus’s lapse in manners, he was smiling, and Optimus knew by long experience that was a very bad sign. He resisted the urge to reset his vocalizer. 

“How are things, Optimus old buddy?” said Sentinel. He leaned back in his chair. “Heard you had an excursion earlier today.”

“Yes, sir,” said Optimus.

“To the Stockade, no less,” said Sentinel. “To see Megatron?”

“Yes sir,” said Optimus. “By his request. His approved request.”

“Of course,” said Sentinel, smugly. “How impertinent of him.”

Optimus fixed his optics on a point some distance above Sentinel’s shoulder. “Sir, I must express my severe reservations about the conditions under which Megatron is being held—”

“They’re better than a Decepticon prison would be, Optimus,” said Sentinel. He rose, glanced lazily over his shoulder, as if the subject didn’t matter much, but Optimus heard the warning edge in his voice. “Besides, he deserves it. Or are you getting soft on the ‘cons now?”

Optimus remained exactly where he was. “No sir,” he said. “Only concerned about sentient-rights abuses—”

“You know what your problem is, Optimus? You think too much. That’s why I’m here,” Sentinel stabbed a finger down onto the desk, hard, “and you’re not.”

Optimus said nothing, kept his gaze fixed on the wall. 

“What do you say to that?” snapped Sentinel.

It was embarrassing how easy it was to say, “Yes sir,” but he’d had too much practice by now. Sentinel stepped out from behind the desk, running a hand along its surface. 

“Ultra Magnus was right the first time,” he said. “Being a hero really isn’t in your coding. You’re much better off when you know what your place is.” He met Optimus’s optics, or tried to; Optimus stared at his left audial instead. “So tell me, what are you doing to fill all the spare time you have? Taken up lobbing? I hope not. You probably haven’t improved since our Academy days.”

“Is there a point to this, sir?” said Optimus, unable to contain himself.

“You don’t have to be on indefinite leave, Optimus,” said Sentinel, leaning close. “Make the right…connections and you’ll get yourself a new command. Maybe even with Bumblebee and Bulkhead. It’ll be easy enough.” 

“What sort of connections?” Optimus looked sidelong at him, and Sentinel smirked, putting a servo on his arm, digits crooking in a way both suggestive and far from professional.

“I’m sure you remember,” he said. “Face it, Optimus. You’re not getting a command on your own. Not with your spectacular record of so dramatically fragging things up. You can land in a pile of energon and come up covered in scrap.”

“No,” said Optimus, too quickly to be polite. He pulled away from that servo. His tank lurched, the prospect incredibly repulsive. “No. I am not doing that again, Sentinel. It’s wrong and—”

“Oh, come on, Optimus.” Sentinel was trying to be charming again. “You know you enjoyed it.”

“My answer is no,” snapped Optimus. “We’re done. Done, am I clear?”

He expected Sentinel to object, to complain, to threaten or rage—but Sentinel simply looked down and said, “Your loss, Optimus.”

Optimus, knowing himself to be dismissed, turned to leave. He could feel Sentinel’s optics on the back of his neck. But it didn’t seem like much compared to the relief. 

The thought of Sentinel’s servos on him made his plating crawl. He’d made that mistake once, and the two stellar cycles of that relationship he considered the worst of his existence—still more so because at the time, he’d believed himself lucky to be the center of Sentinel’s attention, that he’d been forgiven for Elita, that it was the best thing that could have happened to him.

He rubbed at the plating of the arm Sentinel had touched, disgusted. He’d failed thoroughly if the Council had replaced him with Sentinel, after the spectacular failure that Sentinel’s last attempt at leadership had been. Maybe he could hope that Sentinel would frag up in a similar way. Maybe he wouldn’t last more than a few orns.

“Optimus Prime?”

Recognizing the voice, Optimus stopped and turned. “Alpha Trion, sir. I apologize. I didn’t hear you approach.”

The corner of Alpha Trion’s mouth quirked. “No offense taken,” he said. “I am glad to see you; we are long overdue to talk.”

During the short stellar cycle Optimus had spent as Magnus, he’d seen very little of Alpha Trion; the councilmember had far preferred his datapads to politics or company. “Sir?”

“Walk with me,” said Alpha Trion. 

“Yes sir,” said Optimus.

“I understand that you are interested in history,” said Alpha Trion, and Optimus reset his optics, confused. Surely, Alpha Trion had pulled him aside to talk about something more important than his hobbies. 

“I am, sir,” he said, cautiously.

“Good,” said Alpha Trion. They stopped in front of the doors that lead to the library. “Please, come in.”

Optimus obeyed. The doors closed.

“Better,” said Alpha Trion, touching a device on the desk. “We are alone,” he said. “You may speak freely; even your friend in Intelligence cannot listen in here.”

“I don’t understand,” said Optimus, nervousness rising in his intake. Was this some sort of trick?

“Doubtless you have questions,” said Alpha Trion. He moved away from the door. “Unless, of course, I am very much mistaken, in which case you are free to go. But I at least owed you an explanation for why I voted to remove you from the position of Magnus, and condoned Sentinel’s reinstatement, given that he is an incompetent aft.”

“I…” He had no words for that. Absolutely no words. He had to make a conscious effort to close his mouth, which likely made a wonderful impression on Alpha Trion.

“I voted to remove you for a number of reasons. Including that you are not destined to be anything so mundane as a Magnus.”

Optimus stared at him. Alpha Trion looked amused, if he saw some joke in this Optimus could not. 

“Destiny is not a particularly simple or concrete concept,” he said, “but rather an extrapolation based on what has happened before. You are educated; you know we live in a reality with many universes, many ways things have happened or might happen.” He waited for Optimus to nod. “Have you ever wondered what fates befell your counterparts?”

Optimus shook his helm. “With all respect, sir, I don’t understand.”

Alpha Trion inclined his helm. “I shall take that as a no,” he said, then shrugged, a peculiar gesture from a bot his size. “How fare your friends? Ratchet?”

“Very well,” said Optimus, answering on automatic, still stunned by the change of subject. “Ratchet accepted the research position at the Military Hospital.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Alpha Trion. “His research proposal was most interesting, and will yield valuable data, no matter the results. It will be most necessary for treating many patients. Including Ultra Magnus.”

“Yes sir,” said Optimus. 

“You’re probably wondering how Sentinel managed to regain the post of Magnus after he did such an…impressive job of it during the recent conflict,” said Alpha Trion. Optimus stared at him, trying to keep up with the change of subject. Alpha Trion looked amused, as if discomfiting Optimus was the most fun he’d had all day, and continued, “It is because they believe themselves able to control him. He is selfish, and shortsighted, and none too bright; offer him the correct motivations and he is quite easy to lead. You, on the other hand, are not.” He looked aside and added in an undertone, “As always.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Ratchet did mention he had a project for you. The bulk of the research he wishes you to examine is stored here in the medical wing of the library.” He paused again, and Optimus had the very distinct sense that his reaction was important. Unfortunately, he had no idea of how he was expected to react. 

“Thank you, sir,” he hazarded at last. 

“That floor also contains sensitive material,” said Alpha Trion. “You will need a keycode to access the area; you should be receiving it soon. I look forward to seeing you again, Optimus Prime.” There was an emphasis on the title, as if it were a far greater honorific. 

Optimus saluted, not knowing what else to do. “Thank you sir,” he said, and turned to leave.

The ping with the keycode arrived as he turned out the door and down the hall, utterly confused. It had been a bizarre conversation. Perhaps Alpha Trion was becoming somewhat eccentric in his old age. 

And if he was to be believed, Ratchet had just assigned him to be in close contact with him for some time. Wonderful. Optimus’s shoulders slumped. He was not looking forward to more of those abrupt changes of subject, or the feeling that he was missing something or other significant. Who would think about their counterparts in the multiverse? It was all theoretical, all absurd, and it struck him as somewhat narcissistic. 

After all, it was highly unlikely any of his counterparts had ever achieved something remotely interesting.

Chapter Text

An orn passed. 

Optimus seemed to settle down. Ratchet even managed to provoke something like a genuine smile out of him a few times. And as long as the conversation stayed off of Prowl and Sentinel, he seemed cheerful enough. Remarkably so, indeed, especially for a mech on half-pay as a result of not being on active duty. 

Ratchet’s own salary was more than an old worn-out bot could ever hope to use. He told Optimus that the rent was two-thirds its actual amount, and quietly made up the difference himself. Kid had enough slag to worry about.

Alpha Trion was being maddeningly mum on his reading of Optimus’s state of processor. When Ratchet pushed, Alpha Trion retreated into making vague comments about destiny. Ratchet snapped that destiny damn well had its work cut out for it, and had better hurry the frag up, because Sentinel was getting more ensconced by the day. Alpha Trion blinked and changed the subject. Ratchet stalked off in a huff. It was all very well for the mech to act mysterious and all-knowing, but it was a real bot in the balance. Treating it as a game was unacceptable.

The next day, Omega contacted Ratchet. He sounded worried. Ratchet commed Arcee, and together they headed down to the shuttle docks. 

“There were bots asking about you, Ratchet,” said Omega. “And Optimus. And Megatron.” His plating rattled faintly at the last name. “They were not nice. I do not think it was for a good reason.”

“What sort of questions?” Ratchet’s intake was suddenly dry.

“If you’d said anything treasonous,” said Omega. “I said no. I know you said the thing about Sentinel Magnus and the cleaning droid but I don’t think it counts.”

The mention of that comment alone made Ratchet wince. It had preluded a long discussion of interfacing with Omega—apparently that was something that had gotten neglected when giving him his usual upgrades, and Ratchet was damned if it was unintentional. 

“Thank you, Omega,” he said instead. 

“I am glad I did the right thing,” said Omega. 

Ratchet was left in the unenviable position of feeling uneasy and suspicious, with nothing to base said suspicions on. He didn’t mention the incident to Optimus. Optimus had enough problems. 

Two solar cycles later, Ratchet received a call from two officers of the Elite Guard, a Minor and one of the newly appointed Primes. The conversation seemed to be going well enough, even with their reluctance to actually state their purpose, until the Prime steered it to the subject of Omega Supreme.

Fuel requirements. Strategic value. Intelligence. Loyalty. Peacetime usefulness. 

They were hardly seven questions in when Ratchet lost his temper.

“What the frag is this about?”

The officers looked at each other. It was the Prime who spoke. 

“Orders. They want to know if he ought to be transferred to a Military Research Division wardship.”

The atmosphere left Ratchet’s vents. “Ward” was a nice word for “experimental subject”. In such a wardship, Omega would have no legal rights. The Military Research Division, the group that had created him, operated entirely outside of ethics oversight. Unlike any legitimate research group, they could do whatever they wanted, answerable only to the Elite Guard. Omega’s programmed dependence on him, Omega’s harshly limited processor, the kill-codes Ratchet carried in case Omega ever started questioning his orders, all those were only possible outside of scientific ethics. Perhaps one could make an argument for the demands of war in Omega’s creation.

Ratchet wouldn’t. 

“No,” he said. “He shouldn’t. Get out, now.”

The Prime almost protested. The Minor saw this and dragged her superior officer out of the room before he got flattened. 

Optimus was horrified, and brooded all that night. Ratchet knew. He saw the light under Optimus’s door while he paced in the social area of the hab-suite.

He didn’t waste time on anger. They’d saved Cybertron’s tailpipe. Ratchet had been around too long to expect any advantage from that. The question was what to do next.

The file he saved in the most secure part of his processor, a part that even Shockwave would have found difficult to access, caught his attention several times. A few times he even opened it and spent running over the comm frequency it contained, scrutinizing the memories attached to it, trying to justify calling it. 

No. Once he put that into a terminal, there would be no return. Ratchet was angry, certainly. He was not yet a traitor. There were other ways to deal with this, legal ways. There were people who owed him favors. Deeply personal favors, the sort not overridden by political expediency. 

He just hoped he had enough of them to call in, and that whoever was pulling the wires on this one wasn’t a bigger cybershark than he. 

Chapter Text

Optimus got the call in the early afternoon of the solar cycle Sari was supposed to show up. “Optimus, it’s Bumblebee. Sari and me, we’re having a little trouble. Can you come down here? Like, now?”

“Trouble where?” 

No answer. 

Optimus rose, tapped the datapads into better order, and started for the exit. Alpha Trion wasn’t at his desk, a relief. He didn’t lie explaining himself to Alpha Trion. He especially didn’t like the way Alpha Trion seemed to know the explanation before he finished it. It was unnerving as Pit. 

A call from Bulkhead. “Boss-bot, Bumblebee and Sari are in trouble. I think we’re gonna need you.”

“Where?” For what? was what he actually wanted to ask, but it wasn’t of immediate use. 

“Spacebridge terminus,” said Bulkhead. “Security issue. Boss-bot, it’s not their fault. It’s something to do with security, and the Military Research Division.”

Military Research Division. It was like a douse of cold oil. Optimus didn’t waver with an effort, sped up considerably over the speed limitations. “How long do we have?”

“I think they’re waiting for orders,” said Bulkhead.

Optimus commed Ratchet. 

“What?” snapped Ratchet. “Arcee and I—”

“I need you two to meet me by the spacebridge terminus. MRD detained Sari.”

A moment of telling silence. 

“On our way,” said Ratchet.

Optimus didn’t transform until he stopped right in front of the senior officer guarding Sari and Bumblebee—a gesture of some disrespect, as one usually approached pede rather than in alt. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Military Research Division business,” said the officer, a Minor. “Move along.”

Optimus looked past him. “Sari, Bumblebee, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Bumblebee, his smile a little weak, “Fine now that you’re here, boss-bot.”

“Now just tell these boneheads to let us go,” said Sari. “We’ve been here for ages.”

“Release them,” said Optimus. 

The Minor sneered at him. “On whose authority?”

“Mine,” said Optimus. 

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but the techno-organic isn’t going anywhere. Cybertron Military Research Division orders. It’s not even got its proper licenses, either.”

Optimus pulled the datapad with all the documents declaring Sari’s legal status out of subspace and handed it to the Minor. “That techno-organic helped bring down Megatron,” he said. “What have you done for your planet recently, Minor?”

The Minor looked down at the datapad. “Everything seems to be in order,” he said, and the resentment in his voice should have offlined the mech on the spot. 

“Yes, everything is in order,” said Optimus, and pushed past him. “Come on, Sari, Bumblebee, let’s go.” To the Minor, he said, “Keep that. I have other copies.”

“Wait,” said the Minor. “The Research Division clearly stated—”

“Refer them to me,” said Optimus. “My comm frequency should be on there.”

The Minor looked down again, then up. “Optimus Prime?” he said. 

“Yes.”

“Er,” the Minor was now obviously uncomfortable, obviously out of his depth. He winced when Ratchet and Arcee arrived, transforming with as little courtesy as Optimus had. “Optimus Prime, sir, I have orders regarding you, too.”

Optimus looked over his shoulder. “And what would those be?”

“That Sentinel Magnus would like to see you at your earliest convenience, sir.”

Optimus paused, then kept walking. 

“And Medical Officer Ratchet, sir,” said the Minor. 

Ratchet stopped in his tracks. “That is ‘Doctor’ to you,” he said. “What is it?”

“Military Research Division would like to thank you for your help, sir,” said the Minor. 

“My help,” said Ratchet, flat. 

“Yes, sir, and they’d like to consult you, sir.”

“On what?”

“Your work on traumatic processor injuries, sir. Here’s the research director’s contact information, and they’d like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

Ratchet snorted, took the dataslip from the Minor’s servo. “Seems like they’re finally doing something useful,” he said.

Optimus didn’t say it, but he doubted that.

The incident cast a pall over Sari’s visit, though she and Bumblebee still had fun sight-seeing and she seemed sorry to go back to Earth and college by the end of her stay. 

“Hey,” she said to Optimus as they waited for the spacebridge, “Look out for yourself, okay?”

“I will. Thank you, Sari,” said Optimus.

He was sure that the call he made to Sentinel after that didn’t fall under ‘taking care’ of himself, but it was necessary. 

“Sentinel, we need to talk.”

“Oh yes, old buddy,” said Sentinel, sounding altogether too smug. “We do.”

Chapter Text

Ratchet needed a drink, but he was too slagging mad to actually get drunk. If he got drunk, he’d forget why he was so angry, and he couldn’t do that.

Besides, he’d probably purge his tanks if he tried to fuel. 

He was sitting very still at the table in the living area, elbows propped on the steel surface, servos folded in front of him. If he didn’t move them, Optimus wouldn’t see them tremble and he desperately wanted to keep it that way. He’d only stopped his armor rattling in time for Optimus to come through the door. 

Optimus crossed the room, not looking at him, and vanished into his own berthroom, not saying anything. Ratchet turned his attention back to the pad in front of him.

Orns. He’d put orns of work into this slagging thing, and then to have them take his research and turn it into this! It was an abomination of everything science and medicine was. The other medical officers in this had sworn the same oaths he had, but they didn’t seem to remember. 

“I swear by Solomus and Epistimus and the Powers Lesser and Greater, and the One that comprises them this, to first do no harm, and work in the service of Life and the Living, to ease suffering and defy Mortlius and all other of Her workings in this world. I shall make no change not in service to this aim; I shall consider those under my care cadre and never do knowing wrong unto them; I shall keep secret all they entrust me with, save for that which must be entrusted to others for their healing. May the Powers of the Universe bear witness to this my oath, and may my function be long and miserable should I break it.” 

Looking down at the pad, it seemed that plenty of the doctors involved here were having long but noticeably not miserable functions. Ratchet growled deep in his vocalizer.

“Ratchet?” said Optimus, stepping into the main room. “Are you all right?”

Ratchet took a deep, shuddering ventilation. Optimus came over and sat across from him. 

Frag it, thought Ratchet. It’s necessary to healing. “You recall the project they’ve got me working on?”

Optimus nodded. 

“Take a look at this.” Ratchet slid a datapad across the table, marked heavily as confidential, in glyphs carrying the highest authority. Even Sentinel wouldn’t be able to get this without a consensus from the Council itself.

“Is this…” Optimus gave Ratchet a suspicious look, which the medic returned with a glare. “Are you supposed to be showing this to me?”

“No and shut up and read.”

Optimus did. 

He stared at the diagrams before him a long moment before realizing what he was looking at and recoiling. “This…”

“They said they were working on processor damage,” growled Ratchet, and slid a can of oil across the table to Optimus, did not touch his own. “Repairing it. Knowing the specific effects so that it can be repaired, to be precise. And this is what they’re really using it for.”

Optimus looked down at the diagrams again. From the way his intake twisted, his tanks were just as unsettled as Ratchet’s. “This is Lugnut.”

“Yeah, they’re declaring him a success.”

“But half his processor is offline!”

“Exactly. He can repeat things. He’s really good at repeating things. You play a speech at him for long enough, he can repeat it for you. You praise him for it, he does it even better.” Ratchet’s servos clenched. “Hasn’t got enough of a processor to comprehend what he’s saying, but he can say it. They say it’s a successful rehabilitation.”

“This is revolting,” said Optimus.

“They’re planning the same for Megatron and Shockwave, of course. They want it to be more refined. That’s why they’ve called me in.”

“But they can’t—this is just as bad as anything the Decepticons did!”

“Worse,” said Ratchet. “Yeah, if you’d been captured during the war, they’d have tortured you or hacked you or worse, but at the least, they’d leave your personality subroutines alone.”

Optimus handed the datapad back. “We have to stop them.” 

“Thought you’d say as much, kid.” Centuries of caution were overridden. Ratchet abruptly didn’t care if he was being spied on. He looked across the table at Optimus’s startled, shocked face and said, “Ever thought of becoming an opposition leader?”

Optimus snorted. “It’d never work. Who would follow me? I’m a jumped-up spacebridge technician.”

“Because losing your position was entirely due to your own lack of qualifications rather than the Senate being slagging terrified of you.” Ratchet grinned at the way Optimus looked up at him, startled by the sarcasm. “You ever wonder why the Senate is so slagging terrified of you, kid?”

Optimus ducked his head, embarrassed. “Because I defeated Megatron?”

Ratchet snorted. “No,” he said. “They’re listening to Sentinel right now; he’s done his damnedest to make it seem like a fluke, a stroke of luck rather than any sign of military prowess on your part. No, it’s not that. It’s not your popularity, either, though that’s plenty nervous-making for some of the Senate.” Ratchet leaned back, and grinned, feeling sickened anger turn to something else, something sharp.

“You would make a good Decepticon,” words in a cave on a benighted planet centuries ago.Well, he certainly wasn’t a Decepticon, would go to the scrapyard not a Decepticon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a screen from their reader. “You get taught anything about the Primes from your history vids?”

Optimus gave him a perfectly blank look. Ratchet flapped a servo. “No, not the rank, kid, the real Primes. Blessed by Primus. Matrix of Leadership. The political and spiritual leader to all Cybertron. Could tell a Magnus to stuff it up his tailpipe without shuttering an optic. Good, you’re nodding. 

“Two things you don’t know: one, the Primes of old had this tendency to get resurrected. They’d go offline defending Cybertron, and as often as not, the Allspark would bring ‘em back. A few times, the Allspark brought ‘em back to receive the Matrix in the first place. Got to the point where you’d leave the Prime’s body next to the Allspark to make sure that this time he was really dead. You offlined, gunmetal gray and all of that, and the Allspark resurrected you. Not a proxy, not just that key, but the actual, real, honest-to-Primus Allspark interfered. Unsettling? Yes. Especially if you’re on the Senate and hearing about this second bit of news.” Ratchet’s grin got bigger. “The second bit of news being—exclusive knowledge to the higher-ups, and to yours truly, because there are people there who owe me favors—that the Matrix is acting up.”

“Acting up how?” 

“Clear-the-Primal-Basilica-and-send-for-the-scholars acting up,” said Ratchet. That information had cost him several favors, but it was worth it. “We have records of it doing this before, of course, lots of them, so people know what it means. It’s looking for someone.”

Optimus reset his optics several times. “And they think it’s me? I’m not the only one who’s been resurrected by the Allspark, Ratchet! Starscream and his clones, for example—”

Ratchet snorted. “Try to imagine Starscream as a Prime and get back to me on that one, would you? You’re popular, Optimus, you fit the right profile in people’s processors, and you don’t let the Senate control you. You inheriting the Matrix would be a nightmare for most politicians.”

“Oh,” said Optimus, but it was clear he didn’t believe it. 

Ratchet huffed out a ventilation. “You want confirmation? Go talk to Alpha Trion. He’s got the historical records. Put Sentinel off a few days, it’ll teach him patience.”

“He’s put me off a few days anyway,” said Optimus. “Fine.”

Ratchet reached for his oil, and forced himself to drink. “Good.”

Chapter Text

He followed Ratchet’s advice. When Alpha Trion drifted by with an armful of datapads, Optimus stood, reset his vocalizer, and asked, “Sir? May I ask? What do you know about the Primes?”

He flinched as Alpha Trion’s full attention rested on him, feeling scrutinized and laid bare by something incredibly old and wise. 

“I do not think that is what you meant to ask,” said Alpha Trion. “I think what you meant to ask was, What can you tell me about Optimus Prime?”

“I uh,” said Optimus. “About me?” 

Alpha Trion didn’t smile, just looked at him. “You as you might be. You as you are, elsewhere.”

The conversation had well and truly slipped out of his servos. Optimus shut his intake and stared.

“The Multiverse,” said Alpha Trion. “We have spoken of it before, all the thousand things you are and will be, that all of us are and will be.”

“Oh,” said Optimus. 

“So you wish me to tell you about yourself,” said Alpha Trion, sounding bemused. “What of it shall I tell you? There is nearly too much to choose from. Perhaps I should simply say this. There are many versions of Optimus Prime throughout the multiverse. Some are good. Some are unimaginably evil. None are insignificant. So tell me, young Prime, why is it that you think you will be any different?”

“I don’t understand,” said Optimus. “How is that possible?” I’m a failure, an Elite Guard washout, a Magnus reject. Even when success is handed to me, I can’t do anything right.

Defeating Megatron was due to the skill and courage of my teammates.

And Prowl. 

He couldn’t meet Alpha Trion’s optics anymore, and flinched, looked down. “I have done nothing remarkable, sir,” he said.

“Yet.” There was a smile in Alpha Trion’s words. “It is a small but important word, yet.”

Optimus couldn’t help himself. He snorted. And then froze in horror at his rudeness. 

But Alpha Trion seemed amused. “You are not so different from your counterparts, save in circumstance. You are far more than you believe yourself to be. And I greatly doubt that you will fall short of my expectations.” 

Optimus glanced up, disbelieving, and Alpha Trion was smiling now. “There are worlds where your name is a beacon of hope. There are worlds which owe their very survival to you. And there are worlds on which you are reviled and blamed. None of these things are important, not in the view of the universe.

“What is important is that Optimus Prime follows the dictates of his conscience.”

And with that he was gone, humming something tuneless. 

Optimus went back behind his workstation, feeling stunned and frustrated. The datapad he’d been working on caught his optic. Something riddled with inconsistencies, confusingly so. He picked it up and with a spurt of courage followed Alpha Trion. “Sir, wait a moment! I had a question about this—”

Alpha Trion stopped dead in the stacks. “Oh,” he said. “That. It concerns the beginning of the war, does it not?”

“Yes?” said Optimus, and then felt like collapsing in on himself with embarrassment at how it came out as a question.

“And is heavily censored,” said Alpha Trion. “Indeed, I think there is very little of the original left.”

“The author keeps changing his mind,” said Optimus. “He’ll start with an argument that makes sense and then it’ll change halfway through to something entirely different. It’s supposed to be written from the perspective of the Decepticons, but it reads exactly like every villain’s monologue in every play I’ve ever read.”

“As I said, there is little of the original left,” said Alpha Trion. “There are two authors. One, the original. The other, a nameless officer in the Intelligence Service. Would you like to meet the original author, Optimus?”

Optimus looked down at the datapad in his servo. Towards Peace burned on the top of the screen. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think I would.”

“Good. I have already arranged a meeting,” said Alpha Trion. “I have sent the details to you. It is on my authority. You have no need to worry about...repercussions.”

The next day, Optimus found himself in that force-fielded room again, looking at the occupant of the cell. 

Megatron had not fared well in the intervening time. The red optics were narrowed to slits, unfocused, and for a moment Optimus had thought he was too late, that they’d already initiated the procedures Ratchet had told him of. The warden told him it was merely drugs, but he had not believed it until Megatron glanced up at him, a moment of focus, and smirked before bowing his helm again. 

“So,” said Megatron after a long time, and the word was mostly static. “So. What is...it, Autobot?”

Optimus remained silent.

A shift of light in those red optics as Megatron glanced at him again, not raising his helm. “Pity?”

“No,” said Optimus.

A long pause. Megatron clearly had to concentrate on every word. “Pride?”

“No,” said Optimus, more forcefully.

That flicker of light again, an attempt at a smile. 

“I have two questions,” said Optimus. 

“Only...two?”

“Yes,” said Optimus. He wondered if Megatron would be able to respond properly like this, but he had to try. “First. Why did you start the war?”

“Had to,” said Megatron. He stopped. Optimus wondered if he’d fallen into recharge, but with a great effort he raised his helm, trembling as he did. “We were starving,” he said, quiet, but clear. “We were starving. The warframes… the warframes most. I...created a solution. To save my people. They went to war.” Deep, ragged ventilation. “To stop me. We...we were inconvenient. Wanted us to suicide.”

Optimus glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Megatron to be shocked into stasis again. But he was not. 

“Suicide?” he asked.

“The warframes. They wanted us…” Megatron trailed off and lowered his helm again. “They chose aliens.” A pause. “Aliens, first. Not us. Spare the aliens, kill us. Called it mercy.”

Optimus remembered the records from the war, the ones saying the Decepticons had wanted to turn Cybertron itself into a weapon to use against the rest of the galaxy. That was Megatron’s solution.

None of them had mentioned the fuel shortage.

“One other question,” he said.

Megatron did not move, optics fully offlined. 

“One other question,” he said, more loudly, and Megatron’s optics snapped online. “What can you tell me about the Primes?”

Megatron raised his helm. “The Primes?” Clear shock on his faceplates. “One, yes, I knew.” He seemed to gather himself, and focused on Optimus. “One, a fool and a traitor, who betrayed me on the Council floor, ambushed and arrested me. I killed him, and escaped. We were friends, once.” 

The murder of the Council. The blow that touched off the war, when Starscream and Megatron had approached the Council with the stated intent of presenting their plan, and instead murdered them, every mech. 

Optimus had never heard mention of a Prime being involved.

Megatron’s helm lowered, optics offlined. “How I missed him,” he murmured. “How I miss him.”

He would not respond to any other question. 

Chapter Text

“You know Sentinel’s gonna squash it,” said Jazz, looking down into the container of oil. “He won’t stand for it. Sure, it’s not technically illegal, but he’s not gonna stand for it.” He raised the container to his intake, put it down again. “What brought this on?”

“General concerns,” lied Ratchet. “More oil?”

Jazz snorted. “Ain’t got an appetite. Spying takes it out of ya.”

“Starving yourself isn’t going to shorten the grieving period,” said Ratchet.

Jazz’s intake twisted. “Yeah. Been told that already, Doc. I know it’d upset him too but that doesn’t make me any hungrier.” He lifted the container and gulped. “Was it this hard during the war?”

“Worse,” said Ratchet. “Prowl died saving lives. A lot of the people in the war died taking them.”

“Yeah.” Jazz was quiet a time. “I know he’s at peace. I know he’s saved a lot of people, and that he’s a slagging hero for what he did. And he’s one with the Allspark, and did it willingly. Which is great and all, but I’d rather have him back.”

“Yeah,” said Ratchet. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

“Hopefully, I’ll never have to do this again for anyone else,” said Jazz. 

Ratchet put a servo on his shoulder. “Not for a long time, at the least.” Jazz looked up at him. He managed a smile. “Come by more often. Talk to Optimus. He needs it.”

Jazz managed something like a smile. “Bet he does. He and Prowl were close. Prowl suspected he had a thing for him but didn’t want to call him on it, the whole superior officer and consent thing being involved. Optimus would freak if he thought it was apparent he had that sort of interest in someone under his command. He wouldn’t want to make them uncomfortable.”

“Indeed,” said Ratchet, and his spark twisted. Optimus was handling things very well, considering that.

They sat in silence for a while. Jazz drank the rest of his oil as if it were medicine, stood up. “I should get back.”

“A moment,” said Ratchet. “I was curious. How much of MRD falls under your purview?”

Jazz looked at him. “Very little. Why do you ask?”

“They’ve called me in to consult,” said Ratchet. “Thought it might be you doing me a favor.”

Jazz snorted. “I know you well enough I wouldn’t. Not with Pharma as the project head. Is he as much of a pompous gasket in person?”

“Worse,” said Ratchet. “Horrid little upstart.” There were other things he wished to say, but none were wise to relate to the head of Intelligence. 

Among them Pharma’s glee in what his team had done to Lugnut.

“Sentinel’s real happy about them,” said Jazz. “Funny. I would have thought he couldn’t science his way out of wet organic packaging material.”

“Oh of course,” said Ratchet, trying to hide the abrupt nausea. “Of course he’s happy with them. Big guns.”

“Heh,” said Jazz. “True. Be seeing you, mech.” He touched two fingers to the bill of his helm and grinned, something like his former grin. 

Once he was gone, Ratchet drove a servo into the wall and snarled a curse at the floor. Times like this he wished he wasn’t an atheist so he had someone to blame for how utterly fragging stupid everything was.

In the purple twilight of night-shift light, General Strika paced, servos clenching and folding at her sides, dentae bared. The lighting washed all color away, turning all to sullen grays,  the mecha around her to shadows.

She liked it better that way. She thought better that way. The world was full of shades of gray, a massive shift of shadows, and it did not do to forget that. Even with all the evils of the Autobots, it did not do to forget what a price the Cause enacted, how foul the tools—weapons and mecha—she had been obliged to use. If you forgot, those tools might turn again and put dentae in you when you wished to have done with them. 

And she had been part of a sapper team, scores of upgrades ago. The darkness came more naturally than light.

Strika paced.

They had a spacebridge. They needed access to another, and they could begin the business of in earnest again.

Or, they would, when the right leader was re-obtained.

Strika was no fool. Not for her Starscream’s grandstanding. Oh, she could take Megatron’s place, and serve well as the Emperor of Desctruction. She had the competence, the political support, and the charisma to do so, if she so wished.

But Megatron…

...Megatron was the one the Autobots feared. Megatron was the one they told stories about. Be a good little protoform, or Lord Megatron will come and take you away. Megatron was a symbol, and if she ever said that aloud to him he would likely go into an insulted snit. Didn’t make it any less true.

Strika was a name on Intelligence reports, not newschannels. 

In short, Megatron was a tool, and one she did not wish to do without. She had other things to do besides being a replacement symbol.

Besides, he was the pretty one.

And if all this was terribly discourteous to her Lord and old friend, so be it. He was the one who’d gotten his foolish aft captured.

She was a commander. She made things work. She moved supplies and armies and did all the math (one of Megatron’s greatest failings) and wheedled or threatened Swindle/whatever quartermaster was failing to do xir job that vorn. 

Megatron might be the one who threatened hapless worlds with the terrible wrath of the Decepticon Army, but Strika was the one who made sure the Decepticon Army showed up on time, to the right place, and with enough ammunition to actually visit the terrible wrath promised. When pressed, she could give a decent rallying speech, but she was not the one who went charging off to go and do inspiring heroic things all on his own, vanish for vorns at a time, get into showy epic single combat, and make noble speeches while dispatching his opponents with a smirk and panache. Megatron might make a show of elegance and dramatic flair while fencing with his opponents; Strika kicked them in the interface array and shot them through the spark while they were doubled over and groaning.

She was not a hero. She was a commander, a damned good one if she said so herself, and therefore recognized the value of a hero, an embodiment of the Cause, Primus help her, a politician.

People adored Megatron. People wrote ballads about Megatron. People did not write ballads about Strika, because there are not many lyrics one can come up with involving formations or supply calculations or beating the slag out of Swindle for trying to sell you stale energon. Besides, she didn’t much like music. Musicians don’t write songs for people who said things like ‘I don’t get it’, ‘sounds like Lugnut when he’s had bad oil’, and loomed. 

Not even Decepticon musicians.

Now, with Megatron gone and Strika not filling his pedeprints, there was bickering. Bickering, on her ship, and this morning one load of the sorry drippans had tried to offline her. Not a hard problem, but it meant they weren’t expecting Megatron back and expected her to advance—which meant power imbalances and all the lack of discipline that entailed. The second your troops started thinking that way, they started thinking of you as the enemy, and you might as well frag a mining drill for all your chances of success.

The Decepticons needed their symbol back. 

Besides that, he had Lugnut with him. She wanted her consort back. 

Rather a lot. 

“You’re gonna wear holes in the decking, sweetheart.”

Strika looked sidways with a growl. Only one member of the crew was given to organic endearments.

Slipstream put both thrusters up on the console in front of her and examined her claws. “Fretting again?”

Strika turned fully to face the little Seeker, optics narrowed. 

“Oh, right,” said Slipstream, looking up over her claws at Strika, optics half-shuttered. “You don’t fret, you analyze. How is that going? Are we going to have our dear Lord Megatron back before you go right through the decking and land on poor old Blackout’s helm?”

“Keep running your vocalizer and I’ll graft it into your exhaust port.”

“Oooh, shaking in my thrusters over here. You can’t. We don’t have a medic. Knockout got his fool aft blown off last week, remember? For someone so worried about his finish, he did a fragged good job of ruining mine.”

“We have Oil Slick.”

“I wouldn’t trust him to change a light fixture.”

“All the more reason for you to behave.”

Slipstream was young and impertinent, but her intelligence outweighed everything, and she didn’t seem to suffer from her creator’s Chronic Backstabbing Syndrome. Indeed, the lack of rabid ambition (as opposed to healthy, garden-variety ambition, which she had in abundant supply) seemed to have moderately increased her common sense. 

She was a promising commander. Strika had taken her under her (figurative) wing. They needed every bit of promise they could get.

“Is it the sparkbond?” said Slipstream. 

“It’s not right,” said Strika. “He’s online, but it is not right.”

It was the most succinct way she could put it. She could feel Lugnut in the depths of her spark, always had, a part as natural to her as her own servos. Now, it was as if that servo was sluggish, aching, filled with a terrible wrongness. Not pain. Not fear. Just dull confused wrongness.

It was Lugnut, but as if the very spark of him were terribly ill, muffled and fading.

And it was growing.

Once, they had been able to speak clearly over that bond. They had always been able to feel clearly. Now, nothing clear. 

She was scared, deep in the spark of her, scared in a way she would never admit even to Lugnut. 

Far more scared than she had been in that cave on that long destroyed organic planet all those millennia ago.

If this is what they have done to you, my spark, my flame, what have they done to our leader?

There were no orders to be given now. They would wait on the success of the new agent on Cybertron. She was not risking her people in an all out assault without the bridges. 

Now, there was only waiting until those orders could be given, and this one time, it was near impossible to bear it. 

Chapter Text

Sentinel kept him waiting. 

Optimus stood in the antechamber while voices rose and fell behind the Magnus’s door. A large blue femme stood guard at the door, optics narrowed and servos folded. 

He didn’t attempt friendly conversation. 

Some time later, the doors whooshed open, and Sentinel escorted a far smaller black and red femme with an almost organic helm shape from the room. To his surprise, Optimus noted she was a flightframe; long, elegant wings hiked up on her back, the powerful turbines idle for the moment. She wore no Autobrand, and that in itself made him stare.

She glanced at him, a cool, evaluating look, made strange indeed by her elaborately patterned faceplate. Optimus looked away, reset his vocalizer rapidly, and rubbed the back of his neck with a servo.

Sentinel smirked, escorted both femmes to the hallway. A brief conversation, Sentinel unctuous, the flightframe cooly correct, and the door closed behind them. Sentinel turned around.

“Oh, Optimus,” he said. “You’re early. Come on in.”

Optimus followed him into the Magnus’s office. 

The door closed. Sentinel turned to face him. 

“Look, Optimus old buddy, I have a very simple problem.”

What, you can’t find your own aft with both hands and a map? “And what would that be?” asked Optimus. 

Sentinel walked up to him, put a hand on his shoulder guard. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Optimus stared at him, no idea what to say to that.

“You see, I’d like to trust you. Means I could justify reining in the Council a bit as concerns your friends—you know, make sure the MRD behaves itself, all that. But that’s just it, I have to justify it. Can’t play the ‘old friends’ card, it doesn’t fly.” Sentinel smirked. “I need some gesture of trust, so I can at least be sure you won’t turn on me the second you get the chance. You know how politics are.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sentinel stepped back. “Come on, Optimus, lend a servo. Until then, I gotta err on the side of caution.”

A gesture of trust.

A chill crept up Optimus’s spinal strut. “Support you politically, you mean.”

Sentinel shrugged, looked as if he were not trying to smile more. “I’d never compromise your beliefs, Optimus. Just anything, so I can argue in good faith that you are a staunch supporter.”

He’s lying. The Council has nothing to do with this. 

He’d seen Sentinel lie a thousand times, and those little tells were there now, the too-sincere smile, the steady wide-opticked gaze. 

If the Council had nothing to do with this, it meant the sufficiency of this ‘gesture of trust’ was entirely up to Sentinel’s judgement.

What would be enough? 

Optimus had little to give. The political movement had hardly gotten out of Ratchet’s apartment, let alone off the ground. Other than that, he was in disgrace. There was nothing he could give. 

The thought slipped into his processor like an import, cold and alien. No. There was something he could give Sentinel, something Sentinel wouldn’t toss aside because he wanted it so much, had wanted it so much. 

Optimus clenched his servos to keep them from shaking. Sentinel had done all this because of him. Frightened Sari. Threatened Omega. Sari at least was out of his reach but Omega already lived in danger of being offlined or dissected. Sentinel held his spark in the center of his servo—and Sari was small and easily disappeared, and all the distance to Earth wouldn’t help her if she decided to visit again…

Elita had been right not to return.

Optimus’s tanks lurched. He looked down, steeled himself. Reached out and put a servo on Sentinel’s forearm. Somehow managed something like a smile.

When Sentinel met his optics, he almost recoiled at the sheer smug satisfaction on his faceplates, at the realization.

Sentinel had never intended anything else. Sentinel had planned this, had planned to give Optimus this one way out, and this one way only. Optimus almost lifted his hand and fled the room, but that would mean Omega and Sari’s lives instead of his frame, so he forced his servo steady and smiled into Sentinel’s hateful face.

He had to do it. He had no choice. It was him or Sari and Omega, and the thought of facing Ratchet if something happened to Omega—

“Just like old times,” he managed.

Sentinel moved in close and wrapped an arm around his waist. “I knew I could rely on you, Optimus old buddy. I’ve got a few hours free. Why don’t we catch up a bit?”

He arrived home while Ratchet was still back at the hospital. He crossed the main room and closed himself in the washracks. 

He kept moving, scrubbed himself, kept moving because the moment he stopped he’d have to think. He dried off, he paced the room, reshuffled things, did the washing and checked the energon stores and the supplements, cleaned, polished—any little chore that would keep him in motion and not thinking.

The lock mechanism chirped.

Optimus put what he’d been holding down and fled the room, only stopped when he reached his own quarters and the door was closed behind him. 

He couldn’t face Ratchet now. The idea of talking, of acting as if nothing had happened, was unimaginable, and he could not, could not tell Ratchet what had happened, what he had done, how he had no better resources than his own frame. How he would whore himself out to another mech, that he was so very weak as to need to.

I’m no Prime, he thought, and covered his faceplates with his servos, sliding down with his back to the door. All of you are wrong. I’m no hero. I’m weak and immoral and pathetic. I told him yes. He wanted me to do that, and I shouldn’t have said yes but I did and I will again because I can’t do anything else.

His tanks lurched, though there was little but fumes left now. The leaden weight in his spark, present since the Council had made the decision to displace him, grew unbearably, and his servos clawed over his faceplate, clutched his audial finals. The pain of those sensitive receptors came as a relief and he pinched again. It was what he deserved. He curled tight around himself. Part of him wanted to be held, comforted, but the rest of him flinched from the memory of servos running over him, digits pressing into joints and seams. 

A dry burst of static tore its way out of him, and he clamped his intake shut, hoping that Ratchet hadn’t heard. He didn’t want to—couldn’t—explain. 

Was this all he was? A pleasure-bot? Could he do no more than open his panels and pray that it was enough to buy Omega and Sari’s safety?

He should be able to do more, to defend them with his frame rather than his surrender. He wanted to fight, to do something, but the reasonable part of his processor reminded him that he could not. Sentinel had power. 

Sentinel would ask again, he knew that, Sentinel would ask again and there was nothing he could do.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, and rocked. “I can’t do this, not again…”

But you will, he thought, and hated himself for it. You will, because you’re too weak to even run away. You’ve never been strong enough to do that. 

To where? Where could I go? Where could we go? We can’t hide forever.

You only think that because you’re a coward. You’re looking for excuses.

A knock sounded on the door. He bolted upright. His audial fins stung, and with a brief moment of panic he wondered if he had visibly injured them and what he could say to Ratchet. 

“Hey kid,” said Ratchet. “Brought some of those flavoring mixes you like so much.”

“Thank you,” he managed. 

“Can’t see how they don’t make you backfire,” said Ratchet, voice already fading. “Young bots…”

Optimus relaxed. 

“Oh, kid, one other thing,” said Ratchet. “We’ll have company next joor. Couple people want to talk politics with you. Can tell them to go away if you don’t want to.”

“Certainly,” said Optimus, not really hearing himself. “Certainly, thank you.” He could feel the mask return, the one he’d worn all through the long months after Elita offlined, during the trial, during the subsequent humiliations and betrayals. 

It was almost easy.

Chapter Text

Optimus really had a gift with managing crowds.

Ratchet watched him above the helms of the group clustered in the square and folded his servos, smirking. Successful indeed. A lot of people were discontent. Closing down the pubs did that to mecha. 

And Optimus was encouraging, a vent of fresh air in a cloud of exaust. Here he was, talking earnestly about military reform and more refined civil government, and people were pausing to listen, and by the flickers of optics to high-overhead newscreens, comparing him to Sentinel.

If the number of people who stayed to listen was any indication, Sentinel suffered considerably in the comparison.

“Knew I’d find you here,” said Jazz, next to him. 

“Here in a professional capacity to break up the subversive gathering?” said Ratchet out of the corner of his intake.

“No. Explicitly not, in fact. Sentinel’s orders,” said Jazz. 

“Huh.”

“He said to let Optimus have his fun. Any idea what that means?”

“As if I speak to Sentinel. You know, I was expecting more trouble from you and yours.”

“Yeah, I was expecting to give you more trouble. But Sentinel gave orders.”

Ratchet stared sidelong at Jazz. He smelled a rodent. 

“Don’t look at me, he doesn’t tell me anyth—frag. Is that the Camienan Ambassador and her bodyguard?”

“Who?”

“There, the two femmes. Big blue one and the flightframe—frag it is them that’s not good…”

Ratchet spotted the two in the crowd. “Oh, those two? They’re coming toward us.”

“They saw me,” said Jazz. “Frag, that’s going to send the Council into fits—A good joor to you, Ambassador Windblade.”

“And to you,” said the Ambassador. Her gaze flicked to Ratchet, who inclined his helm. 

“Ratchet, a medic attached to the Iacon Military Hospital,” said Jazz. “Ratchet, Ambassador Windblade of Caminus. Ambassador, I did not expect to see you here.”

“It was Chromia’s idea,” said Windblade, gesturing to the blue femme, presumably her bodyguard. “She suggested we become more familiar with other aspects of Autobot culture.”

“Particularly the freedom inherent in the political process,” said Chromia, smiling. Ratchet had to suppress a grin of his own. He liked her already. 

“Of course,” said Jazz, and if he was taken aback he hid it well. 

They stood in awkward silence. Chromia turned her attention back to Optimus and his speech. 

There was a general shift of frames as Optimus concluded and descended from the platform, moving through the crowd and talking to them. With a polite comment, Windblade and Chromia took their leave. 

Jazz let out a long ventilation, patted Ratchet on the shoulder, and also vanished. 

Ratchet huffed to himself, folded his servos and waited for Optimus. 

The movement grew quickly, gained a name--the Autobot Freedom Faction.

They even found someone willing to post Optimus’s speeches on the datanet. The actual newschannels began talking about them--and not all negatively, either, which shocked everyone. 

Not a word from Sentinel. No condemnations. No orders to cease and desist. No enforcers breaking up gatherings. 

Nothing. 

Sentinel may have been silent and made no overt statement of condemnation, but Jazz was not so circumspect. 

“Sentinel’s digging himself a hole,” he said. “Look, Ratchet, it’s not like I particularly support him, but you’re undermining Autobot High Command here. Our government. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but there are still Decepticons out there. Oh sure, the famous ones are imprisoned, but that doesn’t mean the dangerous ones are. We can’t split power right now. We can’t afford to.”

He paused, still standing on the threshold of the apartment. “I’m going to have to put your movement down sooner or later, Ratchet. The bigger it is, the uglier that’s going to be. It’s gonna be orders. I won’t want to do it, but--”

“It’ll be the right thing, is that what you’re saying?”

Jazz nodded. “What the Freedom Faction is doing is all but inviting the Decepticons to come back and conquer Cybertron. If that happens...” He paused. “You know what they’ll do. And if that happens, everything we’ve done--everything Prowl did--won’t matter.” He met Ratchet’s optics. “I’m sorry, Doc. It’s the only right thing to do.”

With that, he left Ratchet standing in the doorway, a protest on his glossa. 

Thought you were smarter than that, kid, he thought, pushing back anger. Oh, he understood Jazz too well. Didn’t make the kid any less wrong, or any less of a fool, or a threat.

With a deep ex-vent, he went back to work.

There had to be a way to undo the work of Pharma and his team.

He was poring over a report late into the night cycle when Optimus slunk in, looking guilty as frag and with an air of general misery more acute than he’d had since the end of the trial. Add to that a few scuffs and blue paint transfers, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out where he’d been. 

Optimus noticed him and froze. “Ah,” he said, voice hoarse, reset his vocalizer and said, “You’re online late.”

Ratchet reached for his oil and took a sip. “So are you,” he said. 

Optimus winced. Frag, not the response he was going for. He put the datapad down and looked at Optimus. “Need to talk, kid?”

Optimus hesitated. 

Ratchet pushed out the seat across from him with a stabilizer. “Or just sit for a bit.”

Optimus sat. And put his helm in his hands. “They’re right,” he said after a moment. “I’m  not fit to lead.”

“Shuttlescrap.” Ratchet folded his arms. “You defeated Megatron and saved a planet. You’re a brilliant leader—”

“I am not,” said Optimus. “If I can’t even make good decisions where I am concerned—”

“I’m assuming this is about Sentinel,” said Ratchet, and carefully did not smile as Optimus’s optics went wide. 

“How did you know?”

“Because he’s the only one who can send you into these fits so easily,” said Ratchet. 

Optimus looked at him a long moment, then ex-vented heavily and put his helm in his servos. 

“You know he’s a complete dipstick, right?” The flippant comment was exactly what he needed to cover his anxiety. Has he decided to move against us?

A snort. Then, nearly inaudibly, “Then why can’t I keep out of his berth?”

Ratchet was pretty sure Optimus hadn’t meant to say that out loud but answered anyway.  “Habit is a powerful thing.”

“I got out of that habit on Earth,” said Optimus in that same near-whisper.

Ratchet, this time, said nothing. Things fell into place. Of course Sentinel was too much of a self-centered aft to arrest someone he was fragging.

Optimus stayed where he was, not moving. Ratchet noted that there wasn’t even a whiff of ozone from him—he certainly hadn’t overloaded. Poor kid. Maybe some kind spark might give Sentinel a good shove into a smelting pit and end a lot of trouble right then and there.

“I’m just worried,” said Optimus. “About Omega and Sari. The Council doesn’t like them. If Sentinel has a grudge against me…”

Ratchet’s spark froze and his tanks lurched. He took his servos off the table so Optimus couldn’t see him clench them so hard they trembled. 

“I shouldn’t suspect him of—of abusing his position but he can be so, so petty…” Still just on the cusp of hearing, and Optimus wasn’t looking at him, just at the table. 

“Optimus,” said Ratchet, and Optimus hunched himself smaller. “Optimus, look at me.”

Blue optics slowly rose to meet his. 

“Sentinel will never be able to coerce you into his berth again,” he said. “I will make sure of it.”

Optimus looked away again. “You must think I’m a fool,” he said. 

“You’re not a fool,” said Ratchet. “You’re the furthest thing from it. Power down, Optimus; you need it.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do?”

“Nothing you want to know about.”

A deeply suspicious look; Ratchet schooled his faceplate into as close an approximation of innocence as he was capable of and looked back at him. 

“Just...don’t do anything stupid, all right?”

“Oh no,” lied Ratchet. “Furthest thing from my processor.”

Ratchet set up the encryptions and reroutings and proxies with the ease of long practice, and then leaned back in the seat and waited for the call to be picked up. 

And hoped like slag she hadn’t changed her frequencies for the last few centuries. 

“What the slag is this about and how did you get this frequency?” A pause. “Autobot.”

“Good to hear you too, Strika,” said Ratchet, keeping his tone neutral. 

A very exasperated ex-vent. “I promised to offline you if you contacted me again. Unless you intended to join my forces.”

“Actually, I do.” Ratchet grinned at the angry spurt of static from the line. “Along with a few others, of course.”

“It is too slagging early for this scrap,” growled Strika. “What do you want from me, medic?”

“Official Decepticon recognition of the Autobot Freedom Faction,” said Ratchet, still grinning. “Possibly asylum. A jailbreak. Helping the next Prime sort out his relationship issues. A Lord Protector. Oh, and assistance in a change in government.”

“Frag you, you doddering scrappile.” The screen flicked on to reveal a very tired Strika, one servo around a container of midgrade. “Now give me context—and keep in processor that the only reason I’m listening is because you mentioned a jailbreak.”

Chapter Text

Act Two

You know they will win

and then they'll come in

there's nothing you can say can lead them astray.

...

But the storm is a comin' cross the hills tonight

like a vein full of rain to the hearts that should fight!

--Katzenjammer, A Bar in Amsterdam.

Optimus wondered how long it would take for Alpha Trion to notice that he no longer came into the archives. 

It seemed these days like his whole function was buying off Sentinel with one servo, and writing speeches about liberty with the other. He felt a complete hypocrite. 

And Sentinel made it clear the very existence of the Autobot Freedom Faction was something Optimus only had because Sentinel gave him permission. He’d laughed, and said, “Since when are you a good enough leader to worry me?” and sent Optimus away with that niggling at his processor all day. He was leading a movement and fragging its worst enemy at the same time, and he was a fool and a hypocrite. 

But I don’t want Sentinel, he’d think, and then at the heels of that thought would come, If you meant that you would have run away, and he’d sink back into the shame. 

Ratchet had exploded in rage when he found out about Sentinel. At least he hadn’t exploded at Optimus, which had been far better than he’d been expecting. Even if it made his plating crawl, he was still saying yes.

I don’t want him, I don’t want to say yes, I have no other options--

You do. You could run away. Now, with Omega and Ratchet and Arcee and all the others.

I can’t do that. What about the others? 

Because there were others, hundreds of thousands of others. It would have been heartening, wonderful--if he weren’t betraying them with every ventilation he took. 

Ratchet had said he was going to help. 

It had been a week--he’d found himself reverting back to Earth time more and more, and had no idea why--since then, and nothing had happened. Doubtless Ratchet meant well, but of course he had to have realized by now it was useless. Sentinel was too powerful, and Optimus too foolish. 

Thank Primus Ratchet hadn’t said anything about it since. Optimus wasn’t sure if he could have tolerated it otherwise. Bad enough Ratchet had found out in the first place. If the only other option hadn’t been moving back into the barracks, he would have left. 

He arrived back from an errand run, juggling containers of oil, polish, and supplements, and found Ratchet speaking with Arcee in the main room. They both looked up at him, and their expressions made him want to turn around and flee. He put the bags down hastily on the floor, nodded at them, and started toward his room. 

“Optimus,” said Arcee. He hesitated, didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to look at her. In the spark of him, he was enraged, betrayed--how could Ratchet do such a thing? He’d trusted him.

“I’m taking Omega to Earth,” said Arcee. “To collect Sari. She just got out of school for the year, and would like to see more of the galaxy.”

Sari and Omega, off where no one could find them. Optimus looked over his shoulder at Arcee. 

“I thought you might want to know,” she said.

He was still angry, so very angry, but there was relief now too. Sari and Omega out of Sentinel’s reach--

He stayed like that for one vent, two, then turned away and hastened into his room, shaking.

“We could have managed that better,” said Ratchet.

“I suppose,” said Arcee. She leaned forward. “Seemed he assumed I knew more rather than less. You’re not going to tell me why—”

“No,” said Ratchet. “Kid deserves privacy. Just get Omega and Sari somewhere the Elite Guard won’t come looking.”

Arcee looked at him. “You’re worried they’re going to try the same thing they did on Lugnut.”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. He put his face in his servos. “Frag, Arcee, I don’t know. What the frag did we fight for? Because it certainly wasn’t this.”

Arcee reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Because we didn’t want innocent species eradicated to glean a temporary resource, no matter how vital it was. Because we believed our species was better than that, and there was another solution. Oh, and because Megatron is a slaghead.”

Ratchet snorted. 

“We did the right thing,” said Arcee. “After everything, I still believe that. I also believe that the current government should get its aft paddled to Earth and back, but that’s just me. We’re Autobots, Ratchet. We support the Cause when it’s right, and set it right when it’s wrong. That’s what loyalty means to us.”

“Yes, but how?” said Ratchet.

“However we can.” Arcee smiled a little. “Within reason, of course. We’re not Decepticons.”

Ratchet’s conscience winced at that. He kept his face still. “Thank you,” he said. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” said Arcee. “Don’t do anything too stupid while I’m gone.”

“Why do you think I’d do something stupid?” asked Ratchet. “Everyone seems to be saying that to me these days. Name the last thing I did that was stupid.”

“Alphabetical or chronological?” Arcee grinned at him. “Take care of yourself, Ratchet. Don’t risk yourself. Unless it’s to kick Shockwave in the interface paneling. Then go ahead.”

Ratchet felt like a truly terrible person. “I will keep that in processor.”

He let out a long ventilation when the door slid shut behind her, then busied himself putting the shopping away. His conscience pinged him again. Not just over Arcee. 

He pulled down a cube and poked through the supplements until he found the ones Optimus favored, combined them carefully—an explosion in the kitchen was not the kind of apology he intended—then carried the whole thing to Optimus’s room. “Optimus?”

A long pause. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to say that I only told Arcee about MRD’s interest. Nothing more.”

The door opened. Optimus looked down at him, plainly unconvinced. 

“Patient confidentiality,” said Ratchet. “I don’t intend to break my oaths, kid. You should refuel.”

Optimus reached out, accepted the cube. “Thanks,” he said, and just stood there.

“The movement can manage fine, even if they cracked down on it,” said Ratchet. “If there are more threats, please, tell me. I’ll make sure he can’t follow through.”

“How?” said Optimus. “I mean, you’re a doctor. A doctor for a spacebridge repair team.”

“I made enemies,” said Ratchet. “But I still have favors I can use. It’s all right, Optimus. We’ll be safe.”

Optimus frowned at him. 

“I’ll go make one for myself,” said Ratchet. “You’re welcome to come and join.”

Optimus made a noncommittal noise and didn’t follow him. He didn’t close the door, either, which was promising. 

When Ratchet looked up again, Optimus sat on the couch, sipping at the energon. 

Good enough. He resisted the urge to smirk. 

Sentinel could sit on a missile and rotate. They were going to win. 

Chapter Text

The knock came in the middle of the night cycle. Ratchet jerked upright from his study of Lugnut’s files, but before he could open the door it blasted inward. A high beam caught him in the optics; he flung up a hand to protect them. Oh slag. They traced the signal. 

Blue visor, helm bill, a narrow grim face. Jazz. “Cover him.” The voice was colder than Jazz ever was. “I have a warrant for the arrest of one Optimus Prime. Where is he?” 

Cold horror washed through Ratchet’s systems. “There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said. “You don’t want him—Jazz, wait a second.”

Jazz gestured to the mecha with him. They went to search the hallway. 

“Jazz, it’s not him it’s—”

Jazz placed the muzzle of the blaster on Ratchet’s chest and leaned in. To an observer, it would look like he was scaring a mouthy prisoner into silence. “Believe me, Ratchet, you don’t wanna take the fall for this one,” he said. “I don’t have to arrest you for something I didn’t hear.”

“But it’s not him, you can’t do this—”

“I warned you I’d have to,” said Jazz. “Orders of Magnus and the Council.”

“Dammit, Jazz—”

“Mute it,” snapped Jazz. “Frag’s sake, Ratchet, I don’t want to arrest both of you!”

“Oh yeah?” said Ratchet, glaring at him. “Play toady if you want, but you don’t get to salve your conscience like that. You’re gonna have to arrest me, and here’s why—”

Jazz slapped a mouth clamp on him. 

Ratchet stared at him in complete shock, then tried comms.

Those were down. 

Oh you little—! 

They dragged Optimus out into the room, optics shuttering and half in recharge, frame locked by stasis cuffs. Jazz turned away from Ratchet and went to him. 

“Optimus Prime. You are under arrest.”

Optimus’s optics flicked to Ratchet, whose spark twisted. “What are the charges?”

“Espionage,” said Jazz.

“On what basis?”

Jazz hesitated, then, “You contacted a Decepticon warship last night cycle. We traced the signal back to this dwelling.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Sentence has already been passed. Emergency session of the Council. You will not be permitted an appeal.”

That was blatantly illegal, would have been even during the war. Ratchet would have bared his dentae and cursed at Jazz if he could have. He looked properly contrite, but what he was doing was still utterly wrong. 

You could always defy them, he thought, glaring. You know he’s not guilty, you miserable slagger. 

Optimus’s optics fixed on him, wide, questioning. Ratchet wanted to curl over himself with guilt, but he met Optimus’s gaze steadily, and nodded. 

Optimus’s optics went still wider. Then he looked away. 

He did not look back at Ratchet again. 

“I’ll do a final sweep,” said Jazz. “Proceed; I’ll catch up later.”

“Yes sir.”

He waited until the last of his people filtered out, were well gone before turning to Ratchet. 

“If you’re wondering why you’re not under arrest,” he said, “Thank Pharma. He told me he needed your assistance on a current project, and MRD backed him up. But don’t ever do something that stupid again, Ratchet. They won’t cover your aft forever.” He reached down and freed the mouth clamp with a jerk. “Never figured you for a double dealer. Prowl trusted you; guess he was wrong.”

With that, he left. 

Ratchet did the best he could to prop the doors up against their mounting, and settled back on the couch, pinching his nasal guard. 

Pharma wanted him on a project. 

Likely this project. 

He let out a long, long ventilation. Don’t ever do something that slagging stupid again.

He ignored the guilt, the memory of Arcee’s processor splayed open, the revulsion on Jazz’s faceplate.

“That slagging stupid,” he said aloud to himself. “Watch me.”

He wished he felt as dedicated as he sounded.

Chapter Text

“Alpha Trion?”

Alpha Trion looked down at Ratchet. An optic ridge arched. “Yes?”

“I need assistance. Is there anywhere I can send a sensitive message?”

Alpha Trion shuttered his optics. “An odd request. I was expecting it from Optimus.”

“He was arrested.”

“Oh. I assume you don’t want the signal traced?”

“No.”

“Good. This way.”

Ratchet followed, servos clenched. If Alpha Trion betrayed him, it was over. The movement, any hope Optimus had at freedom, everything. 

But there was nothing else he could do.

“In here,” said Alpha Trion, gesturing at a private workstation in a soundproof room. “It’s capable of considerable long-distance transmission. There will be no record of said transmission, and the content will be encrypted heavily.”

“Thank you,” said Ratchet. 

“Anything necessary to aid Optimus or one of his people,” said Alpha Trion, and paused before the doors whooshed open again. “Oh, if you’re contacting Strika, remind her she still owes me a cube.”

Ratchet turned to stare over his shoulder at him.

“It may have been nine million years, but I remember where we were in that game,” said Alpha Trion. “Starting a war is no excuse.”

Strika, to her credit, laughed. “Tell him to make Cybertron accessible to Decepticons and he might see his cube one day.” 

She sobered immediately when Optimus’s arrest was mentioned. “Frag. That makes the situation considerably more urgent. We cannot let them crush the AFF before we arrive; we need that support. To minimize risk to you, I have a contact on Cybertron. Meet her at these coordinates at this time.” She showed him a datapad; Ratchet memorized place and time, then nodded. “She has a secure channel to me to be used in emergencies. Anything else?”

“I’m assigned to MRD. The bulk of its operations are in the prison.”

“Good. Do not put yourself at risk. Your job is information, no more.” Her optics narrowed in what was as close as she could get to a grin. “You’ll earn your brands yet, Doctor.”

“I don’t want to,” said Ratchet, stung. “I’m an Autobot.”

Strika just looked at him. 

“I’m setting our Cause right,” said Ratchet, and killed the feed. 

The time was not for another two days. Ratchet suffered through them somehow without ripping anyone’s spark out, which was a sore test indeed with Pharma. 

“Now if you examine this region very carefully,” Pharma said, gesturing at a diagram of Shockwave’s processor, “you’ll see where I plan to deploy one of my own inventions.”

Ratchet looked at him and fantasized about ripping his wings off. The sadistic glitch was enjoying this, enjoying using his art to destroy other living beings. I shall make no change not in service to this aim; I shall consider those under my care cadre and never do knowing wrong unto them, he thought, and wished he could somehow drop it on repeat on Pharma’s audio processing circuits. 

“Have anything to add, Ratchet?” said Pharma, and tilted a condescending smile at him, his wings hiked up and proud. The wings were new. Pharma had upgraded himself as soon as the experiment with Jetfire and Jetstorm proved successful. He said it was simply to make sure he was well equipped to tend patients on the field. Anyone who knew him knew it was because he couldn’t resist the opportunity to have one more thing to lord over everyone else.

“No,” said Ratchet. 

Pharma smirked. “They’ve already scheduled the procedure, so participation would be appreciated.”

Oh no you won’t, thought Ratchet. I will not break my oaths because you were condescending at me. 

“My specialty is in repairing damage,” he said. “I thought I was here to help if something went wrong. Otherwise, I’d better defer to your judgement.” There, you have something to self-service to, you preening scraplet. Don’t think you’re ever going to hear it again. 

“What’s this, Ratchet? Admitting I’m better at something than you?”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. When it comes to breaking oaths and torturing prisoners, certainly. 

Pharma stared at him, still grinning.

“I was a field medic,” said Ratchet. “That’s where my skills lie. Can we get back to the actual procedure? What do you plan to use to prevent fatal shock?”

Nothing, apparently, if the way Pharma bristled was any indication. Ratchet settled back in his seat and glanced down at the badge on his chest. 

For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether he might want that brand after all. 

There was no darkness, or silence. Optimus huddled against the wall of his small bright cell and wished he could offline his audials. Screams would have been easier to bear. Instead, there were little sounds, a constant chorus, sobs and coughs and moans and whimpers. Somewhere, someone raved, a low constant litany. 

The cell was too small to transform in, too small to stand comfortably, and he had to recharge huddled up. His backstrut ached with it, his tanks grumbled with the subpar fuel, and a cold seeped into every joint of his frame. 

He’d seen Shockwave dragged past, still and drugged, and heard the chatter of the MRD bots assigned to his case. Once, he’d thought he’d seen Ratchet, but was unsure. 

He’d only had one brief visit, a small bot who had stared at him for some time, muttered about therapy, and moved to the next cell. The rest of the time, he was alone, aware of the other prisoners but unable to communicate with them. 

Indefinite imprisonment. No limit on the time. He could be here for the rest of his function. Likely enough, he would be. 

And because of Ratchet. 

Ratchet who had betrayed them to the Decepticons. He’d wondered if it was a trumped-up charge but the look on Ratchet’s faceplate, that little nod, said otherwise, and that anger and betrayal was worse than anything else. 

How could he? 

He’d seen what Megatron had done to Omega Supreme, to Arcee, what he’d wanted to do to Earth, and now he was turning traitor? How could he?

Maybe the Autobots weren’t so bad after all. It seemed like the only alternative was the Decepticons. 

How long had Ratchet been working with them? Had this whole political campaign been something Ratchet orchestrated for the benefits of the Decepticons? Had he used Optimus to that end? 

The idea that he might have been a Decepticon tool, however unwittingly, made his spark hurt. He lay down, curled up, and waited to recharge. 

Everything had been in vain.

There was no one he could rely on. Perhaps it was better that he remain here, where that would no longer be an issue. 

Chapter Text

Ratchet arrived to the coordinates early.

So did his contact. 

Ratchet very carefully kept the surprise off his faceplate and accompanied her to what she assured him was a secure location, and only then allowed himself a good look at her.

“Aren’t you the Caminan Ambassador’s bodyguard?”

“Yes.”  

“Isn’t this a little counterproductive?”

“Quite the opposite. I’m protecting her by making sure we never actually need to negotiate with Sentinel. He’s been staring at her paneling since our first meeting.”

“Oh. You two are—”

“Amica Endura. He’s trouble and I don’t want him anywhere near her. He’s just the sort that won’t take rejection well.”

“You’re right on that,” said Ratchet. “Does she know?”

“No. Too honest.”

“Mmm. Chromia, right?”

“Yes. Herself said you had information.”

“Yes. Here are the maps.  I have security clearance. Anything else?”

“Groundbridge codes?”

“We’ll need someone military for that,” said Ratchet. “Fortunately, I know a mech, and he’s overdue for his oil change.”

Chromia eyed him. “You know Herself needs a medic. Apparently the last one got himself slagged in a definitely terminal manner.”

“Oh? And what do you care?”

“My other amica endura is on that ship,” she said, and looked away. 

“You’re a Decepticon?”

“No. I’m Caminan and I need to get my ambassador home online and in one piece.” She glared at him. 

“You sounded as if you were trying to convert me.”

“What, you’re not already—”

Ratchet tapped his badge. “This isn’t just cover.”

There was a pause. 

“Is that all?”

“Yes.” Ratchet turned away. “Chromia, a word of advice.”

“Yes?”

“Tell her. Better you, now, than after everything goes to Pit. Believe me.”

The look she gave him over her shoulder was one of sincere dislike. 

Things progressed at a pace that made Ratchet want to scream with frustration. He did, late at night when there was no one to hear him, shouted and kicked the furniture. One major problem was Bumblebee, who was refusing his oil change with his usual tenacity. 

Ratchet didn’t have the time for his usual tenacity. “Bumblebee, if you put this off again, I will report you as unfit for duty!” he roared at last. 

Bumblebee looked startled. “You all right, Doc?”

“If you’ve been paying attention to the newsfeeds? You’ll see why. Get your aft over here, now.”

“Fine. Fine. Just guilt me, why don’t you. Heading over. I’ll tell them about how you threatened me.”

“If they saw your medical charts they’d agree,” said Ratchet. 

“FINE. Heard you the first time.”

Ratchet settled back in the chair and cast a suspicious look up at the camera in the corner of the room. At least it wouldn’t be present in the examination room—patient confidentiality laws trumped all else—but there still might be sound recorders. This was going to be difficult.

He wondered if he could trust Bumblebee. Decided not to risk it. Bumblebee’s track record with Wasp probably meant he’d report first and ask questions later.

He would have to play this very carefully indeed. At least it meant that if things went entirely to the smelter, Bumblebee wouldn’t be implicated. The only thing he’d be guilty of was being taken in by a traitorous friend.

“Hey doc,” said Bumblebee. “I’m here. You can commence with the mad science. If I’d known you were going to get such a twist in your tailpipe—“

“You’d prefer to get this done by one of the other hacks here?” said Ratchet. “Be glad I’m not Pharma. You’d wake up with your t-cog gone and sold on the black market.”

“Wooow,” said Bumblebee, drawing the word out. “Difficult work environment, huh?”

“Don’t test me, kid,” said Ratchet. “First rule of warfare: never torque off the medic.”

Bumblebee stared at him for several minutes. “Sorry about Optimus.”

“Not here, kid,” said Ratchet. “Come on.”

Only when the exam room door shut did he speak again. “Optimus was framed.”

“Look,” said Bumblebee, edging away from the slab, “I know it’s easier to believe that. I know it’s hard to believe that Optimus Prime would do something like that. But you can’t really argue with the evidence, Ratchet! They tracked that signal back to your place! That’s not the kind of thing you can fake.”

“Yes, it is,” said Ratchet. “I know it, because I was sitting right across the fragging table from Optimus when he was supposed to have made that call. Someone set this up. Get on the slab. Don’t think I don’t see you slinking away.”

“Look, if you just wanted to chat, why even bother with the oil change?”

“Because you need an oil change and friends do nice things for each other.”

“Since when do you have friends?” Ratchet turned to glare at him, and Bumblebee raised his servos. “I kid, I kid. Look, I’m getting on the slab.”

“Why the fuss?” asked Ratchet. “It’s not as if it hurts.”

“I just don’t like getting prodded,” said Bumblebee. “So Optimus was framed. Why?”

“You ever noticed that people don’t tend to like him?”

“He’s got a crankshaft so far up his aft he can taste oil. Yeah, duh, people don’t like him.”

“Important people,” said Ratchet. “Like the Council. Like Sentinel. Ever noticed that?”

“Um, yeah.”

“I think one of them wants him gone,” said Ratchet. “And I want to nail whoever it is to the wall.”

“Good idea,” said Bumblebee. “Just don’t nail me to the wall with that.” Ratchet realized he’d been advancing with the new filter upraised in menacing fashion. He lowered it and sighed. 

“They have me working with MRD,” he said. 

“Good for you. That’s a cushy gig.”

“No. It’s not. What they’re doing is wrong, and I think they might use Optimus as a subject.” Ratchet looked at Bumblebee. “We have to get Optimus out before that. We have to prove him innocent.”

“What kind of experiment?” said Bumblebee, cocking his helm, optics narrowed.

“Processor stuff,” said Ratchet. “Mind control. In case the Decepticons come back.”

“Oh frag,” said Bumblebee. 

“Yeah. You see why I’m nervous, kid? Lie back, would you?”

“You think they’re gonna go all Headmaster on Optimus?”

“Yes. But with what they have, it’s not possible to undo it. He’ll be gone forever.”

“No one deserves that,” said Bumblebee. “Okay, Doc, what’s the plan—ow! Your servo’s cold!”

“You don’t have to do anything,” said Ratchet, and did not smirk at the victory. “I just need groundbridge coordinates.”

They urged Optimus out of his cell and onto a gurney late one night cycle. He didn’t fight them. They were Autobots, after all, and if they were rough, it was because they thought he was a traitor. 

One administered a drug of some sort, and he fell into a daze. There was anxiety there, a sense of menace with no real cause, but his processor would not hold any thought for long, and he could not focus on the unease. Things drifted, were disconnected, and he could not move even if they’d removed the restraints.

Instead, he shuttered his optics and fell into a light standby, rousing again when they jolted him upright onto an examination slab. 

There was an Autobot medic there, a flightframe. He reminded Optimus of Ratchet, and a fleeting stab of rage at his friend’s betrayal jolted through the drugged haze. He heard words, distant and frightening, but could not process the full sentence. 

Orders, and similar enough? and dispose of, and promising candidate. 

They put him in some kind of scanner, and seemed pleased. Optimus’s confused unease grew. 

“Yes,” said the flightframe medic at last, and this time Optimus understood him, the haze beginning to clear. “Tell the Magnus the procedure will be easily conducted on the original schedule.”

Chapter Text

“We should have left half an orn ago,” said Chromia. She glared at the container of liquid in front of her—more general irritation than any reflection on the quality of oil Ratchet could afford—and huffed a long ventilation. “But no, they keep delaying transport because of security requirements on the border! I would bet my t-cog the scraplet-fragger doesn’t plan to let us leave until we agree to his leak-poor treaty. Treaty! More like a statement of conquest! The trade agreement would beggar us further.” 

“Sounds like Sentinel.” Ratchet stared glumly into his own oil. “We have less than an orn before the surgery goes forward. I think Shockwave’s a dipstick—”

“But even he doesn’t deserve that,” said Chromia, and tossed her oil back. “You’ve said. I’m just worried the Magnus will try to arrest Windblade if this goes any further.”

“Given the way he operates, you’re the more likely target. He’ll use you to guilt her into compliance.”

Chromia stared at him. “How do you know?”

“He’s done the same to a friend of mine.”

“She knows her duty. She wouldn’t—”

“She might.”

Chromia let out a long ex-vent and stared into the depths of her container. “Ever wonder if we give each other too much information?”

Ratchet snorted. “If one of us is captured, they’ll know Strika’s on her way. That hasn’t changed one bit, and everything else pales in comparison.”

“Hmph,” said Chromia. “Good oil. Nothing like it back home.”

“What is Caminus like, anyway?”

“Hard,” said Chromia. “It’s not exactly a thriving metropolis, but after this?” Her gesture took in the room, the situation, Sentinel’s general objectionable nature. “It’s safe. I just want to get her home safe, that’s it. It’s home, it’s not much, and living there is hard. But it’s better than this.”

“And this trade treaty—“

“What Sentinel wants we simply don’t have,” said Chromia. “He knows it. I can just see it ticking away in that vicious processor of his. He’ll force us into this treaty, and when he’s beggared us, he’ll come in to help—but the price will be our freedom. We’ll become a colony. Windblade agrees. She wants to get out of here.”

“Have you told her?”

“No. Not now.”

“You’ll want to tell her.”

“Frag that. She’s watched all the time. I only talk with you because you’re good at keeping things quiet. Diplomatic immunity doesn’t matter a rusted fuel tank to anyone in the government. How can you stand to live like this?”

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Ratchet and looked back down. “There was something worth fighting for, once. Before the war. During the war. I don’t know when it stopped existing. I remember Ultra Magnus when he seemed like a good leader, the future of Cybertron. But… in the last years, not so much. Favors for those he liked, apathy in every other situation. It was like someone was pulling his strings. Optimus looked promising. Now he’s imprisoned. And Sentinel is in charge.”

“The foul, conniving, little—”

“The thing is,” said Ratchet, still staring at his oil, “Sentinel’s not that smart. Believe me. You see him making decisions on his own, he’s slag at it. He’s a hopeless leader. The question is, who wants him in power? He almost lost it last time I was here. Almost blew up the planet.” He looked up at Chromia. “He’s not authorized to know about what MRD’s doing. There’s a bigger rat in here somewhere.”

“A rat?” Chromia folded her servos in front of her. “What’s a rat?”

“An organic organism prone to cause trouble. It’s a figure of speech, from Earth. There’s a big rat here, and it’s not Sentinel. Whoever it is is probably using Sentinel, which isn’t that hard. You give Sentinel a few petty mean victories and he’s a happy mech. But this one…” 

“Could be the same one pulling the strings on Ultra Magnus,” said Chromia. 

Ratchet nodded, downed his oil. “I look forward to a nice, long chat with Strika, once she gets her sorry aft over here. Possibly even Megatron, if he’s in any fit state. Things changed after we won.”

“And you think it might be due to this hypothetical rat of yours.”

“The king rat, if you will,” said Ratchet. 

Chromia grinned at him, a brief, absolutely evil expression. “Does that make you our king rat? Has a certain ring to it as a codephrase.”

“No,” said Ratchet, with dignity. “That would be Strika or Megatron. They’re much more ratlike, and I speak as someone who has seen actual rats.”

“Yes, but we’re the ones organizing this whole thing.”

“You are not using king rat as a codephrase for me. I refuse it. I will weld your skidplate to the wall. Besides, the term applies equally to you.”

Chromia huffed and got to her stabilizers. “Too late. I think Strika will like it.” She sobered. “I should be getting back. They won’t believe my excuse much longer. Thank you for the oil. If you need me—”

“I have the comm frequency,” said Ratchet. “Go on. Don’t get yourself detained.”

She loved this part of a campaign. 

Strika looked over the half-broken holotable, optics narrowing with satisfaction. They had the codes. They had a working shuttle—thanks to Nautica, who’d proven most cooperative after her trinemates’ message about the behavior of the Autobots had come through—and a working knowledge of the base, and someone on the inside, bless that medic’s conniving little spark.  

No second force to slow them down. No humans to get underfoot. 

Oh, it was tempting to simply conquer Cybertron while she could, but she knew she didn’t have the forces. Not right now. Not without the wholesparked approval of the AFF and their assistance. No ability to wage a sustained war, not even if they took the world; the Autobots would fight madly both within and without. Eventually, numbers would tell. 

If Megatron pitched a fit over that she’d make him eat the fragging data. Or frag Lugnut up against the wall of his quarters some dark cycle. 

“The price of having competent officers is that they sometimes don’t tell you what you want to hear, my Lord,” she’d said to him once, and watched him bristle. She couldn’t blame him; Starscream had made sport of it for vorns afterward. There was a good reason he wasn’t fond of criticism. 

She looked down at the troop figures, squinting to make them out through the cracks in the holodisplay. Nautica had declared it a hopeless case, but kept tinkering nevertheless, and at least it now worked, even if it made the ships look like something that belonged in the berthroom. “Inform Tarn that I will set his sorry aft on fire if he delays one more time in arrival. Lord Megatron’s fate depends on his diversion. And where the frag are Sixshot and his people?”

“Just arrived, General,” said Slipstream, tapping one of the ships in the display with a claw. It flashed green. “Here.”

“Good. Get them deployed to hold this system in case the Autobots decide they need this bridge back.” Strika paused. 

“I’ve sent your message to Tarn,” said Slipstream. “He apologizes and says that he will not be able to properly execute a traitor, and fears the effects this will have on discipline.”

“Ask him if he’d prefer Overlord to have the glory of leading the charge to save Megatron,” said Strika. “That should decide him.”

“Are you still going to set his aft on fire?” asked Slipstream, typing. 

“Yes,” said Strika. “He and I need to settle the matter of command as soon as possible. He will take orders from me, and abandon this foolish idea that he answers to Lord Megatron alone. If I have to kick his sorry skidplate across the entire Decepticon fleet, so be it.” She huffed. “There will be enough issues with him around our allies to warrant it.”

“Yeeah.” Slipstream scratched an audial ridge. “I was wondering how you were going to manage that, actually. It’s not like any of them like Autobots very much, and Autobots tend to be kind of…small.”

“With strict discipline,” said Strika. “Anyone in defiance of our treaty with the AFF will be declared a traitor.”

“Will Tarn go after them? He’s likely to cause problems.”

Strika looked at Slipstream. “Yes. How would you stop him?”

“Uh. Beat the slag out of him?”

“Can you beat the slag out of him?”

“Uh. No.” Slipstream looked embarrassed and angry. “Can you?”

“Yes,” said Strika. “But you’re the one handling the problem. How would you stop Tarn from causing trouble with the Autobots? Say I catch an Autobot cannonblast to the spark. You’re Megatron’s second-in-command. Tarn is going to cause problems with the allied Autobots. What would you do?”

Slipstream shifted uneasily, glared at the floor. “Get Blackout to beat the slag out of him?”

“Do you think Blackout likes you enough to take on Tarn? Do you think Tarn would take that well, or just be still more difficult because of the humiliation?”

“No, and no,” said Slipstream, glaring. “Fine. Ask Megatron to reprove Tarn.”

“Publicly or privately?

“You said he’d be more difficult when humiliated, so privately.”

Strika slapped the surface of the holotable, making Slipstream jump. “There! You have it. Command is more than equations. You must know the people under your command, how they react to pressure from the enemy, or from you. Never give an order that you know won’t be followed. It undermines your authority. Your creator made that mistake repeatedly; you must not.”

“Yes, General,” said Slipstream. She was still angry, Strika could see that from the flicker of her optics, the slant of her wings, but she made no other sign of it. “Tarn says he’s departed and is moving toward the coordinates.”

“Good,” said Strika. “Oh, and Slipstream?”

“Yes, General?”

“You will be in command of the fleet in my absence.” 

Slipstream’s optics went wide. “You think I’m ready?”

Strika snorted. “Are you questioning my judgement?”

Slipstream looked down, then at her. “Yes.”

Strika eyed her. The small Seeker was definitely smarter than her Creator, or at least intelligent enough to know that being in command would do nothing for her advancement if she fragged it up out of sheer inexperience. “Good,” she said at last. “Do your reading. You have time.”

Chapter Text

“We’re going to move the schedule of the procedure up,” said Pharma. “I believe we are all adequately prepared.”

“I don’t,” said Ratchet, hiding the shock under a veneer of contempt. He deliberately put both stabilizers up on the chair across from him. “This is going to be useless if we don’t do it properly. We can destroy the intellect of one of the Decepticons’ greatest minds. Fine. So can an appropriately placed hammer. It’s not impressive at all. We have to be sure that we can actually change his personality, and do it effectively. We don’t have room for error.”

Pharma sneered at him. “Simply because you’re lagging behind…”

“The procedure you are suggesting has no room for error. If your servo misses the target by even a micrometer, you’ll damage his autonomic system irreparably and he’ll simply die on the slab. That’s why I suggested finding an alternate method where that particular procedure is concerned.”

“Well, too bad,” snapped Pharma. “My servo won’t miss. Unlike some bots here, I do not commit errors. My previous work—”

“Was clumsy and crude,” said Ratchet. “You just managed to make him repeat things. No finesse at all. Groundbreaking, but ultimately clumsy and lazy.”

Pharma drew himself up, wings quivering in affront. “I’d like to see you do better!”

“Oh, I certainly could,” said Ratchet. “By repairing processor damage, not creating it.”

“You don’t mean to say you’d rather be treating these Decepticons?” said Pharma. A very nasty grin spread across his faceplate. “Do you sympathize with them, Ratchet?”

All optics turned to Ratchet. 

“All I can say is that I take my oaths seriously,” he said. “Paldron’s Oath, Pharma. Did you cheat your way through that like you did the rest of medical school?”

“I could have you locked up as a Decepticon sympathizer,” said Pharma. 

“Would you now?” said Ratchet. “I’m sure my previous work would render that difficult, to say the least. Especially given your tendency to forget citations.  I’ve read your papers, Pharma. Do you know what that will look like to the field at large? Someone trying to cover up his own academic dishonesty by attempting to destroy a senior authority in said field.”

Pharma froze. 

Ratchet looked around the table. A lot of people avoided his optics. 

“Don’t try it, Pharma,” he said. “Ruining my function isn’t worth your career.”

“Meeting dismissed,” said Pharma. 

Ratchet smirked, took his stabilizers off the table, and sauntered out the door. He kept the saunter until he was safely within his own habsuite, then sat down hard and shook. Frag. He was an idiot. He’d let Pharma goad him into making remarks that could have gotten him imprisoned at least. He didn’t have the luxury of that. They didn’t have the luxury of that. 

He wondered if it would do any good for poor Shockwave. And then shook his helm because thinking of Shockwave sympathetically didn’t seem right at all. 

They had to move, and move soon. 

 Barely an hour later, the next bad news came through, courtesy of a newsscreen above the square where he normally met Chromia. 

“Due to the recent actions of its founder and leader, Optimus—a former Prime with the Elite Guard—the Council in consultation with the Magnus announced today the official order of disbandment for the so-called Autobot Freedom Faction. As of today, the AFF is no longer a recognized Cybertronian political party, and association or affiliation with the faction constitutes at the least an infraction of civil peace statues, and in extreme cases, treason. One member of the Council, Senator Metalhawk, recently expressed concern that the AFF may in fact be a front for Decepticon manipulation of the political process. We now join our political experts…”

“Frag,” said Ratchet, very quietly. 

“At least it wasn’t unexpected,” said Chromia. 

He looked up at her. “Sure, it wasn’t unexpected,” he said. “But things just got a lot harder. We’re gonna lose support. People’ll be too scared.”

“They wouldn’t have helped anyway.”

Ratchet glanced around. The square was moderately busy, a babble of voices making comprehension of anything more than a servo’s length away impossible. Above them, the screen blared. 

“Filibuster, Conserve, what’s your reading on the situation?”

“Well, Gearhead, it’s pretty obvious that the leadership of the AFF has been in cahoots with the Decepticon command this whole time. We only caught them once. Anyone in the room with—or known to associate closely with—the former Optimus Prime should be under suspicion. As for everyone else… well, we’re sure that some were upstanding citizens mislead by Optimus’s rhetoric, but there may be more than meets the eye here.”

“That’s not good,” said Chromia. 

“We just ran out of time,” said Ratchet. “Go. You don’t want to be seen around me.”

“No slag,” said Chromia. “I’ll pass it on. Don’t get arrested.”

She wasn’t happy to see Ratchet go. Chromia huffed an exvent and turned back to the administrative buildings. 

Windblade was fascinated by the history in every plate of Cybertron. Chromia was irked by it. Caminus had its own proud history. Certainly, it was shorter, but there was far less genocide. And they didn’t try to suppress large parts of it, either. 

It wasn’t as if she liked the Decepticons much, either. Both Cybertronian factions were, when you got right down to it, aliens. Cousins, closely related aliens, but aliens, influenced and shaped by a war like Caminus had never imagined. 

Because we weren’t fragged stupid enough to, she thought. 

Windblade would grumble at her about the aliens, as usual, but Chromia couldn’t find it in her to be contrite. Well. Maybe if you factored Ratchet into the equation. The old doctor seemed sensible if nothing else. Sensible and willing to call his society out for the horrors it was perpetuating. 

Windblade might be fascinated by the history in every plate of Cybertron, but to Chromia, it was simply a reminder of how much not home she was. 

We may be small and poor, but we don’t do this to our own, she thought, as yet another newsscreen blared vitriol over her helm. We might not have the luxuries they do—oh and what a luxury great big newsscreens like that were—but we treat our people right. 

Tomorrow, she’d have to go to yet another treaty meeting, and watch Sentinel make optics at Windblade, and try to herd them into an impossible agreement. If he wasn’t enough reason to blow up the planet all on his own, the rest of the fawning politicians he surrounded himself with were. 

And fraggit all, she missed Nautica. She knew Windblade did too, that it was hard being too far from the third member of their trine, so far that the minor sparkbond of amica endura failed to communicate. At least Nautica was likely to be safe. The Decepticons were less enamored of vicious politics than Autobots, and Caminus had little enough to offer their Cause that General Strika hadn’t even offered more than a token protest when her spies found that Chromia and Windblade intended to travel on to Cybertron. They’d left Nautica to continue negotiations, too, which did a great deal toward mollifying Strika. 

Decepticons, apparently, understood what it meant to be a neutral party. The Autobots—given the veiled-not-quite-threats Sentinel sprinkled heavily throughout every negotiation, their delay in departure—did not.

Windblade wasn’t back from one of her meetings. Chromia sent her another ping to make sure she was all right, relaxed when the answering ‘all is well’ ping greeted her. The Autobots still hadn’t caught on to them using that frequency; they didn’t scan for it, and Chromia had spent several hours with a ‘borrowed’ security scanner making sure it wouldn’t be inadvertently detected or blocked by standard Autobot military issue sensors or jammers. She’d taken to sending those pings every quarter-hour (damned if she’d ever start using Cybertronian time units!) since their departure was delayed whenever she and Windblade were separated. Not often, these days. Not more often than she could help.

She sent the transmission to Strika immediately, then headed for the door.

Only to have it sweep open in her face and Windblade stumble in, obviously pushed by one of the smirking Autobots on the other side. Chromia bared her dentae and lunged forward—

—but the door shut on emergency override, and the sound of an outside lock engaging was almost drowned out by the laughter of the guards. 

She slammed her axe through the door. The twin yelps from the other side were immensely satisfying. 

“What the frag happened?” she demanded before Windblade could start scolding her. “Are you injured?”

“No,” said Windblade, wings still raised and quivering with alarm. “No. I’m fine. But we’re under house arrest. Sentinel found out about Nautica.”

Late that cycle, Ratchet was alerted by a beep from his commsuite.

The message was from Pharma. 

Procedure scheduled for tomorrow.

“Frag,” he whispered, and sent the one emergency packet he’d sworn not to send to Chromia, and hoped Intelligence wouldn’t intersect it before she had time to get it to Strika. 

Chapter Text

 “Sentinel Magnus is holding us on charges of being Decepticon spies,” said Windblade, and accepted the container of fuel Chromia handed her. “His evidence is our communications with Nautica.”

Chromia felt a guilty prickle of relief. At least it wasn’t my transmissions. “What about diplomatic immunity?”

“They’ve decided that, since we’re spies, it doesn’t apply to us anymore.” Windblade looked grim. “They’ll try us as spies before sentencing us, of course. Unless we can make a goodwill gesture that will establish this as a misunderstanding.”

“Signing the treaty.”

Windblade nodded. 

“Slagsucking progeny of a—”

“It’s not an option,” said Windblade. “We can’t comply with those terms. And we can’t afford a reputation as treaty-breakers.” She gave Chromia a grim smile. “I hope you have a worst-case-scenario plan.”

“I do,” said Chromia. “You are not going to like it.”

And her commsuite chose that moment to come to angry shrieking life. Ratchet. An emergency packet. Oh frag. 

She went to the hidden comm relay, downloaded the data, appended her own update on the situation, and sent it. Then she turned to look at Windblade. 

Who stared at her with wide optics. “You’ve been working with Strika?”

“Not the whole time,” said Chromia. “She gave me the option of contacting them if needed. I took it. Just in case things went to Pit. Sentinel’s behavior settled it.”

Windblade frowned at her. 

“It’s our way out,” said Chromia. The comm cheeped. She looked at the new message. “Strika says they’ll be here by dawn. We have to go.”

“Chromia—”

“Don’t start shouting at me. We don’t have the time. Come on.” Chromia tucked the relay away in her subspace. Probably be easier to destroy it, but wasting the materials went against every molecule of her being. Waste was a good way to get slagged. 

She pulled the two small holoemitters out of her subspace in the same gesture, tossed one to Windblade. “Here. Put it on.”

“What is it?”

“A disguise,” said Chromia. She eyed the hole her axe had made in the door. It was hardly even reinforced. Easy to deal with. 

If the doors slid that way, that probably meant the controls were here…

“A sword would probably work better for that,” said Windblade softly. 

“They didn’t disarm you?”

“Apparently they didn’t think I was enough of a threat.” Windblade smiled a little, activated one of her blades. “There?”

Chromia nodded. Windblade stabbed. 

The door shot open. Chromia threw herself between the startled guards and Windblade, slammed the butt of the axe into one amazed jaw, kicked the other hard in the interface array, then the helm, caught Windblade by the arm and ran. “Your holoemitter!”

“Got it,” said Windblade, and flickered. Chromia activated hers as well, watched her plating turn golden and bigger as she ran. 

“There’s a vent there that leads to the energon processors,” said Windblade, and Chromia slowed to see what she was pointing at. 

She slowed, changed course. Going out through the energon processors would eliminate three junctions she knew to be guarded. “Right, get in.” 

She boosted Windblade in, handed over her axe, and took a flying leap, heaved herself up after. They replaced the grate and crawled, Chromia wincing at the din their movements made in the confined space, and at the confined space itself. Windblade, wings flat to her back, seemed surprisingly cheerful. Cityspeakers were trained not to be concerned by small spaces, but flyers never stopped hating them. 

The alarms went off, loud even muffled by the walls. They moved faster. The floor slanted down—a good sign, they were getting close to the refinery.

They slid and scrambled the last distance, fetched up hard against a grate and crawled out. 

“What are you two doing here?” 

They looked up. 

A very confused Autobot looked down at them, blaster leveled. 

By tomorrow, Pharma meant too slagged early tomorrow for your processor to online. 

Ratchet rubbed his helm, engulfed the last of the drippings-poor midgrade, and went to disinfect himself for the procedure. 

He had no idea what to do. 

If only kicking Shockwave in the interface components was what he was here to do. He’d do it happily. But no. What was going to be done was horrific, and even Shockwave didn’t deserve it. 

Are you sure? a little voice in his processor asked. He certainly wasted no time in hacking Arcee.

But he’d left her personality alone. He hadn’t been there to change anything. There was a big difference there. 

Ratchet exvented heavily and looked down at his servos. While he personally thought that there was a certain amount of wiggle room in one’s Oath when it came to enemies who were actively trying to offline you, this was coldblooded mutilation of a helpless mechanism, and there was no room for excuses or justifications there. If he went into that room and completed this procedure—frag, even if it had been on that slagframed scraplet fragger Lockdown—he would have violated that Oath. 

His servos shook. Arcee with her processor splayed out played before his optics again, and he remembered the lurch of rage, the revulsion. That had been wrong. Shockwave had orchestrated that. Shockwave had done that, on Megatron’s orders. 

He shuttered his optics. He’d sold out to the Decepticons to save Shockwave. He’d never be able to look Arcee in the optics again. 

This is wrong. He clenched his servos. I am not Shockwave. I’m not going to let this happen. The Autobots are better than this. 

“Ratchet?” said a voice nearby. “Are you all right?”

He opened his optics and saw Ambulon. The other doctor had the grace to look embarrassed. “Only, you’ve been staring at the disinfectant for a while.”

“It’s too early, kid,” said Ratchet, and went back to scrubbing his servos, feeling more as if he were dirtying them than cleaning them. 

Strika would come, wouldn’t she? If the alternative was losing Shockwave, Strika had to come. 

He took a deep ventilation, and stepped into the operating room. 

Pharma smirked at him, wings hiked proudly up. “There’s been a slight change in plans,” he said. “I took your recommendations last night seriously. You were entirely correct; we could not risk damaging an important prisoner such as Shockwave, not when the evidence of our tampering might be so obvious.”

Relief swept through Ratchet. So someone’d pulled the plug on the whole damned thing, just in time. Perhaps Primus gave a flying frag about His creations. Ratchet made a mental note not to swear at the deity quite so often.

But Pharma’s smirk only grew. “We’ve substituted another prisoner. I trust you are enough of a professional for it to make little difference.” And he stepped aside, revealing who was on the slab.

Ratchet’s tank lurched. “No.”

“Political dissident,” said Pharma, pacing around Optimus’s unconscious figure. “Not too bright, so we don’t have to worry about people noticing. And if he offlines, no one will care much.” The door swung open to admit Ambulon and the nurses. Pharma was grinning now. “Good, everyone’s here. Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Oh frag.

Chromia stared up at the Autobot. Sure, she could offline him, but he’d seen them in their disguises. They wouldn’t last until morning.

“Security alert,” said Windblade, getting to her feet. The holoemitter made her a much bigger bot, with Elite Guard insignia on her shoulders. “We were checking the air vents. Have you seen them?”

“No,” said the Autobot. “They just told me to guard this section.” He exvented heavily. “Like anyone with sense would come through here. You’d have to walk under the Magnus’s office window if you didn’t take the vents.”

“Would you prefer the vents?” said Windblade, grinning. “We have to get moving again. Good luck with the energon, soldier.”

“Good luck with the vents, sir,” said the Autobot, and saluted them. 

They walked with the leisurely pace of mecha with an unpleasant job to get to until they were out of sight, then broke into a dead run. 

“Good job,” said Chromia. 

Windblade grinned. “Better than taking his helm off.”

“This way.” Chromia slid aside a grating, helped Windblade down into the tunnels, slung herself in and pulled the grating back into place. “Their security has more holes in it than Sentinel’s common sense. You can fly here, by the way.”

“Good,” said Windblade, and transformed. Chromia threw herself into alt and led the way.

They made it to the bridge unimpeded, scrambled up onto the platform as the bridge hummed into brilliant life. 

The Decepticons arrived. 

A group of flyers shot out, established a defensive perimeter, and then the great bulk of a shuttle nosed its way out, hovered as the bridge disgorged another knot of flyers. A door opened, and the mech inside gestured frantically at them. “Get in!”

Windblade hesitated, stared at the Decepticons, an army by Caminen standards. “Chromia, what the frag did you do?”

“My job,” said Chromia, strictly squashing the twinge of misgivings. “Come on.”

“Pharma, you can’t do this. He’s an Autobot.” Ratchet’s servos clenched. 

Pharma just smirked at him. “Political dissident, Ratchet. The orders came from the Magnus himself. Even you wouldn’t presume to argue with him, now would you?”

“Sentinel? He’s a pile of scrap and you know it, Pharma. You’re just going along with this because it means you get to get off on torturing helpless prisoners! The fragging Decepticons have more morals than either you or the Magnus, and use more of their processing power, too!” He stabbed a digit at Optimus’s prone form. “This is not what I fought for, Pharma. In the War, or on Earth. If Primus himself rose up and kicked your—all of your—sorry skidplates into orbit, it’d be the best thing that sorry excuse for a deity ever did. You lot make Megatron look like a fragging Prime!”

Pharma was still smiling.

“Oh, Ratchet, you poor incompetent fool,” he purred. “Spouting treasonous sentiments in the middle of the most secure facility on Cybertron? Tsk tsk.”

The doors slid open. Ratchet didn’t need to look to know those were security bots. 

“I’ll tsk tsk you,” he snarled, and flung out his servos, bringing out his electromagnets as he did so. He yanked Pharma off his stabilizers and pivoted to sling him into the guards. All three went down in a heap. “Ambulon, if you take so much as a step closer, I’ll crush him. Reverse stasis on Optimus.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Ambulon and the nurses, standing in a shocked huddled mass in the corner. “Now, slag you all to Pit! Do I look like a patient bot?”

Ambulon lurched forward to obey. Pharma opened his intake to say something. Ratchet bashed him into the ceiling, dropped him when he went limp, and shoved the two guards out of the room. 

He pivoted in time to see Ambulon reach for a syringe, and picked Pharma up again. “Don’t even think about it, kid. You and the nurses get out. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Ambulon hesitated, optics on Pharma. 

“I’ve got a host of reasons to offline him, kid,” said Ratchet. “Don’t give me another one.”

That decided him. Ambulon gestured to the nurses and the lot of them scurried out. Ratchet flung Pharma out behind them, slammed a servo down on the lock mechanism on the door, and grabbed a welder from the tray of tools, welded it shut. 

Now he had time to think. He went to Optimus, checked him. He was coming out of it, but it’d take time. Frag. If he’d had a choice he would have taken Optimus and run. He would get more trapped here by the second as the rest of the security forces turned up.

At least it meant that they would be away from the perimeter when the Decepticons showed up. If he could hold out that long, and aside from flinging the surgical tools at them, he was more or less unarmed. The precision saws were next to useless when it came to weapons.

Now to wait. He hoped Strika would arrive before they pried him out of here. 

“No sign of Autobot military response,” said Cyclonus, just as dour as if he’d been announcing that the entire Elite Guard was bearing down on them. Strika peered over his shoulder at the display and grunted. 

“Good. Alert me if they start powering up Fortress Maximus,” said Strika, and glanced back at the shuttle’s occupants. Most of Team Chaar had insisted on coming along—to the distress of Spittor’s immediate neighbors—and with the makeshift emergency medbay in the back, it was uncomfortably crowded. Nautica had insisted on accompanying them, obstentiblly to repair the shuttle if something went wrong, but Strika’s suspicion that it was mostly to see the rest of her trine was confirmed when they picked up Windblade and Chromia. The three of them were having a hushed, urgent conversation, and both Windblade and Nautica seemed to be fairly irritated at Chromia. 

As long as it didn’t impede the mission, they could argue all they liked. 

“General,” said Cyclonus. “Scans indicate that there is a disturbance within the prison. Most of the security forces are massed within one of the central blocks.”

Strika’s optics narrowed with amusement. “That would be Ratchet. Are we in range?”

“Yes, General.”

“Then attack.”

Chapter Text

The Elite Guard were halfway through the doors when the first blast shook Ratchet off his stabilizers and deposited him squarely on his skidplate in the middle of the operating room. He sat there, gyros spinning, and stared up. Well. Timing apparently was Strika’s strong suit. 

Behind him, Optimus groaned. 

Ratchet lurched upright and steadied himself on the instrument cart. “You awake, kid?”

Optimus’s optics flicked online. He reset them several times, then nodded. “What are you doing here?”

Oh that was a bad tone. That promised trouble. More than he was already in. “Saving your spark, kid,” he said. 

Optimus looked at him a long time, silent.

“I owe you an explanation,” said Ratchet, and grabbed at the slab as the ground bucked again. “But I can promise, now is not the time.”

Optimus said nothing, just looked at him, accusing. 

“Just trust me, kid. I’ll get you out of this.”

“Trust you,” said Optimus, slowly, as if the word were alien. 

Oh frag. “Yeah, trust me,” said Ratchet. “I know I’ve not got the best track record, but I swear that your wellbeing is the top of my priorities right now. I fragged up, it got you here, I’m going to get you out of here.”

Optimus’s optics shifted upward. “We’re under attack.”

“Yep.”

“Are those Decepticons?”

Ratchet froze. 

“I thought so,” said Optimus. “Do whatever you’re planning to, Ratchet. But leave me out of it.”

Ratchet stared at him. “Optimus!”

“You called the Decepticons,” said Optimus. “After everything—Ratchet. Did Prowl mean nothing to you?”

“Frag you!” Ratchet exploded, denting the slab. “Just—frag you! What the frag is your problem, Optimus? Do you think Prowl died for this? Do you think anyone did? So we could lobotomize our prisoners and call it mercy? So Sari and Omega could be kidnapped and tortured?”

“You’re not making me a traitor,” Optimus said, low and hard. “I don’t care what you think you saved me from, but I am not becoming a Decepticon. Call this off.”

“Frag, kid. Like Pit that’s going to happen. Like Pit I’m leaving you here.”

“You would, if you actually respected me,” said Optimus. “You’d respect my wishes.”

“This isn’t about you and me,” said Ratchet. “It’s about all of us. It’s about the AFF.”

“My duty is to remain here, if the alternative is siding with the Decepticons,” said Optimus, turning away. 

“Duty?” said Ratchet. “Optimus. It’s the opposite. Forget the oaths we swore to Autobot High Command. What do you think is happening to the people who followed you? To the members of the Freedom Faction? They’re talking about legal repercussions, they’ll be sending them here because of what we said, because they believed in you. Because Sentinel can’t stand the idea of people liking someone better than him. We have a duty to them.”

They looked at each other a long time. Optimus’s gaze was almost too steady, his anger apparent in the set of his mouth. 

“A lot of people have pinned a lot of hope on you, Optimus,” said Ratchet. 

“I’m not giving them to the Decepticons,” said Optimus. The floor bucked again. Ratchet staggered. Optimus made no gesture to aid him. 

“It’s better than handing them over to the Elite Guard,” said Ratchet. “And you won’t be. I negotiated.”

Optimus’s lip curled. “Of course you did.”

“They recognize the AFF as a separate political entity. You won’t be joining them. You’ll be allying with them. You’ll be on equal footing with Megatron.”

The power went out, and a sudden, eerie silence clamped down over them, the lack of the constant whine of security systems and lights. Then, very distant, the sound of blasterfire and screams.

In the darkness, Ratchet found the glow of Optimus’s optics and met it. “I know this isn’t the Cybertron you believe in, kid. I know you’ve been talking to Trion. We can be so much better than this. Autobots and Decepticons both.”

Optimus’s optics flicked sideways as a smaller blast shook the building. 

“Autobots and Decepticons working together,” said Ratchet. “Think of it, Optimus. Or do you want to help Sentinel destroy us?”

“How can I trust you?”

“Because I fragged up once, and I will never let something like that happen again. Swear on my spark and Primus strike me if I lie.”

A snort. “You don’t believe in Primus.”

“Then I’m all the less likely to give him an excuse to smite me. Gods hate atheists.” He softened his voice. “Please, Optimus. We need you.”

The lights came back up, the dim glow of an emergency generator. The blasterfire was much louder now. 

Optimus looked somehow old and very tired in the dim light. “Me,” he said.

“You,” said Ratchet. “You’re the face of the AFF. There are so many mecha who would follow Optimus Prime anywhere.”

“You’ve been listening to Alpha Trion.”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “Come on, Optimus. We haven’t much time.”

Optimus let himself down off the slab, and carefully extended a servo. “For now,” he said, as Ratchet took it and clasped it. 

“Fine,” said Ratchet, and the blasterfire was loud and immediate, Strika’s roar of victory rising over it. “Now let’s go rescue our new allies.”

The door blew right off its runners and into the room. “Ratchet, you clever old rustbucket,” roared Strika, cheerful with battle. “Brilliant timing. I’ll make a strategist of you yet!” He gaze swiveled to Optimus. “Optimus Prime, a pleasure. Now, on to victory!”

Strika’s team didn’t fight so much as brawl, cheerful and confident in success. Optimus and Ratchet found themselves swept up in their midst, surrounded by shouting mecha and an almost physical force of excitement. 

Decepticon loyalty. Good for far more than discipline. Ratchet had been on the receiving end of this sort of euphoria—or at least witnessed what happened to those on the receiving end—and there was no way that this plan was going to fail, save the Elite Guard dropping a moon on the entire facility. These mecha were on their way to reclaim Megatron. Many of them had probably dreamed of this throughout their function. As for the officers, Megatron had been the center of the cause they loved through much of its existence. Having him back at its helm would make the universe profoundly right again. 

He pushed his way up toward the front and Strika. “I have Pharma’s keycard!” he shouted. “I can get us into the cells, easily. No need to cut through those slagged security doors.”

“Pharma?”

“Director of the experimental program!” Ratchet ducked a bolt, and Strika promptly shoved him behind her bulk with a spare servo. 

“As long as it gets us in!” Strika’s next shot took out the last of the Autobots firing at them. “Which way?”

“Left.”

“Decepticons, with me! To victory, and Lord Megatron!”

And they were off again, Strika keeping Ratchet close behind her. 

Two skirmishes later, they came up against a reinforced security door. “Cell block,” said Ratchet. “High security.” He swiped the card. 

The door chirped and slid upward. Strika peered in. “Locks should be easy to smash. Where’s Megatron?”

“Behind that.” Ratchet gestured to the second reinforced door at the end of the corridor. “You get them out. I’ll get that open.”

“Cyclonus, cover Ratchet,” said Strika. “The rest of you, with me.”

Ratchet headed down the corridor at as close as his mechanisms let him get to a run, with Cyclonus close behind him. He swiped the card and went to the one occupied cell behind that door, one with a physical door and a forcefield.

The keycard took care of both of those. 

“Good morning, Megatron,” said Ratchet as soon as the door had slid open. Megatron blinked sleepily at him from the berth he was secured to. “This is a jailbreak. You can thank me later.”

“Where are the others?” managed Megatron, the words slurred. 

“Off dealing with the other prisoners,” said Ratchet. He slid the keycard again and Megatron’s restraints slid away. Megatron tried to push himself upright, fumbled and fell back onto the berth where he lay, venting hard, terrified and angry.

“Panicking won’t get the drugs out of your system any faster,” said Ratchet, approaching him. Megatron snarled, but didn’t move. “I’m going to administer something that should overcome the sedatives. You’ll feel like slag afterward, but we’ll have time for that.”

Megatron managed something like a nod and tried to offer an arm. Ratchet injected the drug, noting the flinch and the way Megatron turned his helm away. Poor fragger had probably had enough of needles for a century. 

The drug took effect quickly. Megatron’s engines roared, and he scrambled upright, Ratchet moving to support him as he staggered. “This way,” he said, noting how unfocused Megatron’s optics remained. “Just follow me. We’ll be out of here soon. That’s it.”

His reassurances were met with a threatening growl, but Megatron staggered along with him meekly enough. 

“Strika, a servo?” Ratchet called once they were in the outer corridor. 

“No injuries?” said Strika.

“None major enough to be aggravated by transport,” said Ratchet. “He’s heavily drugged. I don’t think he’ll stay upright on his own.”

“Very well,” said Strika, and bent to catch Megatron behind the knees, scooped him up in a rough emergency carry. “A pleasure to see you, my lord. Forgive the rough transport.” Lower, to Ratchet alone, “Lugnut is not here.”

“I know,” said Ratchet. “This way. He’s in the recovery ward.”

There was an all-too-familiar ingratiating laugh from the end of the corridor. They turned.

Pharma smirked at them from the head of an insultingly small security contingent. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll be going any further in my hospital,” he said. “Servos over your helms, or your friend Lugnut—and whoever he’s sparkbonded to—dies.”

Ratchet’s optics fixed on the device in Pharma’s hand.

Lugnut’s killswitch.

Chapter Text

“You’re not going to get out of here in any case,” said Pharma. “Managing all of them? You don’t stand a chance. So just put your servos up and surrender.”

Ratchet raised a servo, the electromagnet crackling with charge, but froze as Pharma’s thumb crooked. “Don’t even think about it, Ratchet,” he said. “This detonator so much as twitches, and I’ll blow the charges we left in Lugnut’s pitiful excuse for a braincase. I’m not letting my had work fall into Decepticon servos. The failures,” his optics flicked to the Seeker clones, “you can keep.”

The failures? Ratchet’s spark sank. So Lugnut wasn’t the only victim of the procedures his research had created. 

His comms onlined.

Cyclonus, you have command. Ratchet’s helm jerked sideways and up to look at Strika, whose optics were focused on Pharma. Blackout, take Lord Megatron. 

The implication of her statement hit. Oh frag. Frag, she was bonded to Lugnut, and losing both of them—

You can’t, he wanted to say, but Pharma was watching and he couldn’t give him a hint of what Strika planned. You can’t, he wanted to send, but Decepticon loyalty would never let her consider doing anything but. The lives of two Decepticon generals versus that of Lord Megatron was not a choice. 

So he said nothing. 

Maybe—and it was a slight hope indeed—maybe he would be able to save her from spark burnout if he got to her fast enough. Optimus, can you fight?

Yes, why?

I’ll need you to clear a path to Strika for me. Can you do that?

What little of Optimus’s faceplate he could see through the crowd had no trace of comprehension, but he nodded all the same. 

“Well?” demanded Pharma. His wings were high on his back. Probably thought he’d already won. “Do I need to start count—”

Strika threw himself at him. 

Pharma’s thumb flinched on the detonator, and then he vanished as the Decepticons surged forward. Ratchet pushed his way along with them, struggling to see where Strika was.

Strika’s voice rose over the fight, an involuntary raw sound of pain. 

“No!” Ratchet shouted, his voice lost in the cacophony. No you don’t, no you don’t, we need you!

And then Optimus was there, a servo on his back, helping them push through the Decepticons, faceplate set. Ratchet counted. Every ventilation between them and Strika increased her chance of offlining along with Lugnut—because there was nothing else that could have prompted that cry, nothing at all. Even with that injury all those years ago she hadn’t made a noise. But the shock from a partner’s spark in burnout would rip a scream from the proudest of mecha.

There she was, a handful of Decepticons standing guard over her, her frame seizing in near-burnout. Ratchet moved them aside by the simple expedient of his electromagnets and bent over her, taking a fast readout. His instruments told him little. He put the palm of a servo flat over her chestplates, flinched away at the heat. Damn. 

That meant her spark was throwing off excess energy as it flared with shock and the residual energy that had washed back along the bond with Lugnut’s offlining. She might recover on her own, but it was too probable she might not. 

Pharma shrieked, a horrible sound.

Ratchet bent to find the medical port, plugged in quickly. That charge had to be rerouted. Usually, he’d have the luxury of hooking her up to a spark regulator, but right now, he would have to reroute it through his own systems and discharge it somehow. His electromagnets were probably his best bet, though Primus alone knew what that would do. He’d just have to make sure he wasn’t aiming at anyone on their side.

And hope the procedure didn’t blow his circuits. The relays he’d need to use were ones he hadn’t used since the war. There’d been no need. He’d maintained them, but this quantity of charge, a warframe in spark flux… 

He didn’t follow that train of thought. He directed his attention to changing the necessary processes, shifting the route of the charge—

Frag frag frag it HURT! Warnings flashed red in his HUD as the excess energy slammed through his circuits. Everything held, routed it away from his spark and major systems, but he could feel the necessary circuits beginning to heat and warp with the force of it. 

He forced his optics online and raised an arm, watching with a sort of detached amusement the blue-white arcs of electricity crackling toward his servo. There was a really big Autobot lunging at Optimus, an energon axe upraised. Optimus was still unarmed, both servos clenched around the axe. In slow motion Ratchet saw the other Autobot produce a short dagger in the other servo—

He onlined his weapons systems, and the charge, now with somewhere to go, roared down his arm and through the electromagnet. Under most circumstances, he should have been able to catch Optimus’s assailant and hold him in place. But with a warframe spark on the other end of the device, it simply slammed into the Autobot, knocking him off his stabilizers, and carrying him backward through the crowd and through a reinforced bulkhead as if it were tissue paper. 

Ratchet lowered his servo, the charge ebbing as circuits rerouted themselves as the safe threshold he’d set was reached. He looked back down at Strika, checked the readings, and smiled. He felt like slag, and there was black smoke rising through his plating as those abused redundant circuits gave up the ghost, but she’d live. 

There were a lot of Decepticons staring at him. Optimus too, with something like horror. Ratchet looked up at all of them, fanned his plating out to better cool those circuits, and said, “She’ll live. Get us to somewhere I can work without being shot at, and I’ll make certain of it.”

“The shuttle is this way,” said Cyclonus, gesturing. Ratchet lurched upright as a group of Decepticons moved forward to pick Strika up. 

Then it was just him and Optimus. Optimus hesitated, then put an arm under his shoulders as he staggered. “That was brave,” he said.

Ratchet snorted. “That was my job. Come on, let’s not get left behind. I have patients.”

They did not, in the end, really provide a place where he wouldn’t be shot at, but the shuttle’s bulkheads were between him and the blaster bolts and that was enough for Ratchet. Once a field medic, always a field medic. 

And they weren’t getting hit that often. Cyclonus, for all his conversational failings, was a superb pilot. Ratchet knelt by Strika and tried to keep his balance as the shuttle juddered and lurched. She’d gotten off lightly, that much was clear. There was only minimal damage to the spark chamber itself, and all the completely slagged circuits were ones he could afford to wait until he had an actual medical bay to replace. 

“Prepare to bridge,” said Cyclonus. Ratchet put a servo down on the floor to steady himself as he examined a wire. 

“Doctor,” said Megatron, a great effort. Ratchet spared him a glance, saw hazy concern on his faceplate. “General Strika. Will she live?”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “The fluctuation in her spark was within survivable parameters.”

“I am glad,” said Megatron, and slumped back. After a long moment, “They will pay for Lugnut. They will pay a thousandfold.”

Ratchet turned back to his work. 

Near the back of the shuttle, an argument erupted, Chromia’s voice rising. 

“Don’t be such a glitch, Windblade, he was keeping us on purpose!”

“I know that,” said Windblade, ever calm and even. “What I would like to understand is why you saw fit to undermine my mission before then, and tell me it was for my own good.”

Ratchet shook his head and went back to the task before him. 

The shuttle bounced and the light went blue, then came to a lurching halt. 

“Bridging complete,” said Cyclonus. 

Ratchet raised his helm and looked out the forward window.

The Decepticon fleet moved in silent majesty before them, an array of dull purple shapes in the weak light of a red dwarf. Ratchet stared. Command ships, cities in their own right, with battlecruisers and dreadnoughts pacing them, looking tiny by comparison, the attendant crowds of smallships, and the glitter of shortrange shuttles traveling between them. 

“How many?” he asked. 

One of the Decepticons near him snorted. “Not as many as there should be,” she said. “That’s the whole fleet, Autobot. That’s all that’s left of us.”

Ratchet looked again. A massive fleet, but if it were the only one…

Three command ships. He hadn’t counted the rest, but he knew that the Elite Guard boasted at least five. 

“That’s all we have left of home,” the Decepticon said, and there was real sadness in her voice. 

Optimus had moved forward and was now standing just behind Cyclonus, staring at the fleet. Ratchet looked at him, at the silhouette against the glitter of starlight on glass, the long red gleam of the hulls, and exvented heavily. 

They’d arrived. They were free. 

And all their hopes were pinned on one young mech who might be a Prime, and this one great broken fleet that was all that remained of an empire that had held the galaxy in terror. 

Chapter Text

What looked like half the Decepticon fleet turned out to greet them. 

Optimus shifted under the gaze of hundreds of evaluating red optics, feeling abruptly very small. It was a relief to reach the medical bay, and he let out a long exvent. 

The doors whisked open again.  

“I heard General Strika was wounded,” said Slipstream. 

“She’ll live,” said Ratchet again. “Strict berthrest for the next two rotations. We have a few other wounds, but Megatron and the other prisoners should be fine when the drugs get out of their systems.” He paused. “I hope.”

“What do you mean, you hope?” said Slipstream, folding her servos.

“Because Pharma made a worrying comment. I am concerned that they may have attempted some form of lobotomy on some of the prisoners. I’m not sure who.”

“Well, make sure.” Her optics ran down the line of prisoners. “My spark siblings are all right?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I do the scan,” said Ratchet. 

“And Lord Megatron?”

“Entirely unharmed. Either lend a servo or stop asking questions.”

Down the line, Megatron tried to push himself upright. “Who’s in command?” he slurred, clutching the slab so hard he left dents. 

“I am, my lord,” said Slipstream, hastening over. 

A pace or so behind Ratchet, who shoved Megatron back down onto the slab. “As far as you’re concerned, I am,” he snapped. “And I say you’re staying on that berth until you can walk in a straight line. You’re in a delicate enough position without denting yourself further—Slipstream, where’s the energon dispenser? Get me flightframe grade fuel, diluted by two parts standard fuel.”

“Not diluted,” said Megatron. “Proper fuel. I’ve had enough Autobot swill—”

“And if you drink something that rich on an empty tank just now you’ll bring it right back up,” snapped Ratchet. “We’ll have to refuel you slowly and wean you back onto your standard diet, or you’ll just hurt yourself. Optimus, stop standing around and make sure this slagger doesn’t get up while I’m scanning the Seekers. Sit on him if you must.”

Optimus stared at Megatron, who returned his shock with a very lopsided smirk.  “Seems we’re stuck with each other again, Autobot.”

Optimus looked away, hating every step he took toward the Decepticon warlord. He wasn’t even sure if he was still an Autobot. 

“So what occasioned the change of spark, Prime?” The words were still slow, somewhat slurred, but the old mocking venom was still there. 

“Optimus. Just...Optimus.” 

“Just Optimus,” Megatron repeated, and turned his helm on the berth to better look at Optimus. Optimus fought the impulse to take a step back. There were no restraints on Megatron now, only the rapidly fading effects of the drugs, and he was well within grabbing range. 

If the world were sane, it would be his duty to snuff the tyrant’s spark, here and now, while he had the chance. 

Megatron was still smirking. “Was I that persuasive, Optimus? Even drugged and restrained?”

“It wasn’t just you,” said Optimus quickly. “It was Ratchet.” And he hasn’t told me anything. I just…trusted him. Obeyed when he required it. How could he have done this?

“Ratchet,” said Megatron, as if trying the name out. “Your medic. He led the rescue, did he not?”

“Yes,” said Optimus. “Mine as well.”

“So you too were a prisoner,” said Megatron, and the smirk grew. “Perhaps we are not so different.”

“We are very different,” snapped Optimus, and did step back this time. 

Megatron hummed to himself. “If you wish,” he said. 

“We share no similarities,” said Optimus. “None. You would have destroyed Earth.”

Megatron’s optics flicked away. A long silence. Then, “Why are you here, Autobot?”

“Not by choice.”

“Not by choice,” said Megatron. 

“I’m not a traitor!”

“And yet you were imprisoned.” Megatron’s gaze was on him again, and Optimus was suddenly very aware of his bare faceplate. Megatron had never seen his faceplate without the battlemask in the way. 

Slipstream reentered the room, put a cube in Optimus’s hands. “I have an army to run,” she said. “If the medic needs assistance, Acid Storm is around here somewhere, and under orders to assist. Tell the medic I require a full report on the conditions of all patients in four megacycles at the latest.”

“He’s not under your command,” said Optimus. 

“His patients are,” said Slipstream. “We’re allies, Autobot. We put our afts on the line to get you out. That ought to be enough for you. Don’t disappoint us.”

She left. 

“Allies,” said Megatron, evaluating. “I will need a full report as well. What in the Allspark have Ratchet and Strika gotten up to?”

“Just drink your fuel,” said Optimus, and pushed the cube into Megatron’s servos.

Megatron handed him the cube back and heaved himself upright, then held out a servo again. He took a gulp and hesitated, then made a face. 

Optimus stepped smartly back. The last thing he wanted was Megatron purging on him. 

After a moment, Megatron raised the cube to his intake again and sipped. “So, Optimus, have you any idea of what those two are playing at?”

Optimus looked down, hating the admission. “No.”

“I thought so.” Megatron went back to his fuel and steadfastly ignored Optimus until Ratchet returned. 

Frag. Oh frag. 

Of course Pharma had used test subjects.

Of course Pharma had chosen the clones. If you lived in the sort of world Pharma did, they were hardly even Cybertronian. They were glitched. They were, in a word, disposable. 

Thundercracker would not speak or fly again. Oh his wings and vocalizer were in perfect working order, but the precise damage Pharma had done to his brain meant he had no way to use them. And he’d gotten off the best. As far as Ratchet could tell, Ramjet would remain in a persistent vegetative state for the rest of his function. Sunstorm’s short term memory bank was simply gone. And Skywarp…

He’d known Skywarp used to be terrified of everything. Never to this degree. There were other things, too. It was evident that the Seeker had been Pharma’s last test run before he moved on to Lugnut. There was a lot of the same damage, but Pharma had done a sloppy job with part of Skywarp’s alteration and made a single, precise cut a micron outside of the optimal region. 

He’d done what he could. And he’d do more, because it was his own fragging research that had led to this, and damned if he’d allow the damage it had done to remain! But some of what Pharma had done was on a scale far past what anyone could fix. 

Slipstream had taken it as badly as might be expected.

“They’re my siblings,” she’d spat. “You’re the greatest Autobot medic of all time! Fix them, slag you!”

“It’s not that simple,” Ratchet said. “It’s impossible to do even a partial processor transplant, which is what a lot of this damage would require. Processors are hard enough to repair even in the case of minor injuries—that’s why I embarked on this research in the first place! But I don’t know enough. Primus, I might offline them myself, rooting around. Skywarp, I might be able to patch together the injury Pharma inflicted that’s causing the terrors, but the rest of it? Forget it!”

“Your research caused this!”

“Yes, it did,” said Ratchet. “And it’s the same reason Lugnut’s dead. But I’ll make damn sure that I know what I’m doing before I try anything. I’m not using them as lab rats, Slipstream. I don’t want their deaths on my helm as well.”

There was a tired, almost academic, cough from the door. “Forgive me,” said Shockwave, wavering slightly as he held onto the doorframe. “I believe I may be able to offer assistance, to a limited degree. Slipstream, know that your siblings will have an honorable retirement, even if there is nothing to be done. They were wounded in Lord Megatron’s name, and in the name of our cause, and they will receive the appropriate honor and care. We will ensure they are happy, and treated with the dignity befitting their service.”

“While the sentiment is appreciated,” said Ratchet, his plating crawling with distaste at the prospect of working with Shockwave, “you belong in berth.”

“You are likely correct,” said Shockwave, making no motion to leave. “Is General Strika—”

“She’ll live,” said Ratchet, trying not to let the exasperation show.

“Good. With the loss of a sparkbond, one must be certain,” said Shockwave and turned to limp back to berth. Ratchet followed him to make sure he didn’t fall, though it was precious little he’d be able to do to stop it. 

“Slipstream,” said Ratchet, “Thundercracker will likely wish to return to active duty. Only his vocalizer is unusable; fortunately, he speaks hand.”

“I’ll find him an appropriate duty,” said Slipstream. “See about the others. When will General Strika regain consciousness?”

“About the same time I let Megatron out of berth,” said Ratchet. “Which is not now!” he added, at the sound of metal on metal. Megatron, already halfway up, froze with an expression of mild consternation. 

“The room has stopped rotating,” he said. 

“Then why are you lurching so much?” said Optimus from behind Megatron’s bulk. 

“Berth now,” said Ratchet. “As soon as your tank drops below 80% capacity, more fuel. You can use pure flightframe grade to top up.”

“Stop coddling me, Autobot,” said Megatron. 

“You’re severely malnourished,” said Ratchet. “And you’re covered in injuries they didn’t bother to properly treat. Don’t you dare scratch that, you’ll damage the nanites—have you any idea how filthy your servos are?”

The way Megatron wilted under that and settled meekly back was some consolation. Ratchet went to collect what he had for notes, and to get to work. 

Chapter Text

“You’re free to move as you please,” Slipstream had told Optimus, looking down at him with folded arms. “Except into areas which require special clearance. Inform Blackout if you wish to visit any of the other ships in the fleet; he arranges the cargo shuttle schedules, which are limited because of fuel requirements. Otherwise, your time is your own. You have limited computer access; no classified data. Your quarters are to your liking?”

The quarters in question were those of a petty officer; small, cramped, dark, but private—and with a private washracks, a shocking luxury. Optimus would have preferred to stay in and brood, but a failed conduit in the bulkhead behind the berth meant he was displaced for several megacycles, and all he could do was wander. 

He’d never expected a Decepticon warship to be so cheerful, or active. Most mecha could have trodden on him and hardly noticed, but aside from the difference in scale, they could have been on an Autobot ship if one went by the bickering in the corridors. 

Granted, fights in the corridors weren’t broken up by senior officers—frag, he’d seen one of the officers rooting for a combatant!—and there was a good deal more snarling, cursing, and cheerful ribaldry than would have ever been permitted aboard an Autobot ship. But it was far from his imagining of dark, gloomy corridors inhabited by sullen brutes. 

And the fleet itself was beautiful. He spent megacycles staring out a viewport at the array of ships. His practiced optic could discern the hastily repaired damage, the dents that wouldn’t still be there on an Autobot vessel, the hasty juryrigs, but it was still beautiful. 

Before he’d had a real idea of what the war had meant, what it had been, what it was like to see another Cybertronian bearing down on you with the full intention of offlining you, what a Decepticon really was, he would have adored this. These ships around him were living history. He’d looked up the conduits, at the serial numbers, and slagged if this particular Conqueror wasn’t the very same one Megatron had commandeered at the beginning of the war, the one he’d led into the Battle of Luna II. There were so many questions he wished he could ask—but he wasn’t here because of the history. 

He was in exile against his will. He had betrayed the Autobots so completely he was welcome among Decepticons, and that was a shame he’d never have the luxury of ignoring. Had Elita felt like this? But that hadn’t been her fault, not like this was his, and the beauty of the ships in orbit before him dimmed.

“We are so much diminished,” said a voice behind him, and he startled. Glanced over his shoulder. 

Megatron stood there, optics hooded, servos folded behind his back. He looked tired, with Ratchet’s handiwork patching his chest. When he shifted his weight, it was with an effort, slow and stiff. 

Optimus said nothing, and fixed his gaze on one of the Conqueror’s companions. 

“Even we cannot live much longer like this,” said Megatron. “No protoforms since that lucky shipment we bought off Lockdown—a necessary obscenity—and a pitiful few at that. We scrounge at the edges of space, harried by the Autobots, by the Galactic Council. And yet, this is preferable.”

“To what?”

“To what you escaped from.” The corner of Megatron’s intake quirked. “Sentinel was not the first, nor the worst, bad leader Cybertron has had.”

“I didn’t escape,” said Optimus. “Ratchet—”

“Yes, lieutenants tend to do that. The good ones, at least.”

“I don’t lead anything!”

“The Autobot Freedom Faction isn’t anything?”

Optimus turned to face him. “Who told you that?”

“Berth rest lends itself well to reading reports,” said Megatron. “You have a silver glossa, Prime. Some of those speeches were indeed very uplifting. Might I have detected some influence of my own writings in your most recent address? I cannot blame you for not being more specific with the citation.”

“I didn’t know they were yours.”

“Of course not,” said Megatron. “Was that why you came to visit me, the second time?”

Optimus looked away. “Yes.”

“Even after you found that I was the author. Lord Megatron, the Emperor of Destruction, you still came to see me. Why would that be, Autobot?”

“Because I didn’t understand how someone who believed in the things you said you did could commit the crimes you did.”

“But surely Autobot Intelligence has not left my writings unaltered,” said Megatron, looking at him with a deeply unsettling light in his optics. “How do you know those sentiments were, indeed, mine?”

“I know propaganda when I see it, thank you,” snapped Optimus. “The inconsistencies were glaring.”

“Fascinating,” said Megatron. “Would you want a copy of the original?”

Optimus hesitated. His curiosity got the better of him. “Yes.”

“I shall leave it at the door of your quarters, then,” said Megatron. “So what so intrigued you, Autobot?”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” Optimus said. “You wrote that, didn’t you? They edited it so it sounded like you wanted to rebut it, but it didn’t sound right.”

Megatron snorted. “Of course they did. Yes, I wrote that.”

“What changed, then? You were going to destroy Earth. Like you leveled Praxus, like you destroyed Luna II.”

“Practicality,” said Megatron. “One cannot put one’s conscience above one’s cause. The cause becomes your conscience. That is what being a good leader means. It means doing anything you must to ensure the welfare of those who follow you. Anything, Autobot, and believe me, at the edges of space, that is not a gentle duty.”

“Like destroying a defenseless planet.”

“If it is a choice between that and the defeat of the Decepticon cause? Yes.”

Optimus recoiled. “That’s wrong. 7 billion innocent lives, for your fragging cause?”

Megatron looked down at him, considering. The silence grew, thick and unpleasant. 

“Think on what defeat and capture meant to Lugnut, Skywarp, Ramjet, Sunstorm, and Thundercracker,” he said at last. “Think on what it so nearly meant to you. To be deliberately injured in such a way is one thing. To be turned against the cause you gave your spark for is another, to be made into someone else’s puppet—no, I cannot take any action that would send a Decepticon to that, not to spare my conscience. Those 7 billion innocent lives did not follow me, had not accepted me as leader, had not placed such trust in me. How could I prioritize them above the lives of those who had?

“You are correct, Autobot. You are in no way a Decepticon. You in no way understand us, or the duties that bind us.”

He turned away, leaving Optimus standing by the viewport. 

“They were still innocent,” Optimus said, more to himself than anyone else, “and that was still wrong. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, Megatron, whether or not it’s convenient.”

Optimus ran into his first real trouble the next joor. 

“I leave for an orn,” said a voice behind him, one startlingly beautiful, “and everything goes absolutely to Pit. That had best be a smudge I see on your shoulder, little one.”

Optimus stared up at the mech in front of him, a tank, almost as big as Strika. Far more slender, though, even with the tank treads mounted on his shoulders. Baleful red optics looked down at him through slits in a mask fashioned to look like a Decepticon emblem. And purple. 

Fanatic, thought Optimus, and took a step back.

“No, stay there,” said the mech, and leaned down. “Well, well. An Autobot, running around the Conqueror? What have things come to?”

Optimus really wanted to take another step back, but every servo in his body seemed to have decided not to listen. So he raised his helm as best he could and leveled a glare at the mech. “Back off,” he said, putting as much authority in his voice as he could manage. 

“What gave you the impression you were in a position to give orders?” said the mech. 

Optimus became aware of a growing discomfort in his spark, a feeling like a closing servo. “I’m here as an ally,” he said, hating the words. 

“We don’t need your help,” said the mech. Optimus gasped shallowly at the sudden bolt of pain through his spark. “We simply don’t need you.”

He couldn’t move, and his spark hurt. Warnings popped up in his HUD, glaring energon-pink. 

“There’s one way you can persuade me not to kill you,” purred the mech, circled behind Optimus. 

Optimus’s backstruts crawled, and an entirely new panic gripped him. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t see him, he could do anything there and he couldn’t fragging move!

“Rip that badge off,” said the mech’s voice, just by his audial. The pressure on his spark relaxed, just a little. A finger tapped his shoulder. “Just there. I know yours come off, Autobot. Remove it. It’s an offense to the Decepticon Cause, one of those here. You dared appear before Lord Megatron wearing that?”

Optimus stayed where he was, looked straight ahead even though the sense of filled space at his back made him want to purge his tanks. “I will not,” he said. “I am here as an ally. Not a Decepticon.”

The other mech’s snarl was agony. 

An energy bolt whined past Optimus’s audial, and the mech let out a yelp. Optimus could move again. He threw himself forward and away from the mech, as a second bold slammed into the mech’s midsection, throwing him down the corridor like a doll. 

Optimus looked up from his place on the decking. Slipstream lowered her null-ray and stalked down the corridor, kicked the mech hard in the faceplate as he attempted to rise. 

He tried to surge upright, stumbled halfway up and doubled over, clutching his midsection. Energon gleamed between his digits. 

“Oh, don’t whine,” snapped Slipstream. “That’s hardly a meshwound.”

The mech settled back. “Commander Slipstream, you overstep.”

“No,” said Slipstream. “You overstep, Tarn. I’m following Lord Megatron’s orders. Do I need to call him down here, or does this stay between us?”

After a moment, Tarn lowered his helm. “Very well,” he said. 

“I’m glad you understood,” said Slipstream. “Optimus, Lord Megatron and General Strika want to see us.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus, once they were well out of hearing range. 

Slipstream smiled down at him, a tight, satisfied expression. “Strika warned me I might have to do that. Have a care where you walk, little Autobot. I might not happen by in time again.”

Optimus’s tank still rolled uneasily. He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the edge of near panic. He flinched when another mech passed behind them. “How soon do they need us? Have I time—”

“Yes,” said Slipstream. “One megacycle, somewhat less urgent than I made it sound to Tarn. I swear, the mech only listens to sentences with the word ‘Megatron’ in them. Everything aches, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Optimus, with more feeling than he’d intended. The ache was the least of the problems on his processor. 

“Tarn does that. He can manipulate sparks and frames with his voice, and it’s an absolute pain in the thrusters to get him to do anything he doesn’t want to.” 

Optimus glanced at her, realized distantly she was trembling. She’d been scared too. 

“Here, your quarters,” she said. “You know the way to the medical bay, and Ratchet can come get you if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus, and fled into the little dark room in time to purge his tanks into the washrack drain. He stayed like that several seconds, then curled up with his back pressed firmly against the wall. He scrubbed a servo over his faceplate. 

“Just a Decepticon,” he said to himself. “Just a Decepticon. I’ve fought them before, it’s not any different…”

He pressed the heels of his servos against his optics, groaned. The sick fear hadn’t gone away, and he couldn’t stop shaking. The acrid scent of tank purge drifted up to him and he lurched forward, caught the controls of the washracks on the second try, then huddled under the stream of lukewarm cleanser. 

“I can’t do this!” he cried after a moment, and struck the bulkhead with a fist, startling himself with the noise and the sudden pain. He cradled his helm in his servos again. “I can’t do this,” he repeated, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking about breaking down like a newbuild in the washracks of a Decepticon warship just before he was supposed to meet with Megatron, or about being…whatever Ratchet and the others seemed to expect him to be. “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this,” he said, all at once. The pressure of his servos was painful, but it somehow pulled him back to the present, to where he was. “I can’t fragging do this.”

A long pause, as he thought of the warm little base on Earth, about his team. 

“I want to go home.” He shocked himself by saying it, by how much he meant it, and he closed his optics and rocked with the cleanser running down his faceplate, holding the memory of the base like a lifeline. 

Chapter Text

Optimus looked rough when he stopped by the kid’s quarters, but since he didn’t seem much interested in answering questions, Ratchet didn’t press the matter.

Now they were all seated around Strika’s berth—Strika herself still on strict berth rest, as Ratchet still didn’t like the behavior of her spark—and all optics were on him. Slipstream and Megatron in particular. 

“Well, medic?” said Megatron, more a purr than anything else. “So what have you and Strika been about in our absence?”

Strika looked down at Ratchet, optics narrowed with amusement. “An alliance,” she said. “With a dissident faction of Autobots…and the future Prime.”

“The future Prime?” said Slipstream, sounding puzzled.

Ratchet gestured at Optimus, who recoiled, optics flaring with alarm. “What? No!”

“It’s not impossible, kid,” Ratchet said. “Remember—”

Megatron stood up all at once, bringing a fist down on the berth. “No!” he snarled, and even Strika flinched. “Slagged if I will put a Prime on Cybertron’s throne! Slagged if I will restore such tyranny!” He rounded on Strika who squared her shoulders with an obvious effort. “You should have left me to offline,” he spat. “Or be used as a gibbering puppet by the Autobots. I will not restore a Prime. I will not perpetuate that system that murdered so many of our brothers and sisters. I will never restore us to such a barbaric system. What was your next suggestion, Strika, that I allow myself to be made Lord Protector and smiling submit to that Autobot whelp in action and in berth?”

Optimus flinched violently and looked like he was going to purge. Ratchet got to his stabilizers as well. “If you would be so kind as to stop shouting for two ventilations together, Megatron,” he said, “we might discuss this like civilized mecha.”

Megatron leaned over him. “Civilized?” he said, a dangerous purr. “What, do you wish to civilize me, Autobot? Is this your great plan?”

Ratchet stamped down the terror and mustered a sardonic glare. “No. You’d be rubbish at cocktail parties.”

The Earth term silenced and confused the other Decepticons, except Slipstream. There was something like a giggle from her direction. 

“Cybertron doesn’t need a Prime,” said Ratchet. “But the Autobots will want one. Have a Prime, or a candidate-to-Prime, fighting alongside you, and the Autobots will be a lot more amenable to peace.”

“The Autobots,” said Megatron. “You mean to ally the AFF with the Decepticons, don’t you.”

“Face it,” said Ratchet. “You need us. This grand fleet of yours couldn’t kick the skidplate of an overcharged turbofox, and I’m sure that’s exactly what you have crewing half the battlecruisers.”

“So we ally with you. How do we know you won’t return to business as usual the moment we stop fighting? We have little reason to trust Autobots.”

“And we have little reason to trust Decepticons,” said Ratchet. “Optimus and I are deactivated if we return to Cybertron. Sentinel is cracking down on the AFF. Regulations are getting stricter, and I’d be very surprised if we weren’t about to see a return to Functionalist policies. In short, even if Optimus wasn’t around to support you, you’d look like a slagged good option right now. They’re scared, Megatron. They see what happened to you and the other warbuilds coming down the pipe to them.”

Megatron looked thoughtful. 

“Ratchet,” said Optimus, very quietly, a world of warning in his voice, “I will not betray my oaths.”

Oh no. Oh no, oh no. Kid this is not the place to say that!

“You brought me into this against my will,” Optimus said. “I took the fall for you when you were caught consorting with them. I allowed them to blame me to keep you safe. And now you want me to help the Decepticons? It’s bad enough that everyone thinks I’m a traitor! I won’t make that a reality!”

“Kid,” said Ratchet, “Name me one thing Sentinel’s done that’s been morally defensible.”

“I am not helping Megatron take over Cybertron! That’s what Prowl died to stop!”

“I don’t think Prowl died to let Pharma experiment on political prisoners,” said Ratchet. “I don’t think he gave his spark so Sentinel could do anything he wanted, or so Autobot enforcers could shoot peaceful protesters.”

“And how many people will the Decepticons kill if we win?” said Optimus. “You want a Decepticon-controlled Cybertron, Megatron, I heard you say so myself. I’m supposed to protect the civilians, not hand them over to your whims!”

“And what about the people who followed you and are now being attacked by your comrades in the Elite Guard?” asked Ratchet. “You were as outraged as I at what happened to Lugnut. You knew we needed reform.”

“But not theirs!” said Optimus, and gestured at Megatron and Slipstream, both of whose intakes were curled in disgust. 

Ratchet lost his temper. He rose, seized a datapad, and pushed into Optimus’s servos. “Here. Watch that, you stubborn drippan.”

Optimus did. 

Ratchet only managed to keep his faceplate still because he’d seen that footage before. Neither Megatron nor Optimus had, and as Megatron leaned over Optimus’s shoulder, Ratchet could see his expression change to one of strictly repressed rage. 

“That’s what happened while we’ve been gone,” said Ratchet. “Those were your followers, in a peaceful protest, which was brutally repressed by the Elite Guard. They won’t release the casualty report, but we know at least 60 mecha have been imprisoned. Political prisoners, like you. Do you want to take chances on what will happen to them?”

“This is all too familiar,” said Megatron, a quiet rumble. “You may not want to be a Decepticon, little Autobot, but your followers are being treated as we were at the outset of our war.”

“Think about Omega and Sari,” said Ratchet. “And what MRD’s done.”

Optimus turned an agonized faceplate to them, put the datapad down carefully on the berth. “I need some time,” he said, and staggered from the room. 

Megatron lifted the datapad and looked at it a long time. “They must believe in him a great deal to risk this.”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “We all do. We all did.”

Megatron’s intake quirked. “Indeed. He did inspire your little team to defy me.”

Optimus pressed both servos over his optics, wished he could purge the memory from his databanks. How could they be so stupid? How could they believe so much in him? He’d only made a few speeches. He was a failure. Everyone should have known that. 

No casualty report. Sixty imprisoned. 

It was going to get worse, he knew it. People would get angry, and Sentinel would panic, and the people would lose. He knew the Elite Guard. Civilians wouldn’t stand a chance. Protests didn’t work if no one powerful enough cared. They just got people dead. 

Had Megatron felt like this, at the beginning of the war? He didn’t want to become Megatron. But turning his back on something he started, that was wrong. Even if he could say, “I didn’t mean it,” with the slightest degree of honesty—and he couldn’t—they wouldn’t stop. They’d find someone else.  

They believed in him and he owed them for that. He wondered if that was what Megatron had meant about a leader’s duty. Megatron took it too far but he was wrong. Optimus did understand it, had understood it back on Earth with his team. 

He wished Prowl were here. Prowl would have known what was right, not what was expedient, but Ratchet was damned right about one thing; Prowl would never have wanted innocents attacked, would have said the side that did that was the enemy. 

I have to do this, he realized. For them. I can’t walk away now and abandon them. 

The idea of allying with the Decepticons was loathsome, made his plating crawl, but the alternative—

—sparking servo in a puddle of energon, civilian screams, blasterfire, an enforcer laughing—

—the alternative was unacceptable. He had not taken oath to support that sort of thing. The Decepticons were not currently attacking civilians. They were offering help. If they reneged on that bargain, he’d deal with that when it happened. In the meantime, saving sparks took precedence. 

Besides, he thought, grimly amused, I did fight Megatron once before. I guess it won’t be as bad the second time, right? 

For the first time in a long time, he felt more like himself. 

“I’ll do it,” he said, as the medical bay doors closed behind him. He squared his shoulders under the scrutiny of four pairs of optics, only one of them blue. “You were right. I do owe them.”

He walked forward, keeping his back straight and his helm up. “But I have conditions.”

Megatron smirked. “As do I, Autobot. What are your conditions?”

“If we win, you’re not taking complete control. We will hold free elections as soon as possible.”

“Free elections,” said Megatron, flat. 

“A human tradition we would do well to adopt,” said Optimus. “In the interim government, Autobots and Decepticons must have equal standing. And there will be no civilian casualties, or summary executions.”

“All reasonable,” said Megatron. “As for mine, I will not tolerate a return to the conditions before the war. Warframes will be granted equal rights, and form will not dictate function. No class restrictions. No castes.”

“No arrests without warrants, or trials without the accused being allowed fair representation.”

“And if you become Prime…” Megatron’s optics flicked to Ratchet, and the words you had better not hung on the air, “I shall take an equal role. Not that of Protector; I want nothing to do with the traditional requirements of that position.”

“Understood,” said Optimus, suppressing a lurch of sick panic at the mere mention of that subject, and equally strong relief that Megatron was just as repulsed as he. What little he’d read about Primes and Protectors seemed to agree every pair had shared a sparkbond.

He did not want that degree of intimacy, with anyone, let alone Megatron. 

“The particulars can be worked out later,” said Ratchet. “For now, we need to make a statement. We need to announce the alliance, scare the scrap out of Sentinel, and let our Autobots know that there is a place they can find safety.”

Optimus stared at the pickup, kept himself at attention, as Megatron made his part of the announcement. 

“—and to protect the cause which I have championed, I have found it appropriate to accept the offer of alliance that the Autobot Freedom Faction, headed by Optimus, has made. Despite our differences, the defiance and the courage of the AFF and its leader has impressed upon me the fact that we are, for all the crimes Autobot Command has committed, one species, and while our allies may be small, within their sparks beats the warrior spirit of all true Cybertronians.”

Megatron was looking at him, motioning to him, and Optimus stepped up. “Fellow Autobots, it was with great trepidation that I made the decision to offer this alliance. But I believe that the evils which you are even now suffering are far greater than any Megatron—or any other Decepticon—offers. 

“It was only a few megacycles ago that I saw the footage of the protest—not a riot, as the Elite Guard has insisted on calling it—in the square before the Primal Basilica. There, on the most holy ground of our planet, peaceful protesters were brutally attacked by the Elite Guard. Some were certainly offlined. At least sixty were imprisoned, and having been a prisoner of the selfsame regime myself, I may only hope that their treatment is kinder than mine was. 

“We cannot tolerate this. We cannot, even by silence, support a government capable of such cruelties to its people. We have come to a choice: we may either submit to the humiliations that Sentinel Magnus’s regime would see fit to subject us to, voiceless and helpless, or we may fight. After my treatment, after seeing the treatment you are subjected to, I believe the latter is the correct path. 

“I swore to defend the innocent from those who would oppress them. Now, the oppressors are not Decepticons, but the very people who swore the same oath I did. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, and one that has been denied us Autobots for far too long.

“In light of this, I agreed to an alliance with the Decepticon Empire. I believe this our best chance at survival. I have negotiated an extensive treaty with Megatron. The stipulations include requirements for: no trials in absentia, no arrests without warrants, fair treatment of prisoners, and equal Decepticon and Autobot representation in the interim government. 

“To all those who have followed me, at the risk of their freedoms and their sparks, I send this message. There is a home here, waiting for those who can no longer tolerate injustice, for the voiceless, for the wronged, for the wounded, for the innocent looking for safety, for anyone seeking safe harbor. We are here. We are waiting.”

Chapter Text

Act III

And bridges back have all been burned

And freedom has been duly earned

I’ll remember why I’ve come,

Remember where I’m coming from

--Katzenjammer, I Will Dance

“You know a sparkbond would cement the alliance beyond question,” said Strika, some time later. Megatron looked up from the report he was perusing and glared at her. 

Strika pushed herself into a better position. “It’s something you need to consider,” she said. “There is always the chance that this alliance will fall to bits the first time we go into battle. We can’t afford that.”

“Neither of us wants a sparkbond, Strika,” said Megatron. There was an edge to it. It sounded like he was only barely keeping his temper. 

Strika snorted. “My job is to offer you advice, not cater to what you do or don’t want to hear. That’s Lugnut’s job.” 

A sudden horrified moment of silence, as she realized what she said and the empty place in her spark hurt. She looked away, trying to channel that hurt into rage, as any good Decepticon might, and it was harder than it should have been. 

A warm servo touched the back of hers. She glanced at Megatron, who withdrew his servo as abruptly as he’d placed it, as uncomfortable with physical touch as ever. 

“Lugnut will be missed,” he said, voice rough. “But you understand why I cannot.”

“That was three million years ago,” said Strika, knowing she was pushing Megatron, and that it needed to be done. “He wouldn’t want this.”

There was a warning growl in Megatron’s voice. “It is less what I imagine he would have wanted than what I can bear. He is deactivated, Strika, and I will not feel another die in my spark.” He paused, obviously mastering himself. If she were Starscream, Strika strongly suspected she would have caught a servo upside the helm by now. “Besides, the little Autobot is repulsed by the very idea, as much as I am. That is what matters.”

“Nevertheless. It is something to keep in processor.” 

He frowned at her. She went back to reading as if nothing had happened, and with a grumble, he settled back to his work as well. 

Refugees trickled in. 

Not many, not at first, only the truly desperate. Ratchet found himself repairing some truly ugly wounds, ones left untreated for long periods. 

“Can’t go to the hospitals,” said one minibot, as Ratchet carefully welded a seeping gash on his helm. He flexed his new arm, frowning at the mismatched appendage. Even Ratchet’s skill hadn’t been enough to save it, not with the damage inflicted. “They turn you in, and the Elite Guard’s worse than taking your chances with offlining.”

Ratchet grumbled at that. “Come see me if you have any difficulty with stability or helmaches. Go with him, he’ll show you to your quarters.”

“I was just doing my job!” shrilled a newsbot, when Ratchet asked him how he’d sustained his injury. “Documenting a protest. Next thing I know, there’s this enforcer yanking my microphone out! It’s deep wired! I lodged a formal protest and the newsservice terminated my contract. They were watching me. I had to go.”

“I’ll see if I can find a replacement,” said Ratchet. “Don’t hold your vents, though.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” said an Enforcer, sitting glumly in the exam room. He was relatively unmarked. “They told me to shoot civilians. That’s not what you’re supposed to do. And turning them over? Frag that. Elite Guard’s worse than the ‘cons. I fought in the war. Wasn’t for this.”

“Same here,” said Ratchet. “You’re clean. Go with Tailspin over there. He’ll show you to your quarters.”

To his shock, Ambulon made an appearance, with one of the nurses, First Aid, in tow. He didn’t say a word as he was checked. First Aid said plenty. 

“It’s not right,” he said. “None of what we were doing was right.”

“Then why do it for so long?” said Ratchet, too angry not to ask. 

“Ambulon had to,” said First Aid. “They were watching him. He used to be a Decepticon, you know. He had to.”

“And why did you?” said Ratchet. 

First Aid’s chin lifted, and his visor flashed. “I go where he does,” he said. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

Wonderful. Lovebirds, as the humans would say. Ratchet shooed the little nurse out and put in a request to have the two of them transferred to the medical bay. 

“They’ll be under my direct supervision,” he told Strika. “And I’ll be watching them to make sure they don’t get up to anything.”

“I should prefer to rip their sparks out,” said Strika, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, a bald statement of the obvious. “After what they did to Lugnut and the others—”

“I wasn’t exactly innocent there, either,” said Ratchet. 

Strika snorted. “Don’t give yourself airs, Autobot. They appropriated your research, they used the scalpels. You weren’t nearly that important.”

“Which they couldn’t have done without my work,” said Ratchet.

“Stop trying to give me reasons to offline you,” said Strika, an edge in her voice. “Why, exactly, should I spare them?”

“I need more help in the medical bay. I’m all but snowed under and that’s with this caseload. Allspark help us if there’s an actual battle. We’re the only functional medical bay in the fleet, Strika, and the trained medical staff here is a grand total of me. Acid Storm is a great mech but he’s a chemist and he’s fragging well lost here. I need these mecha, and I need more. If you can find anyone you don’t want in combat, send them to me.”

“I will see,” said Strika. She turned to go. “And Ratchet?”

“Yes?” 

“I meant it about the research.” She paused. “If you must guilt yourself, then fix the problem, but don’t you dare come looking to me for absolution. I won’t grant it.”

The Autobot arrivals all wanted to talk to him. He couldn’t understand it. 

They all kept calling him Prime. 

And none of them seemed to realize that they hadn’t a filing’s hope in a smelting pit of winning. 

Even Optimus, who had managed to hold off the Decepticons with nothing more than a spacebridge repair team, knew slagged well that the current force he and Megatron commanded was no match for the Elite Guard. 

A handful had joined. Ten mecha, now, with one or two trickling in. Very few officers. Mostly political. 

They weren’t going to win. He was going to lead a group that trusted him into defeat. This was foolish. Never mind it was the right thing, it wasn’t going to work, and working with the Decepticons could only get them into more trouble. 

He could hope that more mecha would come but he didn’t want to bet on it. How had Megatron found such support? How long would it take to coax a ragtag group of scared Autobots into some semblance of structure? If they were indeed going to war, they needed enough strength to be able to defy the Decepticons if such a necessity arose. 

Bumblebee and Bulkhead had yet to turn up.

That realization alone made Optimus’s spark hurt. Of course it wouldn’t be fair to expect them to go against the Elite Guard and Sentinel for his sake. They’d had nothing to do with the Autobot Freedom Faction. They’d barely even spoken since he’d been removed from power. 

He ex-vented, heavily, and began the long walk back to his quarters. 

Halfway there, he found Megatron leaning heavily against a wall, looking at the door with a fixed intensity that seemed out of place.

“Megatron?”

Megatron flinched upright, flinched again as the movement set off the door. 

“Optimus,” he said. 

“Do you require assistance?” said Optimus.

“No,” said Megatron. “No. Leave me.”

Optimus gave him a deeply suspicious look. Megatron glanced at him, then away. 

“It is, at times, difficult to remember that I am able to open the doors on my own,” he said, as if he grudged every word. 

Optimus mustered a weak smile. “It’s the privacy for me,” he admitted.

“The privacy of my own processor sufficed, after a time,” said Megatron. His mouth twisted. “When they saw fit to allow me that much.”

“I am sorry,” said Optimus. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” said Megatron. “You were as betrayed as I.”

“I chose to deliver you to that fate,” said Optimus.

Megatron looked at him. “Yes,” he said, “you did.”

Optimus ducked his helm. There was a silence.

“I will see you tomorrow,” said Megatron. “I believe we have a strategy meeting.”

“Yes,” said Optimus. “We do.”

“Good,” said Megatron, straightened. “I will see you there.”

He strode off, leaving Optimus with the dawning realization that he’d just repeated himself. 

Chapter Text

Strika watched the scene across the mess hall from her with amusement, Slipstream talking with Windblade, her wings held at a carefully neutral slant with such care they trembled with it. Windblade seemed unaware of her companion’s anxiety. 

“Not the worst alliance we could make,” she said, not looking, as Megatron sat down next to her. A movement to her right stopped her, Ratchet arriving. 

“What’s this about an alliance?” he said, settling himself.

“Strika is playing matchmaker,” said Megatron, downed his fuel in one long pull, settled back, leaning his chin on a servo. 

“I don’t have to,” said Strika, nudging her half-finished cube over to him. She couldn’t stand another swallow in any case. “Slipstream is doing enough of that for me. Personal connections. Stronger than any legal contract, my lord. Someone will have to have the talk about sparkbonding with her, though, and the one about amica.”

“Not it,” said Ratchet. 

Megatron, with an apparent effort of will, nudged the cube back. “You need that,” he said.

“No,” said Strika. “I don’t. I’m adequately fueled.”

“Shuttlescrap,” said Ratchet. “Frag’s sake, Strika, you’re 25% bigger than he is, you can’t run on—” he eyed the cube, “—30% less fuel. Drink up, orders from your physician.”

Strika eyed the cube, too. Its contents seemed singularly unattractive. She was running within acceptable parameters. “Does this mean I have to give her the talk?”

“I would prefer not to,” said Megatron. “I do believe that would be more appropriate coming from her medic or her mentor, not her commanding officer. It would embarrass both of us.” He frowned at both of them.

“Not it,” said Ratchet again. 

Strika raised the cube to her intake, paused before sliding the mandibular components aside from over the intake tube. “You’re a medic.”

“And you know her better. You’re her mom, deal with it.”

A moment of confusion. “Earth term?”

“Earth term. Implied parental obligation.”

“Like organics.” Strika put the cube down. “Disgusting.”

“I’ve known some perfectly wonderful organics,” said Ratchet. “So has Optimus.” He shifted aside to accommodate Optimus, who had just arrived. “Drink your damn fuel, Strika. Good morning, Optimus.”

“Mmmmph,” said Optimus, realized his company, and said, “Good morning,” before attending to his fuel. 

“New refugee ship due in today,” said Ratchet. “Quite a few.”

“Good,” said Optimus. “Megatron, I took a look at the spacebridge yesterday. It’s not in good shape.”

“What would you suggest?” said Megatron. 

“Bulkhead’s assistance,” said Optimus, looking down at his servos. Even Strika could see the misery and anxiety in every line of the little bot’s frame. “I’ll see what I can do, however.” 

“That would be much appreciated,” said Megatron. “Holding this bridge may mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

“Yes,” said Optimus. “Indeed.”

“Well while you diplomats are accomplishing great things, I have a ship full of refugees to attend to,” said Ratchet, and heaved himself to his stabilizers. “Strika, your fuel. Drink it.”

Strika grumbled and raised the cube to her intake again.

The fuel tasted like slag. She had no desire to speak of to ingest the stuff.

After a moment, she pushed it back into Megatron’s servos and left before he could protest.

 Jazz hated these meetings. 

“So you’re telling everything we’re doing is useless?” snapped Sentinel, leaning forward over the table. “They’re still protesting?”

At least he wasn’t getting the brunt of it this time. Poor Sides, Ironhide’s replacement, was. The SIC of the Elite Guard slumped in his seat and looked like he wished he could continue on through the floor. 

“We’ve tried everything,” he said. “Really, sir. Even deadly force. I advised against—”

“I believe they’re protesting the countermeasures now,” said someone else, impossible to tell who. Sentinel glanced around the table, did not find the culprit. 

“Then try something else!” he spat. “Obviously, none of you have done enough. Serves me right for attempting this with a group of incompetent gaskets.”

“You could try letting them protest,” said Jazz, tracing patterns on the desk with a servo. He didn’t dignify Sentinel with a glance. 

“That’s what got Intelligence relieved of protest containment in the first place,” said Sentinel. “I hope you realize this is your fault, Jazz.”

Jazz pursed his intake and still didn’t look up. “I might be more inclined to implicate the discontented officer who defected in the first place in that, sir.”

For a moment he wondered if Sentinel would have Sideswipe arrest him. A sidelong glance certainly showed Sentinel vibrating with ill-contained rage. 

“Enough of this,” Sentinel said at last, throwing himself back in his chair hard enough to make it creak. “I want solutions. Real suggestions, people. How to stop these traitors, and keep them from converting anyone else. Offline them on sight. Arrest anyone who has contact with them. I don’t care if you have to burn half of Iacon. Don’t come back until you’ve got real answers for me! Dismissed!”

As the others snapped to attention, then filed out, Sentinel said, “Not you, Jazz.”

Jazz’s tanks lurched. Frag. This couldn’t be good. At least he knew Sentinel didn’t have anyone to replace him. 

The doors swished shut. Sentinel was silent a moment, looking down. “Do you know what Decepticons do to Autobot prisoners, Jazz?”

Jazz knew pretty slagged well—those were his operatives who came back in prices. He was willing to bet Sentinel’s ideas, like those he spouted about organics, were a great deal more

more colorful than reality. 

“Poor Optimus,” said Sentinel, in a tone of such false sympathy it made Jazz’s plating crawl. There was a nasty note of satisfaction there, a certain righteousness that did not sit at all well with Jazz. “If he’s very lucky, he’s Megatron’s personal toy. If not…” He glanced up. “More propaganda, Jazz. Make sure people know these things. It’s their right, after all. And be a bit more creative. Your last campaign was lackluster, to say the least.”

“Yes sir,” said Jazz, and went. 

He was an Autobot. He would remain an Autobot until he offlined. The Decepticons could not be allowed to take Cybertron, and if the price of that was having to work around Sentinel, so be it. 

But right now, Sentinel was too universally disliked to maintain. Jazz smirked to himself. He’d had a recorder on him throughout the meeting. Applied correctly, it should be enough to convince the necessary parties that Sentinel was a liability. The Council was smart enough to realize that a Magnus giving orders to kill his own people wasn’t tenable. 

There are always options, Ratchet, he thought, with a flash of anger. But you had go make the grand stupid gesture, didn’t you?

If Ratchet had just waited, they would have been able to work together without opening the Autobots to Decepticon attack. Without betraying everything they’d fought for. Jazz opened his office, pulled the recorder out and frowned down at it viciously. 

This was a fragging mess. Now they didn’t have to worry about unrest, but defections to the Decepticons, defections, quite possibly, carrying valuable information. Oh, he’d sent a few undercover agents off as well, but they seemed incapable of uncovering information of value. He was willing to believe General Strika was the cause of that. 

From behind his desk, someone reset their vocalizer.

Jazz looked up. 

The lights in the office were off, the window shuttered, and there was somebot sitting behind his desk. 

“I’ll have that recorder,” the bot said, a femme’s voice. “Please slide it across the desk, then turn and face the wall.”

“Why should I?” said Jazz. “Don’t think holding a blaster on me is sufficient.” He carefully didn’t reach for his nunchucks. There wouldn’t be time to use them. 

“No blaster,” said the voice. “Everyone has pressure points. Yours is simply unusual.”

“What are you saying?” Jazz tensed. 

“Prowl,” said the voice. “You want him to be remembered well, don’t you? In the current climate, it would be so very easy to make sure he is not. If Optimus defected, who can be trusted?”

Jazz’s tanks lurched. But Prowl would not have allowed his memory to be used as an excuse for cowardice. “Won’t work.”

“Even if it’s your own memories at stake?” said the voice, and something in the gloom clicked. “Everyone has an ability, Jazz. Optimus had his grapplers, Ratchet his electromagnets, certain deceased cadets their abilities to copy other’s functions.”

Something shot out of the dark. Jazz dodged to the side, was met by another something, thin and whiplike. 

Then the weight of the bot herself slammed him to the ground. She was big, Decepticon-big, and there were far too many limbs involved. He opened his intake to call for help, reached for emergency comms, but a servo slammed over his intake and he only received static. 

Something pressed to his helm, over his left audial. 

“I’ll take that,” said the bot above him. His fingers were pried apart, the recorder wrenched free. There was a crunch. “Very good. As I was saying, abilities.” A cold little huff of ventilation. “I hack people.”

“Too bad,” snapped Jazz. “Intelligence bot. You won’t be getting any data off my drives.”

The bot snickered. “I wouldn’t be getting data off your drives,” she said. “I’d be putting it on. You’d never be able to trust your memories of Prowl again. I could make you hate him.”

Jazz snarled and thrashed. 

“Don’t move against Sentinel Magnus,” said the bot. “Unless you want to see me.”

A stasis cuff clicked over his wrist, shocking him still. 

“Don’t do anything stupid now,” said the bot, and the weight on him vanished. 

Optimus cupped his servos around his intake and bellowed. As close to a bellow as he could manage. It was much more of a scream, if he was to be honest. “LEFT PYLON! THE SHIELD GENERATOR GOES ON THE LEFT!” At least there was some atmosphere on this asteroid, though if he resorted to comms, they wouldn’t have an excuse to pretend not to hear him.

“You appear to be having an interesting morning,” said Megatron’s voice behind him, cooly amused. 

Optimus let out a huff of irritation, not turning from surveying the spacebridge. “The most strategic approach to this position is on the right,” he said. “It only makes sense to place the generator on the other side of the spacebridge from it, and as moving said generator does not affect spacebridge function, there is no reason not to. Unfortunately,” he glared at the crew working on the bridge, Decepticons all, and they snickering, “no bot seems to be listening.”

Megatron followed his gaze. “Apparently,” he said, and stepped forward. “Decepticons,” he said and the crew on the bridge froze and looked down, suddenly sheepish. Optimus was impressed. He hadn’t even raised his voice. 

“Lord Megatron,” said someone, in an oh slag we’re screwed sort of tone. “Uh, we didn’t hear you approach—”

“Why are you ignoring our ally and your superior officer?”

Dead silence. 

“You will treat Optimus with the respect he deserves,” Megatron said. “No less. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a ragged chorus of assent.

“See that you remember to,” said Megatron. “Please proceed, Optimus.”

He sauntered away—and it certainly was a saunter, there was no other way of putting it, not with the smirk—paused briefly, and transformed, taking off with a roar of engines. 

Optimus realized he’d been staring, turned around hastily with energon hot in his faceplate. The spacebridge crew were looking at him. He reset his vocalizer. “Right. As I was saying, place the shield generator on the right pylon of the bridge, not the left—and look out for that relay, it’s not ready to carry a charge!” He started on his way up again. This time, no one tried to shoo him away.

How had Megatron done it? He hadn’t raised his voice, he hadn’t offered physical harm, just… lectured them, like a lot of ill-behaved protoforms. Completely different than his command technique on Earth. Completely different from how Optimus had been taught a commander functioned, much more like how he’d tried, out of necessity, to command on Earth. He’d thought it was simply because he couldn’t make the right decisions while maintaining the proper behavior of a commander, or because he simply lacked…something. That he was inherently too flawed to be capable of commanding in the proper manner. 

But Megatron had used the same techniques, scolding the crew as Optimus would have scolded Bumblebee. And it had worked. 

He glanced back over his shoulder again, though Megatron had long since vanished. Primus, but he wanted to be able to do that!

Chapter Text

Strika folded her servos across her chest and glared at the holodisplay. Three Autobot ships were on the approach—and had already sent messages declaring peaceful intentions. One of them was small, the sort of shuttle all the other refugees had arrived in. 

The other two were big enough to be warships. They weren’t close enough to get a good scan of their weapons, but they made her nervous. It didn’t fit. Not unless a large chunk of the Elite Guard intended to defect, and as stupid as Sentinel was, she wasn’t about to bet sparks on him being that stupid. 

On the other hand, if those were full of refugees, Megatron would have her plating for blowing them up. Optimus too. Impractically heroic, the both of them. 

The door slid open, and speaking of sparkeaters, there was Megatron in the doorway with his servos behind his back. “General,” he said. 

“My lord,” Strika responded, straightening up. Those ships were still three megacycles out; there was time for whatever calamity Megatron had managed in the megacycle or so since she last saw him. 

Megatron produced a container of fuel. “Drink,” he said. “I will keep you company.”

Strika stared, voiced the first protest to come to processor. “But rations—”

“A small price to ensure my General of Destruction is fit for duty.”

The sheer bearings of it all made her shake her helm—this was the sort of slag Lugnut used to pull when he thought she was working too hard, no matter how she snarled at him for it. The thought hurt, and she looked back down at the holodisplay and the Autobot warship vanishing into one of the pixelated bits. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know. There’s not much of it. Fuel.”

“I don’t want to.” As soon as the words were out of her vocalizer, she realized she sounded like a petulant protoform and fanned her armor out in instinctive hostile embarrassment. She didn’t care if he took that as insubordinate. A good fight—even though it would certainly end badly for her—was exactly what she wanted. 

“Strika,” he said, his voice worryingly reasonable, “you know it’s necessary. We had this conversation before,” and there was still the faintest hitch in his voice, “about Terminus.”

“So you have some idea of repaying that debt?” she said, glowering at him. “What a compliment to be sure, my lord.”

“Stop being provoking,” he said, put the cube down on the edge of the table in front of her. “I’m not fighting you. I know slagged well that what worked on Starscream has the opposite effect on you. Yes, I am repaying that debt. Drink, please.”

“You’re spending too much time around the Autobots,” she grumbled, staring at the cube. “What about you, my lord? You must be hungry.”

“I am,” he said. “But I know I’m fully fueled. It will cease being an issue once I am accustomed to regular, high quality fuel. At least, so Ratchet tells me.”

Strika reached to take the cube. “I have work to do.”

“Yes,” he said. “Fuel and get back to it.”

“Fine,” she snarled, shifted her mandibular components so quickly the servos ached in protest, and gulped the cube down. To her shock, her tank didn’t try to reject it, as she’d been certain it would. She handed the cube back. 

His smug expression made her want to punch him. “Fuel regularly,” he said. “I need you at full capacity.”

Strika looked back at the ships in the holodisplay. “We should have attempted your rescue sooner,” she said, not sure if she was trying to hurt herself or him more with her words. “We would have Starscream’s clones, and Lugnut, if we had, and you wouldn’t be—” she made a vague gesture. 

“There was no possibility.” There was an edge in his voice now, barely restrained anger. “You would have, if there was the faintest possibility of success. You are too good a commander otherwise. And I would rather all of us had offlined at the servos of those Autobots than have the Cause imperiled by your loss.”

That was as good as saying she was a worthy successor. Strika couldn’t meet his optics. If Megatron thought that… 

“I said as much to Lugnut,” Megatron went on. “He was very proud.”

He would have been. Her consort may have had his flaws, but his ability to enjoy a loved one’s successes was not one. 

They’d known from the start that their relationship would aways be second. Second to the Cause, second to their love and loyalty to Megatron. It still worked. The Cause could destroy a mech with its demands and sparkbreak; they had found a comfortable, undemanding love in each other. Lugnut had been something she could go home to, relax, a love that didn’t hurt. She didn’t realize how much that mattered, not until he was taken. 

Megatron’s words did help, because she did know Lugnut. That would have been a comfort to him. 

Decepticons didn’t waste time on maudlin displays. “We have a potential problem, my lord,” she said, pointed to the holodisplay. “They say they’re refugee ships. I doubt it.”

Megatron frowned at the moving dots. “I agree. But if they are potential allies…”

“We cannot fire on them.” Strika fanned her armor with a growl. “Of course.”

“Get Optimus up here,” said Megatron. “If he can’t give us useful information, at least he won’t be able to accuse us of anything.”

As he supervised spacebridge repairs and refugee duties, Optimus found himself thinking more and more about Elita. 

Her face was still clear in his memory, the tolerant amusement she’d regarded both him and Sentinel with, the little half-smile when she was preoccupied but listening to them. She’d been the perfect balancing point, adventurous enough to prod him out of his comfort zone, sensible enough to curtail Sentinel’s more foolish ideas. Sentinel listened to her, Optimus listened to her. With her there, their trust in her had extended to each other. 

Cybertronians like order, need order, their instructors had said. In any group of us, even if it’s only two, there will be a leader. Remove that leader, and all goes to rust.

Elita had been their leader. It was Optimus’s fault they lost her. In light of that, the hardest thing he’d ever done was standing up to Sentinel back on Earth. He’d spent so long believing that yes, he deserved Sentinel’s treatment because he’d been responsible for Elita’s deactivation. A long talk with Ratchet afterward had helped, he supposed, at least a little. Ratchet had denounced his instructors’ ideas of order with remarkable profanity. 

Hearing it and believing it were two totally different things.

The Decepticons seemed to agree with Ratchet. They didn’t follow Megatron and Strika and Slipstream because they felt they needed some kind of leader to function. They followed them because they had a cause—rather a ‘Cause’, you could hear the capitalization when you talked to them—they believed in, and because they adored Megatron and Strika. Slipstream was young and new, but they were willing to take a chance on Strika’s judgement. It was about who led, not about needing a leader. 

Optimus could see how Elita would have been happy here. A small treacherous bit of him wanted to be happy, but reality kept reasserting itself. They weren’t going to win. There were too few of them. 

The Decepticons had to know that, but they didn’t seem to care. They talked excitedly of battle, fueled and tussled and argued and screamed at each other like a batch of overcharged cadets. Many were scarred. Some were even missing servos, optics, stabilizers, repaired in the crudest of manners with great loss of motion evident. Optimus supposed that their high spirits, their refusal to accept the gravity of the situation, had to be some kind of coping mechanism. 

There were so many questions he wanted to ask Elita. Did you like it here? Was it really what you were looking for, or did you feel as lost as I do? 

Most importantly, Did you know how much we needed you? Did I do the right thing in coming here, too? 

Did you know what Sentinel would become?

He did wonder. If they hadn’t lost Elita, would any of this have happened? Would Sentinel still have been capable of the same evil? He suspected not, which hurt, settled painful responsibility. If Elita’s loss had sent Sentinel down this path, then all of this was directly Optimus’s fault. He should be the one to set it right. 

Which brought him back to the current situation and their sadly diminutive army. There was one good thing about it. He could hate Sentinel now. Not feel guilty, not hope that somehow he could fix the other mech. Not wonder if Sentinel was only treating him as he deserved. Sentinel had hurt innocents, hurt them badly, and Optimus could hate that. It was a huge relief. 

His comms chirped. Megatron. “Report to the bridge. We have a situation.” 

Oh slag. Megatron did not sound happy. Optimus transformed, ignoring the stares—Decepticons weren’t used to grounders who weren’t tanks—and hurtled in the direction of the bridge. What the frag had gone wrong this time?

Jazz went to contact his sources. 

Not his usual sources. Contact here meant ‘hunt down’ and sources meant ‘someone I’ve managed to threaten information out of before for personal use’. He thought that a better option, given how closely he was being watched. 

But no one watched people like Rattrap. Not unless they were very smart, and had no sense of smell. People like Rattrap disappeared through the cracks. No one paid attention to them, and precisely because of that, they knew everything. 

Besides, Jazz thought, expression hardening, if they track him down and offline him, he’s not one of my long term operatives. He’s disposable. 

He hated thinking that. Prowl would be horrified. But Prowl wasn’t here. Prowl didn’t have to make these decisions. Prowl didn’t have—whoever that femme was hunting him. 

So he tracked Rattrap down. It took rotations. Not that Rattrap had wind of him, but he was that slagged good at hiding. Technorganics weren’t much welcome on Cybertron, hadn’t been for a while. Probably smarter of him. 

Which probably explained why Rattrap, upon seeing him, let out a shriek of static and bolted for the next tunnel. Jazz caught him in a flying tackle and stasis cuffed him, then sat back. “I need your help.”

“And a fine way of convincing me you have too,” snarled Rattrap. 

“It’s urgent,” said Jazz. “I want to know if you can identify someone for me.”

“And then you’ll let me go, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Jazz. 

Rattrap settled the fur of his altmode and glared. “Right. Not like you’re givin’ me a real choice here, spybot.”

“That was my intention,” said Jazz. “The bot in question is a femme, Decepticon-big. Something like tentacles.” He noticed Rattrap’s growing unease and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Her ability is hacking.”

“Oh frag,” said Rattrap. “Oh frag, oh frag. Lemme go. Lemme go now. Holy slag, mech, do you have any idea who that is?”

“No,” said Jazz. “Sounds like you know her?”

Rattrap laughed, high and hysterical. “Know her? Do I look processor dead to you? I know of her, and that’s more than anyone wants.”

“Tell me who she is, and what she does,” said Jazz. 

Rattrap stilled and looked up at him. “You’ve seen her,” he said. “She went after you, huh?”

“Yes,” said Jazz.

“I want nothing to do with this. You know what that means? You torqued off someone big.”

“Like who?”

“The sort of big that doesn’t use names.”

Reflexively, Jazz glanced down. 

“No, not Him, old Trion wouldn’t stand for it. All but.”

“Sentinel?”

“Oh no, not Sentinel. She doesn’t work for small fry like Sentinel. She might work on them, if you know what I mean. No. Someone bigger, way, way bigger. And older. Look, just let me go. I don’t want her after me.”

“What does she do?”

“What you otta be asking is what did she do, way back in the Golden Age.”

“The Golden Age. Before the War.” Rattrap nodded vigorously, and Jazz stared. Other than Ultra Magnus and Alpha Trion— “How can she be that old?”

“Easy,” said Rattrap. “Way I heard it, she used to keep the warframes in line. You start making a fuss, she shows up, hacks you. Gets you back to behaving. Way I heard it, no one else has that ability. Elite Guard would give their tires to learn it. Makes things easier, cos Trepan isn’t easy to direct. Way I heard it, she’s even worked on Megatron, and he’s scared out of his thrusters of her. I ain’t Megatron. You ain’t Megatron. Get what I’m saying? Will you let me go?!”

“Trepan? That’s her name?”

“I think so,” said Rattrap. “Far as anyone knows. Frag, you’re not even a dead mech walking. I wouldn’t be in your stabilizers for nothing. If they offered you terms, take ‘em, word of friendly advice. Primus’s exhaust, I don’t want her after me, don’t drag me into this.”

Jazz released the cuffs. Rattrap transformed and scuttled away, then paused at the mouth of the next big tunnel, his alt-mode’s beady organic eyes unsettling in the dim light. “One thing,” he said. “Word of advice, cos I’m a nice mech. If she gets you, she’ll take her time. Draw it out. She loves it. She doesn’t play smart, cos of that.”

Jazz stared after him, as his long, naked tail vanished down the tunnel. He looked at the stasis cuffs in his servo, resettled his plating with a shudder, and, deeply unnerved, made his way back to the surface. 

Chapter Text

“Hamfisted fool,” said Shockwave, in his usual dour manner, startling Ratchet more because of the phrase than its abruptness, or the vein of barely-detectable anger in the Decepticon’s soft rasp. 

“Where did you pick that one up?” he asked, carefully not looking at Shockwave. 

“A phrase Megatron acquired on Earth,” said Shockwave. “He used it mostly to refer to a certain Professor Sumdac. It seemed appropriate to the situation.”

“Sumdac is far more competent,” said Ratchet. “It’s harder to cheat your way into a human PhD than a Cybertronian MD. PhDs require research.”

“Quite likely,” said Shockwave. “I like your proposal for the repairs to Skywarp. This should work quite well.”

“He won’t fully recover.” Damned if he’d just accept a comment from Shockwave. 

“No, but it will address his emotional distress, which is unacceptable at its current levels.”

“Huh, didn’t know you possessed a conscience,” said Ratchet, then wondered if he ought to regret it as Shockwave’s unsettling one-opticked gaze settled on him. Shockwave stared at him several moments, claws unmoving on the console, unblinking. 

“Classified information,” he said at last, and turned back to the screen, antennae canting forward. 

It was Ratchet’s turn to stare. Had that been humor?

And every alarm aboard chose that moment to go off. 

“Battle stations,” remarked Shockwave, looking up.

“Slag,” said Ratchet. “Get to your station. I have a medbay to prep.”

“They could not have stolen those ships,” said Optimus, immediate reaction upon seeing the readout, before he could second-guess himself. “Not unless half the Elite Guard has defected. But we can’t fire on them, not until we’re certain.”

“We’ll let them fire first,” said Megatron. “The Elite Guard is always so obligingly trigger-happy.”

Strika reset her vocalizer, startling Optimus. He looked up at her. She folded her arms and looked down at the pair of them. “I hate to ruin your little heroic fantasies, but there’s a decent chance they won’t. If I were them, I’d wait. I could bring my crew aboard, and take the enemy from within.”

Megatron glanced sidelong at Optimus and smirked. “I believe it would not be entirely inaccurate to assume that Sentinel is not as intelligent as you, General.”

Strika harrumphed, something Optimus had only heard humans do. It took a while. It was a very thorough harrumph, intended less as punctuation and more of a statement on its own. 

Megatron folded his arms and stared back at Strika, flatly unimpressed. “I know you’re aching to blow something up, Strika. In this case, we can wait.”

“As my lord,” Strika’s optics flicked to Optimus, “and our little Autobot commander, command.” There was a very subtle frag you in the statement.

“Have they contacted us?” Optimus asked. 

“Nothing other than packaged messages,” said Strika, “stating intent to seek asylum.” 

“We’ll wait,” said Megatron. “We won’t get anything over a comm frequency.”

“I have ordered the fleet to battle stations,” said Strika. 

“Move into a defensive formation,” said Optimus. “It will encourage them to fire if they think we know.” He looked around the bridge. Slipstream moved between stations, checking readings. There was a restrained, vicious excitement to the entire bridge. 

And the comms chirped. The small mech at the communication console said, “Incoming transmission from the Autobot shuttle, my Lord.” At Megatron’s curt nod, he tapped something. 

“Decepticon warship, this is Smokescreen, formerly of the Elite Guard. I have a shuttle full of refugees. We’ve sustained heavy damage. The two warships behind us are not, repeat, ARE NOT, Autobot Freedom Faction. They’re Elite Guard. I repeat, we are being pursued by Elite Guard warships.”

“Autobot shuttle, rendezvous with Conquest,” said Strika. There was a bit of a squeak from the Autobot on the other end of the line, who’d evidently recognized her voice. “Shuttlebay One, prepare to receive refugees. Medical?”

“Heard you the first time,” said Ratchet. 

“Good. Weapons—”

“No,” said Megatron and Optimus together, and Optimus turned to stare at Megatron. 

“It could be a trick,” said Megatron. “We wait until they fire.”

“My lord,” growled Strika, “This is highly unwise.”

“Do not question me.”

“You think they’re lying. Fleet, hold position. Fire if fired upon.”

A long tense ventilation, then another. The battered shuttle crossed into the thick of the Decepticon formation and angled up toward them. The two glimmers that were the Autobot warships stilled. 

“They’re retreating,” said Strika, a moment later. “Autobot warships are retreating. Fleet, maintain battle stations until further notice. Fully armed complement to the shuttlebay.” 

Optimus let out a vent he hadn’t been aware of holding. “I should greet them. They’ll think they’re under attack.”

“I will as well,” said Megatron. 

Strika nodded, turned to another mech on the bridge. “Keep scanning,” she said. “If the Autobots have any other tricks, we need to know about them.”

They arrived in time to see the shuttle limp in, trailing debris, and settle to the deck with a  thud. The hatch opened—rather unnecessarily, Optimus thought, with the size of the hole next to it. He immediately felt badly for thinking it. 

A minibot tumbled out, then drew herself up into a salute. She was mostly white, with blue striping on her torso, and a red helm that came to high fins in the back, rather like Blurr’s. “Optimus Prime, sir! Cadet Smokescreen, reporting for duty!”

“At ease, Cadet,” said Optimus. “Casualties?”

“Mostly minor injuries. We got a field patch on the one serious casualty, he’s not at risk for leaking out now. Two lost servos, a number of mesh wounds. Sir!” 

“Comm Ratchet,” said Optimus. “Prepare to receive casualties.” He took a step forward.

The shuttle blew up.

Ratchet was distracted from setting up the surgical suite by a dull thud and a shudder in the deckplates under his stabilizers. 

“Were we just fired on?” squeaked First Aid, almost dropping the welder he was holding.

“No,” said Ratchet, frowning at the floor. “There should be more, and we shouldn’t have had that much of an effect from a laser blast. Not with our shields up. We’re not returning fire, either.” His tank lurched, a terrible dread. That was wrong, that was very wrong. 

Somewhere, a fire klaxon went off.

“We ready?” he snapped, and Ambulon nodded. The medbay speakers crackled. 

“The Autobot shuttle exploded,” said Megatron, flat. “We need a medical team in Shuttlebay One.”

“Frag!” There were four decks between them. Wounded wouldn’t suffer that move well. “We’re coming to you. Send whoever you can spare to get the emergency equipment. First Aid, Ambulon, get the field medic kits. Megatron, emergency equipment is marked in blue. Move people!”

He stuffed the medical kit into his holding compartment and flung himself into alt, roared off toward the shuttlebay. 

A sullen trickle of black smoke slid from the door, but not nearly as much as he’d expected. They’d already exposed the room to vacuum, good. People moved in and out, carrying wounded, and Ratchet got to work, keeping an optic out. No one he recognized in the line of wounded. 

No Optimus hurrying in and out. Ratchet’s tank curled into a tight little ball. He caught at Megatron as the warbuild deposited a whimpering mech. “Where’s Optimus?”

Megatron’s optics widened. Without a word, he threw himself back through the doorway. 

Ratchet forced his attention back to his patients, but Megatron’s expression had been answer enough. The dread settled harder, and it was only long training that kept his servos from trembling as he worked.

Chapter Text

Optimus was lost in a Pit of smoke and flame. He hurt, hurt incredibly, and there was something pressing down hard against his dorsal plating. He grunted, tried to move. 

The warning klaxons for fire silenced, replaced by the beep of the shuttlebay forcefield going down. Atmosphere ripped from his vents, and he clung to a protrusion below him to keep in place. A moment of silence, the fires guttering around him, and whatever it was on his back shifted enough to let him worm out from under it. 

Atmosphere returned. Optimus staggered upright. 

Smokescreen was on her pedes too, an expression of shock in her wide optics and pink energon staining her shoulder and back. “What—?” she started. 

Then she saw the shuttle and threw herself forward, crying over her shoulder to Optimus as she did, “There are thirty people in there!”

Thirty people. Thirty mecha—Optimus’s tank turned and he stumbled after the cadet. They must have been packed like Earth sardines. 

They had been packed like Earth sardines. There had been a lot of them, though it was going to take a very long time to figure out exactly how many. The damage was indescribable, the smell was a nightmare on its own, fresh energon and oil and burnt circuits. Smokescreen, to her credit, wasn’t sick, helped him hand them out to the other rescuers. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted, an endless nightmare of energon and heat and smoke and not looking, not looking because when you saw up close what could be done to a frame by a bomb, when you realized it, you’d be sick, and that wouldn’t help anyone. Optimus kept working, praying he wasn’t hurting anyone more than they already were, though he doubted they’d be capable of noticing. He tamped his reactions down, working like one of Sumdac’s robots, while a little horrified part of him waited and watched and gibbered to itself, inscribed the horrors for later.

Then Megatron was there, by the opening of the shuttle, Megatron guided Smokescreen away and into the care of Thundercracker for her injuries, and climbed up into the shuttle and helped Optimus get the rest of them out. Megatron was there, covered in energon as Optimus was, and looked like he’d just shut down behind his faceplates. 

Then there was no more to do. Optimus looked down at his servos, at the pink of energon and the black of oil. 

“Ratchet is worried sick,” said Megatron, like he wasn’t used to using his vocalizer. “There’s no one more here. Come.”

After a moment, when Optimus couldn’t find it in himself to respond, he simply picked him up, almost a reflex. Optimus recovered himself, shifted his weight. Megatron put him down just as quickly, still no expression. 

The shuttlebay was better.

That wasn’t saying much. Someone’s arm twitched in a pool of oil that still stubbornly smoldered. Megatron bent and picked it up, this obviously reflex, and they went together into the corridor. 

Makeshift medbay. Ratchet welded a seeping gash, his expression grim. Ambulon and First Aid labored over a large truckbot. Thundercracker administered basic aid to Smokescreen, who stared straight ahead with unseeing optics. In a corner lay several frames draped with cloth, some appearing more as energon-stained heaps than anything Cybertronian.

The silence was worse than any screams might have been. They were all in stasis, the part of Optimus’s mind that could still process these things offered. 

Ratchet murmured something to the bot he’d treated, glanced up. 

The utter relief on his faceplate made something in Optimus cringe. 

Megatron and Optimus had fallen asleep in the corridor, propped up on each other. It was the most obscenely adorable thing Strika had seen in orns. Unfortunately, duty called. 

She knelt in front of them and shook Megatron awake.  “My lord, the scientists are finished with the analysis. We’re meeting in the medbay.”

“What did it find?” asked Optimus, who was wide awake and functional while Megatron was still resetting his optics at her and, from his expression, still wondering why there wasn’t a cube of midgrade in the offing. 

“They haven’t told me,” she said. “Quickly, before Ratchet passes out at the table. He hasn’t slept at all.”

“Of course not,” said Optimus, clambering to his stabilizers. Megatron scraped a hand over his faceplate with an expression of disgust, lurched upright. “Try bringing him midgrade. It might mean he’ll be civil for ten cycles together.”

“Him too,” said Strika, gesturing at Megatron, somehow managed to suppress the grim laugh. The little Autobot wouldn’t understand. “Feed him two, and he might manage a sentence.”

Megatron focused his bleary indignation on her. “You are a disgrace to the discipline of the Decepticon Cause.”

Strika put the ration of midgrade in his servo, and he brightened up immediately. She handed a slightly smaller one to Optimus. 

“Medbay, correct?” said Megatron. 

“Medbay,” said Strika, and led the way. 

Ratchet was going to pass out on the table, he was sure of it. Even with the midgrade. He was too tired for midgrade. Swallowing was too much of an effort. 

He was sticky, never a good sign. He knew he stank, but his olfactory processing had long ago compensated for the particulate matter, and had stopped telling him about it. He was covered in energon, and oil and he was pretty sure someone’s wiring had fallen to the floor last time he moved a servo, which would explain that tickling itch under his wrist guard for the last hour. 

He felt like he was back in the War. Only his comrades had uglier paintjobs. 

Someone shook his shoulder.

“Frag off,” he muttered into the surface of the table. 

“Meeting’s in session,” hissed Optimus’s voice, urgent. 

“And if you think I’m lifting my helm, you’re sorely mistaken. Kid,” said Ratchet, adding the kid as a final insult. 

Megatron, across the table, reset his vocalizer. 

“Not for you either,” said Ratchet. “I can listen just fine like this. And give my report. Do you need me to give my report? I’m all for that. As long as you find me a berth afterward.”

Megatron sighed. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

“Of the thirty occupants of the shuttle, fifteen were dead by the time we got to them. Two more died in surgery. Of the remaining thirteen, we have a grand total of seven with moderate—that is, non-life-threatening—injuries. Note I include severed limbs in this category. The other six have severe, life-threatening injuries. Three of those are comatose without probability of recovering consciousness. Three, I believe will recover to some functional extent. 

“Of the ship’s complement, we have ten minor injuries, one moderate. No deaths.” Ratchet propped his chin up on the conference table. “May I go to berth now?”

“You’ll want to hear the next part,” said Strika.

“Fine,” said Ratchet. 

“The timing of the explosion was not random,” said Shockwave. “Someone in that shuttle detonated the explosive when they thought they could eliminate both Optimus and Lord Megatron. Fortunately, the mech responsible seems to have been an incompetent judge of distance. Here is what we managed to reconstruct of him, starting with the servo with the embedded detonator.”

Optimus gasped. Ratchet raised his helm further to focus on the datapad Shockwave put on the table. 

He didn’t recognize the mech—someone in Jazz’s sizeclass, though sturdier—some kind of heavy-machinery alt. But Optimus stared at the screen in utter horror.

“That’s Roller,” he said. “We were in the Academy together. I don’t believe it. He would never—”

“He did,” said Strika, and stabbed a digit down on the pad. “Here’s why.”

Even half asleep, even with the other damage to the brain from the explosion, Ratchet could recognize the neat cuts of Pharma’s handiwork. 

“Not another,” he said. 

“The Elite Guard members of the crew thought they’d rescued him,” said Strika. “They were allowed to, as we were allowed to pick up the shuttle.”

Optimus looked like he was going to purge. “They did this because he followed me,” he whispered. 

“What now?” said Strika “How do we prevent this from happening? I’m open to suggestions, people.”

“Can we scan for explosives?” said Megatron.

Strika shook her helm. “This one wouldn’t have been detectable. It was integrated with the shuttle’s self-destruct mechanism. Currently, my only suggestion is to require disembarking outside the shuttlebay and tow refugees in with a grappling cable. Less than ideal, especially with wounded.”

“No slag,” said Ratchet. “It’ll go down like a lead balloon.”

“Perhaps we could disable the self-destruct mechanism at a distance,” said Shockwave. Ratchet grumbled and put his helm back in his servos. 

“I can do that,” said Optimus, sounding surprised. “I can do that, it’s a simple override in the shuttles. They malfunction, sometimes, and it got too expensive to keep replacing them.”

“Your codes won’t be relevant, kid,” said Ratchet. “They would have stripped access.”

“Yes, but any Elite Guard defectors will know them.” Megatron. Ratchet opened an optic to look at him. He seemed far more thoughtful—and awake—than anyone had a right to be. “Are the codes verbal?”

“They’re verbal, yes,” said Optimus. “We’ll require them to disable the shuttle’s self destruct while we’re on comms with them.”

“Good,” said Ratchet. “I’m going to recharge now.”

He supposed he should get up. Too much trouble. He dropped his helm back onto his servos and allowed his systems to power down.

The others had gone—mostly back to their quarters—and Strika looked down at their slumbering medic.

He stank. He was covered in other people’s energon, and oil. Some of it partially processed, by the smell. Some fully processed. It looked like someone’s oilpan had exploded on him, though she wasn’t sure that was physically possible. And he was deep in recharge, helm pillowed on servos, bent over at the conference table. He was a little younger than her, but once you got much over four million years, you had the same maintenance issues. Like what his spinal strut was going to say to him when he woke up. 

She put a servo on his shoulder and shook. His optics flicked online, narrowed. “Frag off. I’m too tired.”

“Would you still be too tired if you didn’t have to walk?” she asked. 

His optics narrowed further, little slits of blue light. Strika was abruptly reminded of Lugnut’s suspicious expression, all of his optics narrowed down to slits and the central one a pinpoint, an expression reserved for Autobot assurances and anything that came out of Starscream’s vocalizer. (And, on two occasions, her proposals in berth. Some of their wild differences in taste had come as a total surprise to both of them.)

“Nooo?” offered Ratchet, drawing the syllable out absurdly. Strika huffed and picked him up. He squawked, then squirmed in her grasp, arranging himself more comfortably with his helm tucked into her shoulder, patted her shoulder (it left a servo-print of pink energon), and offlined his optics again.

“You are not going to like the next part,” said Strika. “If I leave you this filthy, it’ll crust and you’ll be an orn getting it out of your joints.”

Ratchet cracked an optic up at her, deep suspicion. 

“You’re going through the washracks first,” she clarified. 

“Sadist,” he grumbled. 

Well, yes, but not outside of a committed relationship, Strika almost said, but he was too tired to get the joke. “Just doing my duty. Medics are important.”

“Even though my research killed your consort?”

Strika supposed questions like that were when people with mouths grit their dentae. “We are not having that discussion right now,” she said, turning down the next hallway. “Go back to recharge. I like it better when you’re not on such a fragging Autobot guilt trip.”

He harrumphed, but given it was hardly a challenge to her expressions of displeasure, she ignored it and palmed the doorswitch. It slid aside. 

She carried him into the tiny officer’s washracks, shifting sideways to get through the door, then set the cleanser to warm and deposited him in the floor. He squawked again. 

“It’s not cold,” she snapped. “And no, I’m not leaving you, you’d drown your engine. Come on, turn over and get the other side.” At least most of it was rinsing away easily. She wouldn’t have to help him with his seams or junctions. She wasn’t in a mood to put up with any thought we were just good friends jokes just now. 

“You’re evil,” he said. “Utter, complete—”

“Decepticon.” There, that was clean, that would have to do as clean until he was awake enough to do it himself. She turned off the nozzles and triggered the blowers. Hot air, right up from the engines. Efficient, but it did mean you smelt like a stardrive all the time. 

Though Ratchet was proof positive there were far worse things to smell like. 

She left him on the berth, dead asleep, his elderly vents rattling with each exhalation at a volume she would have expected of someone Megatron’s size. Unlikely it was something to worry about. All mecha past a certain age ‘snored’, as the organics put it. To be honest, it was somewhat endearing. 

Like the mech himself. He was even the shape she liked, wide hips and shoulders, and he had a gloriously bad attitude. All very attractive qualities. 

Strika shoved that thought back into whatever exhaust-pipe of her brain it had crawled out of. Whatever certain systems had to say, she was still too close to Lugnut to even entertain such thoughts. Far too close. 

She changed course abruptly, and went back to the bridge. She didn’t want to face her quarters just now. 

Chapter Text

They went to retrieve Smokescreen from the brig. 

That is, Optimus went. Megatron followed. There was an awkward pause right outside the detention level, when both of them realized there was no other conceivable place the other could be going. 

“I’m going to release Smokescreen,” said Optimus, putting a challenge in it. Megatron reset his optics, looking confused. 

“I was thinking much the same,” he said. “Strika has, after all, cleared her of any wrongdoing involved with this event.”

“She deserves to learn what really happened to her command.”

“If you think it necessary. Do you believe she has potential?”

Optimus looked away, something like ice closing around his spark, Ultra Magnus’s words echoing in his processor. It’s not in your programming.

He was still sure the Magnus had been correct. It wasn’t in his programming. People kept insisting on following him. He was going to get them all killed. 

Smokescreen reacted better than he had. She’d run back into danger to get the people under her command out of the shuttle. He hadn’t. Not for Elita. Smokescreen had been wounded, and done it anyway. 

“Yes,” he said, instead of, More than I, and turned back to the door. 

“Good,” said Megatron. “A high recommendation, given its source.”

Optimus turned on him, stung beyond bearing. Betrayed, too, though he tamped it back hard—that meant he’d been stupid enough to trust Megatron in the first place. He would have expected a jibe like that from Sentinel. Not Megatron. 

Megatron looked back down at him with obvious puzzlement, and in the space between that ventilation and the next Optimus realized that he’d been sincere. He looked away, fast. “Thank you,” he managed, grudging. 

Megatron kept looking at him, a flat uncomfortable regard. 

“I suppose,” he said, equally grudging, “we ought to get to know each other somewhat better, in the interest of maintaining the alliance.”

Optimus winced inwardly at the reproof. “Yes, that would be appropriate.”

Megatron keyed the door open. “You first,” he said, gesturing, and Optimus stepped in. 

The brig was not the most savory space on the ship. Glancing around, Optimus found evidence for a number of the stories of Decepticon prisons, the low lighting, the many cramped cells with suspicious stains, another door leading into shadows where sinister objects  loomed. 

Smokescreen had the only occupied cell. At their approach, she uncurled somewhat and sat up on the narrow berth. “Is everyone okay? Did we get them out in time?”

Optimus deactivated the bars. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “There was a bomb planted aboard your ship. The mech who detonated it, Roller, is offline, and we believe his processor was tampered with.”

“Roller? He would never! He recruited us!” Smokescreen came to her stabilizers, voice cracking. “He’s the reason we got involved in the first place! We heard he was arrested, and we couldn’t leave him—”

“So the others under your command have told us,” said Megatron. “It would appear that the Elite Guard have expanded their processor tampering to Autobots as well as Decepticons.”

Smokescreen folded her servos across her chestplate. It was probably meant to be assured and authoritative, but seemed more like she was hugging herself, and Optimus thought with a jolt of surprise how very young she was, younger even than him, and grappling with a grief and betrayal he’d never experienced so personally. Elita, yes, but there was a world of difference between the grief of losing one friend, and the horror of losing one’s entire command. Most of whom were civilians. He wished he had some words of comfort to give, but from long experience knew it was not your fault would go unheard.

“What’s the casualty report?” she asked, and this time her voice remained steady. 

“Seventeen dead,” Optimus said. “Six severely injured. Seven moderate.”

He had a brief impression of grief and rage and horror before Smokescreen looked down, optics flickering. She raised a servo to the Elite Guard insignia on her chestplate, digits working for purchase, got a firm grip and jerked it free. 

She raised her helm, met Megatron’s optics, and dropped the insignia, very deliberately stepped on it. 

“I want to be a Decepticon,” she said. “If I’m not good enough, fine. But I’m not gonna wear that thing ever again. I’m not one of them. I don’t kill people without ever letting them fight. I’m not one of them, I’m not wearing anything that says I am. I’m not wearing the symbol of the people who murdered the civilians under my care.”

Optimus wondered if he should protest, could not find the words, looked at Megatron instead. 

Megatron looked down at Smokescreen, considering. “Not a decision to be made lightly,” he said at last, and sounded entirely sincere. “Certainly, leave the Autobots. But becoming a Decepticon is an entirely different matter. It must be in part of what you are. You must be unable to tolerate injustice, believe in justice over mercy or peace. Your very spark must find any other alternative unbearable. We are not about protecting innocents. We are about power, about cadre. Protect your comrades so they in turn protect you. Civilians die. Your subordinates die. We are at war; this is the reality of war. Do not mourn them, honor them with the ferocity of your vengeance. We die. So be it. We do not sell our sparks cheaply. Offline with your servos buried in your foe’s spark and laugh as you turn gray. No Decepticon is here to protect. We are here out of rage, vengeance, justice.

“Can you devote yourself to that? Think on it carefully. I have no room for sentiment in my ranks. If you decide you belong here—decide with your whole spark, not from a momentary rebellion—you will know where to find me.”

He stepped aside. “If you wish to see your comrades, the infirmary is two levels up.”

“Did you really mean that?” Optimus asked, once Smokescreen had gone. “What you said about being a Decepticon?”

“Yes,” said Megatron. “Or I would not have said it.”

“You can’t just fight for vengeance,” said Optimus. 

“And that is why you remain Autobot to your spark,” said Megatron. His intake twisted. “It is perfectly possible. Millions of years of war provides plenty of reason. The tyranny we lived under before that provides still more.”

“From what I saw on Earth, you weren’t exactly in favor of free elections and liberty for all,” retorted Optimus.

“Better my tyranny than the Elite Guard’s. I at least have sense.”

“And what of Strika’s tyranny? Shockwave’s? Slipstream’s? No bot is immortal.”

“Shockwave and Strika know intimately what we lived under,” said Megatron. “Slipstream has her siblings to remind her. Did you think we would be gentle, Optimus? Did you think, simply because you opened your optics to the brutality of your masters, that you would find us kind and welcoming, a haven for whatever strays you collected? Did you think that, because a virtuous Autobot felt some sympathy for us, we would mend the error of our ways, renounce everything your delicate sensibilities might label wicked? We have been labeled dangerous machines, to be kept in line or discarded. We have been exiled, experimented on, tortured, hated, for six million stellar cycles. And now you presume to judge us for adapting to such treatment?”

“I don’t think a dictatorship is the answer,” said Optimus. “I think power corrupts.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “And the Autobots are innocent of both of these?”

“That’s why I’m here,” said Optimus. “Just because the Autobots have done abominable things doesn’t mean that I’m going to accept Decepticon crimes, either.”

“Mercy for all,” said Megatron, with a sneer. “An easy sentiment, for you. Tell me, little Autobot, have you ever gone unfueled? Have you ever been cast aside when your use is past? Have you ever spent orns of uncertainty, wondering if you would be decomissioned, if they would come to smelt you down within the megacycle, your only value the metal that composed your frame? Do not lecture me on morality. You’ve been pampered your entire function. You’re hardly even a proper warframe, only a polished pretty replica of one.”

Optimus bared his dentae. “I defeated you, didn’t I?”

Megatron reared back, and for a moment Optimus wondered if Megatron might strike him. 

“You’re right,” he said, while Megatron looked down at him. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t belong here. But it’s too late to take back our announcement, isn’t it. We’re just going to have to get along, and the sooner you stop lecturing me about how little I understand, the sooner we can start getting real work done.” 

The surprise in Megatron’s optics was heartening. Optimus pressed his advantage, as he might have when talking Bumblebee and Prowl down after a fight. “I didn’t think that the Decepticons were merciful—I’d never count on it. But I didn’t expect them to be more merciful to themselves than their enemies. You’re trying to spare yourself the discomfort of working with Autobots, of considering us your equal partners. It’s easier that way, isn’t it? It means you don’t have to rethink the opinions that have gotten you so far for so long. But we are allies, and we can’t spend the whole time bickering over who’s been most ill-treated, because if we do, if we mince every single word and weigh every single infortuitous phrase that comes out of Autobot intakes, we are going to lose this war. I’m not the only one who’s going to have to swallow his pride, Megatron. So how about you stop lecturing me, and we get to actual work.”

Megatron snorted. “Then stop making assumptions, Autobot.”

“That goes for both of us, Decepticon.” Optimus glared. “Don’t assume I’ve had everything go smoothly since I was onlined, either. I never even completed the Academy.”

“Oh?” said Megatron, surprise and interest in his voice. “What were you doing with the Allspark, then? Surely the Autobots would have sent a special-ops force out to claim it.”

“We found it by accident.” Optimus looked away, faceplate hot.

“How do you find the Allspark by accident?” Was that shock in Megatron’s voice? 

“ We were spacebridge technicians ,” said Optimus, half hoping Megatron wouldn’t hear him. 

“Spacebridge technicians,” said Megatron, flatly. “You and your team were spacebridge technicians.”

“We were stranded on Earth,” said Optimus. “They wouldn’t believe me about the Allspark.”

“Spacebridge technicians.”

“Yes, rub it in why don’t you.” He’d taken this slag from Sentinel. Damned if he’d take it from Megatron. 

“Spacebridge technicians,” said Megatron. 

Optimus glared at him. “Yes. Have a problem with that?”

“As a matter of fact, yes I do,” said Megatron. “You defeated me with a handful of untrained civilian spacebridge technicians. A handful of untrained civilian spacebridge technicians with an Academy washout halted the advance of the Decepticon army. Yes, I do have a problem with that. It is fragging embarrassing.”

“Starscream helped,” said Optimus, grudgingly. 

He jumped when Megatron laughed. “Yes, he did. So, Optimus, are you done lecturing and feeling virtuous?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Perhaps. All of your protestations do not make me any less right.”

“So?” said Optimus. “Be right all you like, but I’m not going to let it jeopardize our alliance. Since when do Decepticons prioritize righteousness over war?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. Then he said, “One day, I will have to thank Ultra Magnus and the rest of the Elite Guard for not putting you in a position of actual authority. It would have made things difficult.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus, cautious. 

“Spacebridge technicians,” said Megatron, shook his helm. “I have grown old, and arrogant, and stupid. I suppose you will want me not to accept Smokescreen’s allegiance, if she offers it.”

“It’s her decision,” said Optimus. “Freedom of choice, Megatron. That’s why I’m here.”

“Interesting,” said Megatron, still an edge under the smooth purr. “Tell me, Autobot, have you had a chance to practice a war-sim since the Academy?”

Ratchet dragged himself out of recharge, and was halfway down the hall in search of some midgrade when the shouting registered. Lots of voices. 

His sleepy processor registered that as bad. Grimly, he headed in the direction of the noise. 

It wasn’t too hard to find. A knot of mecha jammed the hall, jostling together to get a better view of a wall-mounted monitor, which showed a display of red and purple ships in a holo-tank. It lacked something as a 3-D graphic projected on a 2-D screen, but it was clearly a war-sim of some kind. A very old war-sim. 

Not a bad thing then. At least not yet. Ratchet frowned as a horrible suspicion struck him. 

He wormed his way through the massed mecha, aided by judiciously placed elbows and a number of sharp pokes with the prongs of his electromagnets until he could see the actual holo-tank and the players.

Optimus and Megatron. Of course. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or exasperated. Both were being obviously highly competitive, but Optimus was giving a damn good fight. Both Megatron’s optics were narrowed, his digits steepled in front of him. Optimus did something, propped his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on his servos and grinned across at Megatron. 

Frag competitiveness. It’d been too long since he’d seen Optimus grin. Maybe this whole thing had been a better idea than he’d thought.

Chapter Text

Frames like Megatron’s, the old field-commander models, had powerful arms, broad shoulders, heavily armored chests, tapering to a narrow waist and hips, and long, elegant legs, ending in stabilizers only just large enough to house jets of the necessary size. Weight was a concern; they had to be able to fly, but also carry heavy armor over the spark, and heavy armament. Essentially, they were a long series of carefully calculated compromises, weight to power, aesthetics to aerodynamics. And aesthetics played a large role in this; the long-ago Autobots who had built them liked their officers to look good, even if said officers were only supposed to relay the orders of their betters on the field. 

It might be an old-fashioned, impractical, altogether Autobot attractive, especially next to the powerful allure of shock-troop frames like Blackout’s, but in a word, most mecha still considered the effect attractive.

Strika preferred two words. Top heavy. 

She whooped with delight as a truly ill-judged lunge let her seize Megatron around the waist and assist the rest of his mass over her shoulder. The Lord of the Decepticons hit the decking with a bang and lay flat on his aft resetting his optics up at her with something like shock. 

Strika took a step forward, the snide comment queued for her vocalizer—

—and something went thunk against her chestplate. She looked down. 

Megatron shifted his helm aside so he could see her around the barrel of the fusion cannon pressed to her spark, and smirked.

“Fine. Three rounds out of three to you,” she said. “You’re not entirely out of form.” The fragger had even arranged himself attractively in the fall, and she was willing to bet that had everything to do with their silent audience. From the brief impression of his expression, Optimus was rather taken aback by the ferocity of a standard sparring match. She raised her voice for his benefit. “But that last one was foul play.”

“I hadn’t yielded yet,” purred Megatron. “You gloat too soon. It’s a weakness.”

“The agreement was no weapons.”

“This isn’t a weapon, it’s part of my frame.”

“Tell that to someone who hasn’t watched you dismount it to clean it,” snapped Strika, and stepped back. “It draws from your frame, but it’s detachable. Weapon.”

He didn’t take the bait, which was disappointing. She wanted one more try, even if it came at the expense of a lot more dents. She was pretty certain that if she could contrive to throw him hard enough into a wall, he’d have to concede. 

Instead, he looked past her at their audience. Who clutched the haft of his axe in both servos, Autobot-blue optics comically wide, stammered an excuse and all but scuttled from the room before either of them said a word. 

“All the social temerity of a glitchmouse,” said Megatron at last. “How long was he watching?”

“Some time. You didn’t notice him? I thought you were flirting.”

Megatron lowered the cannon and frowned. “Not in the least,” he said. “He was far less timid when he was defending a planet with little more than a team of spacebridge technicians.” The term was just as venomous as the first sixteen times he’d used it. Strika snorted. Someone’s pride was still smarting. 

“Then the question you should be asking yourself, my lord, is what exactly the Autobots have done to reduce their great hero to such a state,” she said. “He obviously does not expect his allies to think highly of him. Perhaps this has something to do with his dismissal from the Academy.”

“No warrior would go into such fits over a mere dismissal,” said Megatron. “He’s gifted. He must know it. He’s not enough of a fool not to. A mere dismissal doesn’t negate that.” He climbed to his stabilizers, still looking after Optimus. 

“Autobots are different, my lord. They don’t like their officers thinking too highly of themselves. He is very young.”

“He beat me six times in the war-sims,” said Megatron. “We have run ten games in the last ten rotations, and he has beaten me six times. The mech’s a tactical genius, and they left him commanding technicians.”

“They left him to die,” said Strika, very mildly indeed. Megatron turned to stare at her. 

“Why do you say that?”

“Earth. Even when the Elite Guard had full proof we were active on Earth, they didn’t send reinforcements. They left the technicians there. Civilians, Megatron, with no formal military training. Their medic was the only mech who’d served in a military operation of any scale before. Optimus had some training, but not enough to be left in command of a major front, not in the face of a Decepticon offensive.”

“Ultra Magnus made that decision. Not Sentinel,” said Megatron.

“Yes. What does that tell you?”

The look of suspicion grew. “Very little.”

Strika huffed out a long ventilation. “It implies something that I don’t like. It implies Ultra Magnus and Sentinel have something in common. A dislike of a competent officer in their ranks. Sentinel’s one thing; he and Optimus have had a longstanding relationship, one that turned into a rivalry after the death of a mutual friend. But Ultra Magnus? He was many things, but not stupid.” She glanced sidelong at him again. He looked confused. 

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s not right, and it’s not characteristic for Ultra, may his spark rot in Pit. Something to think about.”

“Indeed,” said Megatron. “Very odd. I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. Why don’t you go after the little Autobot? We have a strategy meeting in two megacycles. It’s a good excuse.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed again. “You imagine I have nothing better to do?”

“I’ll handle the inspection of the fleet,” said Strika. “Our alliance is important. Besides, the Peaceful Tyranny and its crew need the fear of me put into them again.”

“Only you would view an afternoon of fighting the Justice Division as enjoyable,” said Megatron. 

Strika snorted again, very amused this time. “A requirement for the position, my lord. Fanatics are many things. Obedient isn’t one of them. Did you hear about what Slipstream did to Tarn?”

“You’ve only related it fifty times or so,” said Megatron. “From that I gather you’re very proud.”

“Oh yes. Defending our alliance, and successfully dealing with Tarn? With brute strength? Take her along with you on the upcoming raid and put her in command of a few squadrons or so. You’ll be impressed.”

Megatron looked up at her, alarmed. “You’re training her as a successor.”

“No bot is immortal,” said Strika. “Two megacycles, my lord.”

She strode away, feeling very pleased with herself. Every megacycle those two spent together was one less argument to be had. They needed a strong alliance, and where Megatron led, the Decepticons would follow. Too much suspicion in the ranks, even now, and too much suspicion on Megatron’s part of Optimus. That wouldn’t do. 

Optimus put a servo over his faceplate and felt like an idiot. 

He should have left the moment it was clear those two were sparring alone, but instead he’d stayed. It had been enchanting, and shocking, to see the power of two true warframes on full display. Someone with that mass should have lumbered. Neither Megatron nor Strika had, and he spent a moment in sincere thanks that Strika had not been present on Earth. They would have all been dead six times over. 

It had been amazing. How had they lost the War? 

As a young bot, still in the Academy, Optimus had fantasized about Megatron. He was appealing, a distant idea easily distinguished from reality. Private as Optimus was, he’d noticed he wasn’t the only one; once, he’d even found a dropped datapad in the washracks with badly written, deeply compromising material on it. He’d left it propped out of the wet and noticed with gratification that it vanished again very quickly. But of all his peers, Optimus was the only one who’d taken the time to do proper historical research. 

What he’d found had been horrifying and sobering, and shaken him out of that line of musing. The atrocities committed under Megatron’s command were sickening at the least. But it hadn’t entirely destroyed the appeal. Even in the records—which he now wondered about the bias of—there was something that intrigued him. 

So, instead of the standard swept off his stabilizers and carried away to be seduced by a growling warlord fantasies, Optimus began to think wistfully about just talking to Megatron. Presenting himself as a history bot, wanting the truth, listening and talking and impressing Megatron with his intelligence—he’d been rather conceited before Elita’s death. A certain amount of sweeping off of stabilizers might then ensue, but even Soundwave couldn’t have pried that admission out of his processor. 

Then he’d actually met Megatron, and found that being swept off his stabilizers involved a lot of claws, snarling and dents—and mostly was done in the full intent of offlining him. It rather lost its appeal after that.

But watching the two of them fight had brought such thoughts to the forefront of his processor, and the long-ago cadet had resurfaced, wondering at the clash of strength in front of him, at seeing history still alive. Those memories and wistful fantasies had come to the surface so forcefully he was sure it showed on his faceplate. Then they’d started bickering, an easy intimacy of friendship, and he should have left while they were unaware of him. He knew he’d intruded deeply. 

And then they saw him. There was nothing to do but stammer an apology and leave. 

Optimus had set himself up with all the ‘paperwork’ that needed doing—duty rosters, supply manifests, and so on, not even something as interesting as an intelligence report in the whole— in one of the window sills. The ledge under the window was just big enough for him to perch in, and it was far more pleasant than working in his quarters. He’d never been assigned a duty station, through either clerical error or a disinclination to assume any kind of authority over him. 

Someone reset their vocalizer. Optimus looked up, startled. “Megatron?”

Megatron said nothing, looked around the room with his servos folded behind his back. 

Optimus swung his stabilizers to the floor and stood. “I’m sorry for intruding,” he said.

“You did not intrude,” said Megatron. “The practice room is a public area of the warship.”

“Still.” Optimus looked down. 

“No need for apologies,” said Megatron. It was an order. 

A short silence. Looking at Megatron, Optimus came to the abrupt realization that the other mech was just as uncomfortable as he. It was a shock. Was there some disaster? A problem with his command?

Megatron brought his helm up and looked out at the stars. “This is a thoroughly unappealing sector,” he said. “A pity you have had no opportunity to see New Kaon.”

No, neither of those. Optimus bit back a laugh. The Lord of the Decepticons was just really bad at making small talk. 

Megatron was looking at him for a response. 

“I’d like to,” said Optimus. Then, “I was wondering, did you keep historical records? From the War?”

“Nothing more official than officer’s reports and so on,” said Megatron. He was surprised and it showed. “None of us had time to sit down and write a concise history. We were too busy with survival. Why?”

Optimus looked away, words crowding in his vocalizer. He vented heavily, collecting his thoughts, and settled on, “Because I’ve only seen Autobot histories. I don’t think they’re reliable. The most truthful account I’ve gotten was from Ratchet, and I don’t think he told me everything.”

Megatron snorted, a sound of supreme amusement and contempt. “Of course they weren’t,” he said. “And of course he didn’t. The Autobots had plenty to be ashamed of.” He paused. “So did we. You do not fight a war and keep your spark intact.”

Optimus said nothing. Starting that argument again was not productive. 

“I can tell you about it,” said Megatron. He perched on the ledge, which was sadly insufficient for the purpose, and encountered the datapads. “Though perhaps now is not the best time.”

“I’d like that,” said Optimus, quickly. He looked back at the datapads around him. He had a few megacycles after the strategy meeting, after all, and his spark was beating hard with excitement. He didn’t know if he’d ever get another opportunity like this. 

He slid to the floor and sat. Megatron seemed happy enough to follow suit; it was probably more comfortable. 

The datapads proved useful after all; Megatron used them to demonstrate troop movements. 

Strika looked down at the starmaps in front of her, at the diagrams, and hummed happily low in her vocalizer. “Yes, my lord, I think this is feasible. I can offer very few corrections. Shall I begin assigning personnel?”

“Do,” said Megatron. “How soon can we move?”

“Within twelve megacycles,” said Strika. “The diversionary force will depart four megacycles after that. You will need to make yourselves very obvious indeed.” She looked back down at the map. The diversionary force would be attacking a small Autobot outpost, understaffed but still of strategic value. 

The real target lay deeper in Autobot space, the communications hub for the entire sector. But attacking the outpost would likely draw Autobot forces away from the larger base. 

“We’ll label your offensive the main offensive, and mine the diversion until we both undergo long-range communications blackout,” said Strika. “We’ll also let it be known my goal is a different outpost, not New Praxus itself.”

“Good,” said Optimus. “I don’t know how thoroughly Autobot Intelligence has infiltrated our ranks, but I know Jazz. He’s good at his job.”

“If only we could persuade him to defect,” said Ratchet. “He’s a good mech. Unfortunately, being a good mech is not mutually exclusive with being an idiot.”

“Twelve megacycles,” said Strika. “Let’s be about it, people.”

Chapter Text

Battles never went better than expected. 

At least so Optimus thought. 

But the outpost in question, B-29X, had little infrastructure geared toward repelling a full Decepticon attack, just a handful of mobile defense platforms and a lot of very determined Autobots. The reinforcements—considerable reinforcements, considering the size of the outpost—had arrived half a megacycle into the fight, but the handful of Autobot frigates were no match for a Decepticon command ship and its attendant fleet, and most had struck their colors in the first two megacycles of combat. At that point, Optimus and Megatron had looked at each other and decided to take the outpost anyway. 

No one had bothered to update the command codes of those platforms, either, and so here he was being ferried between the defense platforms, disabling them with as little damage as possible. 

This one wasn’t going well at all. 

Firstly, his jetpack had been damaged, stranding him on the platform. Secondly, some bright spark down there had decided to take out the platform in question before it could be turned on its defenders. A good solution. A very good solution. That bot deserved a promotion, but right now Optimus wished someone would knock whoever it was over the helm before he, Optimus, plunged to his deactivation. None of his team were big enough to carry him off the platform without serious difficulty, and they’d make a big target. 

The platform bucked as someone landed on the other side. “GET OFF, YOU IDIOT,” Optimus yelled. 

Megatron’s amused snort was audible over the scream of stressed antigrav units and blasterfire. “Heard you were having trouble, Autobot.”

This was humiliating. “Yes,” said Optimus, cursing his painful honesty. 

Megatron inched around the central body of the platform, moving with a care completely at odds with his smirk. “So I gather. And your wings are clipped.”

“A stabilizer was damaged,” said Optimus. Megatron using Earth idiom was nothing short of enraging.

“Do you trust me, Optimus?” 

Optimus looked down at the crumbling battle platform. One of the antigrav units failed, sending it lurching under their stabilizers. “I’m not sure I have a choice.”

“True,” said Megatron. “Hold on.” A massive arm wrapped around Optimus, pulling him off his stabilizers and tight in to Megatron’s side. He caught at Megatron’s shoulder and clung to his axe with the other servo. Megatron looked down at him with a grin and took three running strides off the bucking platform and into the air. 

Optimus tightened his grip convulsively and shut his optics as they dropped. Somehow he didn’t yelp. Megatron laughed and activated his thrusters with a roar, drawing his sword with his free servo. 

Optimus looked down at the swooping world beneath them and immediately regretted it. Oh, certainly, he’d enjoyed flying when it was under his own power! Clinging to someone else was entirely different. 

“It’s all right,” Megatron sent over comms. “Even if you lost your grip, I would not drop you.” 

“I want my jetpack back,” sent Optimus. 

“I can be your jetpack.” 

Optimus looked up at him, startled, and Megatron grinned. “If you so desire.” 

Was he…flirting? Or joking? Optimus opted not to respond, but the big hot frame pressed against him was eliciting what he was pretty sure was an entirely inappropriate response in certain subsystems. Some programming glitch with his battle protocols. 

You’ll need a shuttle, Megatron observed, and went into a dive. This time Optimus did yelp. His grip tightened convulsively, but Megatron was intent on his target, and there was a good chance he hadn’t noticed, thank Primus. 

They landed on the roof of a particularly active Autobot shuttle, and Megatron put his cannon to the roof and melted his way through. No one within was smart enough to use the grapplers as Optimus had done when Megatron had tried a similar trick on Omega. 

Whoever it was had at least the presence of mind to shoot at them. Megatron leapt down anyway, shielding Optimus with his frame, and returned fire exactly once. There was a scream; the bot who’d been firing at them fell back with most of her arm gone.

A general clatter as the rest of the shuttle’s occupants surrendered. There were three of them, one pilot and two soldiers; Optimus elbowed the pilot away from the controls and took over while Megatron herded them into a corner. 

“Stasis cuffs are in the right upper storage compartment,” Optimus called back at him. “No more offlining.”

Irritated sigh. “Of course.”

Optimus looked out the viewscreen again. He’d have to trust Megatron, because the other Autobot shuttles around them had noticed their companion’s fate. 

It didn’t help the shuttle handled like what the humans called a roller skate. He touched the controls and it leapt in response. He gritted his dentae and hung on. Frag, piloting this thing would be enough of a servoful, forget weapons. 

The wounded bot screeched. “Do you want to leak out?” snapped Megatron. “You’re welcome to if you’d like. Less trouble for me.”

Optimus would have made a comment, but two other shuttles converged on them, and he had to throw them into a steep dive. The inertial dampeners held, at least. 

“Prisoners secured,” said Megatron, climbing into the copilot’s seat. “The injury has been patched; I doubted you’d thank me for any unnecessarily snuffed sparks.”

“Take over weapons,” said Optimus. “Hopefully they’re better than the steering.”

“My pleasure,” said Megatron, and sounded like he meant it. Frag. Optimus hoped he wouldn’t regret that. He brought the shuttle around to face their pursuers, and Megatron opened fire. 

One of Slipstream’s squadrons came in through the gap the shuttles had opened, streaked past them toward the command tower. 

“Bring us around,” said Megatron. “We’ll provide artillery support.”

Above them, the Autobot line broke and fell back. 

Strika pressed herself hard against the bulkhead and swore. Easy enough to bring down the air support, but the maze of corridors of New Praxus was a different thing entirely. 

Her comm crackled. “General Strika, ma’am, Smokescreen reporting. We just took the generators. We rerouted everything from Security. They’re cut off and we have control of the systems.”

“Good job,” said Strika. “Zap anyone in Security, Autobot controlled areas and the skirmishes in Beta through Epsilon corridors. Stasis now, sort later.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Smokescreen, altogether too happy with that. Good little Decepticon. One wondered how she’d managed with the Autobots for so long. Strika poked her helm out into the corridor, pulled it back fast as a cloud of blasterbolts responded. This lot, she’d deal with herself.

There weren't enough dead bots to justify this much energon and oil. Optimus was thoroughly slimed, and attempting to clean himself off by scraping a servo over his plating only got his servos dirtier. He ached. He ached more than he ever had in his function.

Earth had been different. For all the terror of facing Megatron alone, it had been better, terrifying but at least honorable. This was work, for all it ended people's functions. 

At least it was over. The Autobot commander was brought to them, a young mech barely past his final upgrades, looking very small and angry in war frame grade stasis cuffs--stasis cuffs that were currently offline, given the discrepancy between their parameters and the bot they confined. He stared at them with wide blue optics, then spat on the decking at their stabilizers. "Traitorous scum," he snarled, servos clenching futilely in the cuffs. "You sold us out, and for what, so you could get a good spiking?"

Optimus glanced at Megatron, who simply looked back at him with an expression of polite interest. He squared his shoulders and turned to face the prisoner, hid his flinch at the betrayal and malice in the younger bot's optics. "Our medics are attending to your wounded," he said. "If any of your personnel are medically qualified, we'll want their assistance. You took heavy casualties during the battle, and we don't want any unnecessary offlinings."

"So you can have more 'face toys? Frag you, we know what Decepticons do to prisoners! My bots are under orders not to give assistance."

"Your bots are dying," said Optimus. He felt very cold, and the core of him curled tight, a wound spring. His servos clenched, and his words came hard and precise. "They followed you and trusted you, and you'll kill them, just like that? Because you're more afraid of what we'll do to them? Or because you're afraid of what'll happen if Sentinel decides you're a Decepticon collaborator?"

"That's Sentinel Magnus to you, scum!" But there was uncertainty in the bot's voice. 

"You will be treated ethically," said Optimus. 

"Shuttlescrap," snarled the bot, and Optimus took two strides forward, stopped himself before he seized the bot by the collar fairing. The bot cringed anyway. 

"Your fears are one thing," he said, still with that terrible coldness. "But not when they endanger your command." He looked up at the Decepticon guards. "Confine him and the rest of the command staff separately from the other prisoners. I will speak to the others myself.”

Megatron waited until the bot had been escorted out of the room before speaking. “You think they’ll be more cooperative than him?” he asked, sounding thoughtful. 

“I’ll hope so,” said Optimus. “Our medical staff are limited; we don’t even have Ratchet here. We’ll need their help if we can possibly get it. And,” he allowed his voice to shade grimmer, “we’ll need to figure out what to do with our prisoners.”

Ratchet staggered out of surgery. Everyone else had finished with the battle ten megacycles ago, which at least meant no new casualties. The medical staff still had their work cut out for them. 

Heh, cut. He rubbed his optics. Frag, he was terrible-puns exhausted. Not a good sign. Whatever else might be said about Shockwave, he had some good instincts; he’d shooed Ratchet away from the operating slab before Ratchet himself had realized how tired he was. 

Speaking of scraplets, here came Shockwave, just as grimed as he was, cleaning his claws off. “That is the last of them,” he said. “We can leave the nursing to the rest of the staff; General Strika has informed me she’s directing all trained personnel here, and Thundercracker tells me that he’s perfectly capable of managing the sickbay in our absence.”

“Thanks,” said Ratchet, eying a nearby open patch of decking. It looked pretty comfortable. 

“Strika informs me that you had better recharge in your own berth,” said Shockwave. 

Ratchet waved a servo at him. “Well, she’ll have to come see about that herself, then. Right now, recharge. I’ll be here if anyone needs me.”

The floor was just as comfortable as he’d thought. And two megacycles later, Strika showed up, servos on hips, glaring. Ratchet insisted on checking her for damage before he allowed himself to be carried off to berth. What could he say? It was sweet of her, and being gruffly fussed over by a Decepticon killing machine had its charm. Maybe when he wasn’t so tired he might inquire as to whether that interest went any further…

Chapter Text

The Decepticon fleet reconvened at New Praxus, after leaving a cursory detail at B29-X, with orders to flee rather than defend the planet. Mecha were more valuable than holding that world. 

The senior command, after the requisite greetings, settled down around the conference table and looked at each other. 

“There is the matter of the prisoners,” said Megatron. “We don’t have the mecha to guard them. I need suggestions.”

“It’s unlikely that the Autobots will be willing to do a prisoner exchange,” said Ratchet. “No negotiating with terrorists, and all that.”

“No executions,” said Optimus, quickly.

“We could use them as experimental subjects,” said Shockwave.

The entire table turned to look at him. His antennae were pricked up in a disturbingly hopeful attitude. There was a distinct, lengthily silence. 

“No,” said Ratchet, once he got the horrified threads of his processor working in the same direction again. “Oh frag no.”

“Shockwave,” said Strika, her voice cold, “do you take active pleasure in being a spike casing, or do you not consider half the words you queue for your vocalizer?”

Shockwave’s antennae drooped. “But it might give us the information we need to repair the Seekers,” he said. 

“No,” said Ratchet again, instantly. He glanced down the table. Slipstream met his optics briefly, then looked down at her servos, faceplate blank. “No. We’re not doing that. We’ll manage without, dammit.”

“I concur,” said Megatron. “There is certainly honor in battle, but not in torturing and slaughtering mecha who have no chance of escape. That is an Autobot thing.”

“It is not,” said Optimus, optics blazing. “That is not what it means to be Autobot. That is the behavior of Sentinel’s regime, not what we stand for. There will be no executions, or experiments, or hacking, am I clear?” He stood, leaning his servos on the conference table, and met everyone’s optics in turn. “I have an idea.”

“Well,” said Megatron, leaning back, and was that a considering light in his optics, something like amusement and maybe admiration? Ratchet wasn’t sure. “Let’s hear it.”
“We release them,” said Optimus. 

Pandemonium. Even Shockwave joined in the protest. Everyone except for Ratchet and Megatron seemed to be on their stabilizers and yelling, all at the same time. The amusement had gone right out of Megatron’s expression; he narrowed his optics and watched Optimus, very still. There was something unsettling, not predatory, but not good, in that consideration. Ratchet felt his plating rise. It wasn’t something he’d ever want directed at him. 

Optimus offlined his optics and waited until people finished yelling, then looked up at them. “I understand your reservations,” he said. “But I was a member of the Elite Guard, and let me assure you, if I or my command had been captured and then voluntarily released by the Decepticons, our careers would have ended. At the least, we would have spent several orns under intensive questioning to determine whether we had been somehow compromised, and I would have stood trial to determine whether I’d been incompetent or cowardly in surrendering. At the most, we would have all been arrested for aiding and abetting the enemy.”

“You’re saying Sentinel will make them take the fall.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Optimus. “And they know it. So if we offer them their freedom, there’s a good chance we’ll never see them again. There’s also a good chance that if we offer them a choice between freedom and joining, the bulk will elect to join.”

“And what if they decide to get back into Sentinel’s good graces by taking advantage of our mercy?” Megatron looked over his steepled digits at Optimus, still with that considering expression. 

“We won’t be stupid about it,” said Optimus. “We’ll use the damaged shuttles. We can tow those out into neutral space with their distress beacons. It’ll be better still if we can put them all into stasis first.”

“It’s a lot of effort for a showy act of mercy,” said Megatron.

“Less than confining them.” Optimus glared at him. “And sometimes, inexplicable mercy can be more confusing and demoralizing than cruelty.”

“True,” said Megatron. “And you’re certain we won’t see any of them on the front lines again?”

“I can’t be certain,” said Optimus, “But I doubt the Elite Guard has changed that much.”

“Strika?”

“It’s unconventional, my lord, but bears consideration. At the least, they won’t be our helmache anymore.”

“True.”

“Let me talk to them first,” said Optimus. “They’ll listen to me.”

“What about spies?” said Shockwave. “There may be spies.”

“We’ll screen them, the same as the refugees,” said Optimus. “Besides, no one will expect us to be doing this.”

“Slagged right,” muttered someone. 

“By all means,” said Megatron, “do talk to them.” He grinned. “It worked with the medics, after all.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus, gravely, and with that the conversation moved on to other subjects. 

Well after the last of the strategic considerations had been debated into the decking, Strika and Megatron met up alone in the privacy of Megatron’s quarters. This was by no means unusual—many of the most sensitive nuances of strategy had been debated here—but the first time they’d done so since Megatron’s disappearance on Earth. 

Strika looked at him over the small, long-broken holotable. Its original purpose had been to allow the ship’s commander to be updated on the tactical situation at any time, on duty or off, but now it was a place to put cubes and datapads. “So. What is it?”

“I am deeply disturbed,” said Megatron, and slumped ever-so-slightly. 

“Care to tell me why?” 

“He is so much like Terminus,” said Megatron. “So very like. Sometimes he sounds the same, when he’s being morally superior. His cadences are the same. It is profoundly disturbing, and I do not like it!”

“How so?” Oh Primus, this was too good. She kept the amusement off her faceplate. What had the little Autobot gotten up to during that battle?

“He is not Terminus. I refuse to project a past relationship onto a mech who wasn’t even online when Terminus deactivated. He’s tiny, he’s young, he’s a complete twit—”

“And oh so very good at his job,” purred Strika, enjoying this far more than she should. “A good leader. Careful of his people, and possessed of an idealistic moral code that puts both of ours to shame in terms of sheer impracticality. Intelligent, too. He did beat you. And all this wrapped up in the prettiest red-and-blue plating you’ve ever seen, and the finest aft Autobot military design has ever produced.”

Megatron stared at her. To her absolute delight, she saw the edges of his faceplate flush with energon. 

“I am not having an affair purely because of,” and the quotation marks were audible, tongs around a corroded oil pan, “‘a fine aft’.”

“Aren’t you a stiff old crankcase,” said Strika. “Romantic.”

“Mutual respect, shared ideals, and comparable intelligence, yes,” said Megatron. “A fine aft—!”

“Is for most people sufficient qualification,” said Strika. “I think he fulfills your other conditions as well, though I do wonder why the fine aft was the only one of those qualifications I listed that you heard, my lord.”

“I’m sure he’s uninterested,” said Megatron, quickly. “He was revolted by the mention of an intimate relationship. Utterly revolted. I will make no presumptions.”

Strika sobered immediately. “Of course,” she said. “Only if you’re both interested. At least we’ve established that you are.”

“Primus below, you had better not talk to him. He’ll swear to celibacy.”

Strika gave her lord a profoundly dirty look. “You should have confidence in your commanders, Lord Megatron,” she said. 

“Not when it comes to my personal life. Need I remind you of the results last time?”

“For the record, my lord, I have not the slightest clue of how that Autobot got into your quarters before we apprehended him, and all the items he attempted to steal were restored to you.”

Megatron just looked at her. 

“In all sincerity, Lord Megatron, I think that, if conducted properly, this would strengthen the alliance,” said Strika. “It would have to be handled very, very carefully, of course. But from the Decepticon point of view, you and Optimus having an affair would greatly increase confidence in his place in this alliance. If he’s good enough for Lord Megatron, and if Lord Megatron is willing to trust him even in berth, why would they challenge that? He defied you, successfully; there’s not the slightest question in my processor that he’s good enough to be your mate. The only issue is the Autobot view of things, and only he and Ratchet can make that judgement; I don’t know what goes on in their processors well enough to know how they’d react to that.”

“It seems to be a pressing Autobot concern,” said Megatron. “The foolish commander we captured taunted Optimus, implying that the reason he defected was an affection for my spike.”

“That says better things for your spike than his morals,” said Strika. “But you realize that recognizing him as a mate would give him certain legal rights over the Decepticons.”

“I don’t want a sparkbond.”

“Yes, I know,” said Strika. “Still, consider that. It would place him in greater authority and bring the AFF onto equal standing with us. I’m sure Ratchet would see that, at the least.”

Megatron frowned at her. “I don’t like the idea of intimacy as a bargaining chip. It reeks of Autobot morality.”

“So it does,” said Strika. “Perhaps you two should simply negotiate things yourselves, and fret about these concerns later, if such need arises.”

“Better,” said Megatron.

“I simply wanted to assure you that you wouldn’t be forsaking your duty by thinking with your interface drives.”

“Very comforting, general,” said Megatron. 

“And if it helps, Terminus would likely whack you upside the helm for overthinking this. If the little Autobot is interested, by all means, court him.”

Megatron sighed heavily, but not without a measure of amusement. “Go,” he said. “Both of us need recharge.”

Frag, the kid was good.

Ratchet watched him move through the Autobot prisoners, stopping and talking, calm and reasonable and above all kind, and shook his helm. From people’s expressions, they were going to have those new recruits after all. 

Well, some of them. One small, youngish mech lunged at Optimus, who sidestepped as if he’d been expecting that. He bent his helm again and went back to talking, just as reasonable as ever. 

“I can’t believe it,” said a voice next to him. 

“Hello Chromia,” Ratchet said. “It’s been a while.”

Chromia snorted. “We’ll be going back to Caminus,” she said. “And I can’t believe it. What the frag does the little glitch think he’s doing?”

“Recruiting,” said Ratchet. “Making new friends. You know, the usual things you do around strange new mecha—since when are you going back to Caminus?”

“Certain people are twitchy about their favorite acolytes running about unsupervised,” said Chromia. “Certain favorite acolytes believe anything they’re told and will obey with a snap of the digits.”

“I knew I missed talking to you. You’re so stunningly clear and communicative.”

“Of course. Does he seriously think he can convert them? They were trying to blow us up this morning.”

“It’s Optimus, he believes the best of everyone.”

“Windblade wants to make an alliance with him if no one else,” said Chromia. “She thinks we can trust him.”

“Oh certainly, you can,” said Ratchet. “If he’s ever in a position where he’s allowed to make the rules.”

“Point taken.”

“So why are you headed back?”

“The Mistress of the Flame summoned us,” said Chromia. “Specifically, Windblade.”

“Oh? And who’s this Mistress of the Flame?”
“Only the center of our people.”

“Ah. And you’re not happy about this.”

“I have my misgivings.” Ratchet gave her an inquiring look. “None that I’d speak of to outsiders. But yes, we’ll be leaving.”

“A pity,” said Ratchet. “We were getting along so well.”
“Indeed. Did he just make that mech cry? The one who tried to kill him?”

Ratchet looked back at Optimus. “I suppose so. The weaponized guilt trip has always been one of Optimus’s specialties.”

“Keep Windblade away from him, she doesn’t need to get any better at that.” Chromia shivered. 

“Your plating still sore from that scolding she gave you?”

“Oh yes,” said Chromia. “Very sore.”

“My spark just aches.”

“I’m sure it does. In any case, I wanted to say goodbye. Hopefully we’ll be back. It depends on what people think about what Windblade has to say. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Ratchet, turning his attention back. Optimus was moving again. “We can always use that.”

Optimus sank back into his berth with a sparkfelt groan, stretched out, and fell directly into recharge.

He was on a comfortable berth, that he could tell from the faint give under his shins and stabilizers, and there was hot, humming metal under his servos, the heady scent of flightframe fuel and clean oil. His valve stretched, electric pleasure, around the heat of a spike much larger than his own. It felt good, good in a way interface hardly ever was for him. 

He rocked his hips, and the mech under him moaned, Megatron’s voice, followed by a faint staticky plea for more. Megatron’s red optics were narrowed with pleasure, his intake open as he panted, and the open vulnerability there sent a new bolt of arousal through him. Optimus lifted himself, pushed back down, biting the edge of his intake to muffle his own cry. 

Megatron’s claws moved, twining around the thin chain that bound his servos over his helm. He could have broken those easily, if he’d been so minded. But the flex and curl of his claws on them showed he enjoyed them, enjoyed this, was here for the simple pleasure of such surrender, and with that realization, Optimus began to move, reveling in the cries he dragged from the mech under him. 

He came awake slowly, bolted up when he realized his panels were open and his valve wet. Memories of the dream returned, and he groaned. He hadn’t even known his processor was capable of coming up with such a lurid, debauched scenario. Unnatural. Valve mecha submitted to their partners, not the other way around, and what sort of weird bot used chains on his partner—why had his processor shown Megatron, of all mecha, enjoying the restraints? 

He wasn’t going to be able to look Megatron in the optics for a while, that was for sure. 

Chapter Text

Optimus watched the long range scanner as the Autobot Elite Guard ship came in to ‘rescue’ the three shuttles of released prisoners, and ex-vented heavily. As stupid as they’d been in choosing to go back, he felt badly for consigning them to such a fate. 

But they knew too. And they’d chosen it over being able to make their way as neutrals, or joining the AFF. He supposed he ought to admire them for their commitment, their loyalty, but that loyalty was exactly what had murdered Smokescreen’s team, and so many civilians. 

“It worked,” said Ratchet. “And we’ve got new recruits for it. Good thinking, kid.”

“They might die for this.”

“And they’ve killed for it, too,” said Ratchet. “Possibly even civilians.”

“But possibly not.”

“But we couldn’t take care of them.”

“I know,” said Optimus. “I just…I just hope that they don’t go through what I did.”

A servo patted his shoulder. “You can’t save them all, kid. Especially not the idealistic ones.”

Optimus’s intake twisted in a small, bitter smile. “Speaking from experience?” 

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “By the way, I have a report to make. Thundercracker requests reassignment. He’d like to fly patrols, if at all possible.”

“You said his wings—”

“Jetpacks aren’t just for Autobots now,” said Ratchet, grinning. “It was even easier because he came with built-in wings. Honestly, it’s more of a prosthetic than a jetpack; the only difference between it and his original flight capabilities is that he controls it manually instead of mentally. Thank you, by the way, for trashing your old pack; it was what gave me the idea. The vocalizer will take longer, though. For the meantime, he’s stuck with speaking hand.”

“Good,” said Optimus. His smile was genuine this time. “What about the others?”

“Unless I can make prosthetic bits of processor, we have no really good news,” said Ratchet. “Found a better drug for Skywarp that treats most of the anxiety. He’s severely neurotic but nearly functional, instead of screaming and thrashing whenever he’s online, so it’s an improvement. No change in anyone else.”

“Have you told Slipstream?”

“Yes. She’s spending her available time with them. Be nice to her, would you? I think she’s not happy Windblade and company left.”

“Why?” Optimus frowned at him, perplexed.

“She was interested in Windblade,” said Ratchet, cheerfully. “It might have been returned. It would be quite good if it was. Alliances are built on personal connections—what did I say?”

His faceplate was flushed, wasn’t it. Optimus wanted to crawl under the decking with utterly absurd embarrassment. “Nothing. I’ll keep it in mind. Anything else?”

“Arcee and Omega contacted us. They’ll be joining us in about half an orn or so.”

“Good!” Optimus placed a servo on Ratchet’s shoulder, well aware he was still blushing. “Thank you, Ratchet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to meet with Megatron.”

“Oh?” said Ratchet, and smirked. “What for?”

Here came the blush again, and it brought reinforcements. “Sparring,” he said, keeping his voice as normal as he could. “It’s good practice.” Never mind that this was the first time. “And ah, builds trust.” There, that sounded right, professional. Right?

Oh Primus, Ratchet’s smirk had only gotten worse. “Have fun with that.”

Optimus tried an authoritative glare, but those didn’t work so well while blushing. He gave up and nodded correctly at Ratchet, and then fled to the sparring match in question. At least there were limited—and far more tolerable!—ways to get embarrassed while sparring! He’d take getting dumped on his aft any day over whatever this was.

“It’s working,” said Ratchet. Strika looked sidelong at him. That smirk should be classified as a harbinger of universe-wide devastation. Strika, who hardly could be said to have even a passing relationship with innocence at the best of times, was nevertheless shocked that a bot could manage to look so very…not innocent. 

“What’s working?” she said, propping her chin on a servo and looking at him over her desk and the reams of datapads intelligence produced. 

“Megatron and Optimus,” said Ratchet. 

Oh, this was good. “Go on.”

“You should have seen Optimus blush. He’s interested. Did you know they’re sparring?” 

Strika looked back at the pads, feigning indifference. “All that will do is teach Optimus new angles of Megatron’s duplicity.”

“You’ve been reading those too long. You’re starting to sound like them.”

“Frag you, medic.”

That smirk grew. “Anytime you’d like, General.”

Their optics met.

“Really?” said Strika, after a moment. 

“I’m only serious if you’re interested,” he said. “If not, that’s a tasteless joke I won’t repeat.”

“Perhaps,” she said, looking him over. Most of her processor already was occupied with the mental image of fragging the medic in a mess of datapads. “I assume you’ll make the necessary arrangements?”

“We’ve recruited a few competent medics, yes,” said Ratchet. “If I step aside from being your primary physician, we no longer have a conflict with medical ethics, and you have quite a choice when it comes to a replacement.”

“Do what you must for your conscience,” said Strika. “You know our fraternization regulations—”

“Don’t exist?” 

“Yes. Well. You did your research.” She leaned back and grinned. He looked as if he were contemplating hiking himself up on the desk, though Primus alone knew where, with all the datapads. 

And then her comms screamed to life. “General Strika, sir,” said Slipstream, “We have bad news. We need you up here right away. It’s one of our spies.” 

Megatron snarled and lunged, but Optimus was ready for him. A quick hop back carried him out of Megatron’s range. He darted back in, landing a sharp kick to Megatron’s abdominal plating. Megatron grunted and doubled over, and Optimus kneed him under the chin—or tried to, because Megatron caught his stabilizer and yanked it out from under him. He rolled, heard Megatron grunt as the next blow completely missed, and got to his stabilizers again. Before Megatron could recover, Optimus threw himself into a flying tackle, landing spreadeagled on Megatron’s back. He wrapped his stabilizers tightly around Megatron’s waist, and caught Megatron under the chin in a chokehold, only to find that the shape of Megatron’s helm prevented that from being effective at all. He bashed Megatron in the helm instead, but by the way Megatron laughed, it wasn’t very effective. 

Megatron got up. The plane of his back went from horizontal to vertical, and without the aid of gravity, the ridge of armor that formed the top of his alt mode became a very difficult thing indeed to hold onto. Optimus tightened his grip and held on. A glance over his shoulder confirmed the ground to be a disconcerting distance down. 

Didn’t the humans have a saying involving tigers and tails? Optimus gulped, hard, and wondered how to get down. If this was a real battle, he’d be slag. All Megatron had to do was fall over backwards, and crush him to spare parts. 

Megatron chuckled, sending vibrations through his entire frame—and by extension, Optimus. Optimus’s optics widened, and he was suddenly aware of Megatron’s plating pressed up against his. Not that anything was trying to online yet, good, but if only he could remove his stabilizers from Megatron’s waist, that would mean that…certain parts…were not in direct contact with the large warm expanse of Megatron’s back. 

“Do you need me to let you down, little Autobot?” The large, warm, vibrating with every word expanse of Megatron’s back. Oh frag. Optimus squeezed his optics shut. This was definitely the most embarrassing moment of his life. At least his interface systems weren’t pinging him yet, but given the fact that he’d been dreaming about Megatron in less than decent ways, it wouldn’t be long. Frag. Either that or it would stop being awkward once he stopped thinking about it, which meant this whole thing was his fault. 

“Yes,” he managed. Frag, asking Megatron to let him down was the least embarrassing option. Frag everything. 

Megatron chuckled again. Oh no. There it was. One of his fans was trying to online. Oh frag, oh no. What the frag kind of mech got revved up by this? This was really unfair to Megatron, who probably didn’t even know what was going on. No, no, no, don’t you dare online…

Megatron shifted and bent, and Optimus looked over his shoulder, began to unhook his stabilizers…

Click. 

Whirr.

Optimus dropped off of Megatron’s back well before he meant to, landing flat on his aft. The impact at least sent a different signal to his systems, and the fan went off just as abruptly as it had come on. He let out a long vent of relief. A long vent that got rid of a good bit of the buildup of hot air. 

He scrambled to his stabilizers. Had Megatron noticed? He hoped not. 

Megatron turned and grinned down at him, offered a servo. After a moment, Optimus accepted it. 

“Shall we continue?”

“Sure.” He tried to sound nonchalant. As long as my stupid systems stop trying to do things they shouldn’t! 

Megatron stepped back, didn’t even bother to settle into a guard position. “Well. Come on, then.”

Optimus lunged, Megatron moved in, and they grappled. As long as he could keep Megatron from catching hold of him, they were on fairly equal footing. Megatron wasn’t used to fighting someone so much smaller, though he was adjusting. Optimus wormed out of one bearhug, put a knee somewhere very uncomfortable—Megatron went oof—and wrapped a grappling cable around Megatron’s wrists. It wasn’t playing fair, strictly speaking, but he didn’t care.

Megatron made an abrupt movement, looping the cable over Optimus’s shoulders and pulling it tight with a jerk. Optimus squeaked as he was pulled in close. 

And the fragging fan went on again. 

There was no mistaking it this time, and the acute embarrassment meant it was several seconds before Optimus even located the fragging codes to switch it off. He was never going to be able to look Megatron in the optics again!

His fan went off. But the quiet whirr persisted. Optimus reset his optics. Definitely a cooling fan. Definitely not his. 

“I apologize,” said Megatron, sounding somewhat strangled. “It was not my intent…” The fan went off. 

“It wasn’t mine, either,” said Optimus. 

They stared at each other, not moving. 

Megatron’s comms went off. 

“Yes?” he said. Then, “On my way.”

He looked down at Optimus. “We’ll have to get ourselves unwound,” he said. 

“Er, right,” said Optimus, and tried to shift his shoulders to dislodge the cable. It didn’t work. Megatron’s fans came back on. His weren’t far behind. 

The helpless laugh bubbled up in the back of his intake before he could stop it. It wasn’t even a laugh. It was a giggle. He quashed it at the last moment, which only made it short and even more awkward. 

Some diplomat I make, he thought, looking up at Megatron. Forget earlier. This is the most embarrassing moment of my entire function. 

But Megatron was grinning too. “Just hold still,” he said. “We don’t want this to become any more absurd.”

“Right,” said Optimus, and held still while Megatron unlooped the cables from around his shoulders, then leaned forward to undo the cables around his wrists. 

And dropped a kiss on the edge of his nasal ridge, right between his optics. 

“Report,” barked Megatron as soon as they arrived on the bridge. 

“Slipstream just heard from one of our spies,” said Strika. She looked at Optimus and Ratchet. “We would have ignored it, but we know how the AFF’s leadership has become concerned with Earth.”

Ratchet’s tanks dropped. Oh no. 

“Twelve megacycles ago, energon was found on Earth.”

“Oh no,” said Optimus softly, and Ratchet saw a mirror of his own alarm in his optics. “Oh no.”

Chapter Text

“We have to defend Earth.”

Idealistic crankcase. Strika pinched the nasal guard of her helm and glared at Optimus around her fingers. At least Megatron was also glaring. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to resist the urge to space the both of them if that had happened. “In case you didn’t notice, we are fighting a war,” she said. 

“I will not allow Earth to become a casualty of our war,” said Optimus. “I doubt Sentinel will be particularly ethical about his mining procedures. He may just decide to sanitize the entire planet before commencing operations.”

“They’ll be fine,” snarled Megatron. “Sanitizing the planet would be too expensive.”

“I don’t think you understand how much Sentinel hates organics, Megatron.” Optimus matched both their glares and then some. If he hadn’t been an Autobot, he probably would have punctuated that with a growl. “We can’t let them get that energon, and we can’t let them destroy Earth, which they will. We’re trained to fear organics, and most good Autobots hate them just as much as Sentinel.”

“I’m not so fond of them either,” said Megatron, optics narrowed. His servos were clenched so hard on the table they trembled. 

“I know,” said Optimus, looked away. “But it’s still the right thing to do.”

Megatron looked at Strika, frowning, in obvious need of advice. 

“The Autobots getting that much energon will be devastating to the Decepticon Cause,” Strika said. Megatron’s optics flicked back to Optimus, and Strika stifled the urge to comm him with no, don’t you dare make this a courting gift, you idiot, I thought you had some passing familiarity with diplomacy, because something about the set of his frame alarmed her. 

“We can warn them,” he said. “But the bulk of our forces must remain here.”

“Of course,” said Optimus. “But we need to send at least one warship to Earth.”

Strika reset her vocalizer before that glaring could turn into anything truly unfortunate. “I will remain here with the bulk of our military forces,” she said. “We can detach the Victory and a quarter of her division—the frigates Surprise and Lively, and their attendants. I’ll spare you the Polychrest.”

“Don’t,” said Megatron. “We’ll take Polychrest. Better us than you, and if all goes badly indeed we can set her on a collision course with the Autobots and be rid of two problems at once.”

“Polychrest?” said Optimus.

“An experimental ship with experimental weaponry that was a lovely demonstration of why not to create experimental ships with experimental weaponry,” said Strika. “One of old Megazarak’s little jokes.”

Several of the Decepticon officers made as if they meant to spit, and thought better of it. The little Autobot looked confused, though Ratchet pressed a servo over his intake. Strika still heard the snicker. 

“Polychrest is still moderately functional,” Megatron said. “She can carry troops, at the least. Besides, as long as we keep Surprise, we can compensate somewhat for her failings.”

Optimus nodded. “I think troops will matter more than naval power,” he said. “Particularly with our larger numbers of flyers. A smaller force will also allay human suspicions about our intentions. Namely, whether we’re planning to take over the planet ourselves, something that they’ve had good cause to suspect in the past.” Oh, and there it was, a real glare leveled at Megatron. It was kind of cute, really. Like, as Ratchet would put it, a goldfish trying to savage someone. Strika had no clue what a goldfish looked like, but she had a pretty firm general idea given Optimus’s repertoire of fairly endearing meaningful looks. 

It wasn’t so much size as that something in Strika’s processor kept trying to reclassify him as an archivist or something similarly useless.

“As long as it keeps the humans happy,” said Megatron, sounding less than happy about it himself. 

“Good,” said Optimus. “We don’t want any repeats of last time.”

“Of course not.” You had to give him credit, he seemed perfectly unconcerned with Megatron looming at him. Strika knew Decepticons twice his size who would have been hiding under the table at that expression. Was this that idiot’s idea of flirting? No; Megatron’s irritation seemed perfectly genuine. 

“I’ll make the preparations,” she said quickly. “You select personnel and work on the specifics. I’ll have a plan for the rest of the sector—and the advancement of this front—by the end of the shift, Lord Megatron.”

“Thank you, General,” said Megatron, and returned to glaring at Optimus. 

“Dismissed,” said Strika to everyone else, and, deciding that if the two of them were planning to offline each other in her absence, they’d just have to sort it out themselves, left them to it.

Frag. Megatron looked—was the impolite human term pissed off? Optimus thought so, having heard Sari use the phrase in context, and then be scolded by her father for her language. At least he was used to being glared at like that by Megatron. 

“Look,” he said, “I know you don’t like it, but if the Autobots get that energon, we’re fra—we’re in a lot of trouble.”

“I know that,” said Megatron. 

“You don’t have to come.”

Megatron looked away. 

“I know you don’t like humans, either, particularly Professor Sumdac, but we can’t stand by and let the Autobots kill an innocent species!”

“They’re perfectly capable of looking out for themselves,” said Megatron. 

“Not against the Elite Guard, they’re not.”

“You’re not going to be able to save every species in the universe,” snapped Megatron. “Why start with them?”

“Because they’re in danger. Sentinel would love to offline the entire species, if not to hurt me, then because he hates organics. I think they’re in real and serious danger, and I think you’re being a crankshaft because you’re scared of them too!” Optimus regretted the words as soon as they were out of his vocalizer, even before Megatron’s optics slitted and the Decepticon growled, a low threat that made Optimus feel human-sized. Oh frag. When had he gotten so comfortable around Megatron that he’d forgotten that the Decepticon was, well, a Decepticon, and all but a living weapon? A living, ancient, above all pissed off weapon looming down at him?

“I despise them,” said Megatron. “I do not fear them.”

“Too bad,” snapped Optimus. “I’m helping them. If you’re going to stay back here with Strika—”

Megatron bared his dentae. “I will come with you,” he said. “To make sure that you’re not an utter fool, and do not forget your loyalties to your people when confronted with human needs.”

“Don’t you dare treat me like a protoform.”

“Maybe if you stopped acting like one, I might consider that.”

Optimus stared at him, taken aback by the injustice of that statement. “I am not acting like a protoform. Even Strika agrees that the Autobots can’t be allowed to obtain that energon.”

“And that will be why we’re going,” said Megatron. “Not to defend your favorite species.”

“We’re going to do both,” snapped Optimus. “You do not give me orders.”

“You do not give me orders,” snarled Megatron, and they glared at each other again. 

“Well, I guess that’s settled.”

“Yes, it is. What about personnel?”

At least that promised to be a productive argument. Optimus let out a vent of relief.

Two days later, the small Decepticon fleet assigned to Earth settled into orbit. Optimus and Ratchet took a shuttle down, on Optimus’s insistence that they be the ones to talk to Professor Sumdac and the other Earth authorities; the last time Megatron had turned up, he’d done so with the full intention of destroying the planet, and Optimus said privately to Ratchet that he had no wish to further strain Megatron’s already brittle temper. 

“Smart kid,” said Ratchet. 

“I wish he’d stop lecturing me,” said Optimus. “Yes, I understand that Decepticons and Autobots are different, could he stop blaming every single difference of opinion on that?”

“It’s probably second nature to him, kid. Not sure if there’s a whole lot you can do about it.”

“I thought fighting him was irritating enough,” said Optimus, glaring at the controls as if they were responsible for Megatron’s behavior. “I was wrong.”

Ratchet couldn’t resist tweaking the cybercat’s tail. “Mm. His presence that compelling, kid?” 

Optimus made a choking sputtering noise that was extraordinarily satisfying, and showed his processor had gone all the wicked places Ratchet hoped it had. 

“They still passing around those absurd ‘facing stories in the academy? You know they’re produced by the propaganda bots, right?” Oh yes, they were. Optimus was shading pinker by the second. It all but reached the tips of his audials. “Because I’m pretty sure that Megatron’s closet of dastardly delights exists only in some intelligence bot’s fevered imagination.” 

“Ratchet,” hissed Optimus, and Ratchet couldn’t tell whether it was the idea of said closet, or the fact that he’d quoted verbatim one of the absurd things’ titles, “shut up.”

“Shutting up, sir,” he said, earned a glare for the tone, and pretended to be completely occupied by the absolutely mundane task of piloting the shuttle to land in the usual, much abused, park. Primus, there was even a ship-shaped patch of dead grass. Energon fumes and the landscaping didn’t get on. 

There wasn’t much of a welcoming committee, just a police line to keep curious humans back. The officer in charge of that line informed them that Captain Fanzone, too, was back at Sumdac Tower. 

Ratchet had hated Earth. But it was a relief to be back, and it was with a twinge of nostalgia he transformed and started up toward Sumdac Tower. It had certainly been much simpler. And Optimus hadn’t been so desperately unhappy. 

He was still miserable, Ratchet could tell. He had a lot of very good reasons for it, of course, but Ratchet privately suspected it was because of his usual complete lack of self-esteem. He’d probably convinced himself the entire venture was doomed to failure simply because he was involved. Someone needed to shake him and remind him he was competent, one of these days. Might work best from Megatron, but the difficulty of convincing Megatron to be helpful…

Lost in thought, the first indication of something going wrong Ratchet had was Optimus’s yelp and the sudden clatter of an involuntary transformation. Then the stasis blast hit him, too, and he jerked out of alt and went flat on his faceplates. The last thing he saw was a pair of stabilizers, and a hooked servo steadying Optimus’s lolling helm as their attacker slid the tip of a syringe into his neck line.

Chapter Text

Optimus came online in darkness. His processor ached, something felt vaguely wrong, and all he wanted to do was recharge. He fought his way up to consciousness anyway, strained to see something in the darkness. He couldn’t move, stasis cuffs. His tanks clenched. 

The lights flipped on. Heavy pedes crossed around behind him, and his captor came into view.

“Lockdown!” Optimus stared up at the bounty hunter. “I thought you worked for the Decepticons.”

“Aw, sweetspark, you’ve got it all wrong,” said Lockdown. “I work for the highest bidder. Which right now would be one Sentinel Prime. You’ve got quite a price on your helm.” The tip of his hook caught Optimus under the chin and forced him to meet Lockdown’s optics. “What did you do to torque him off so badly, anyway? They want you alive and everything. Though they didn’t say in what condition.” His servo brushed Optimus’s grappler. 

“Get your servo off me,” said Optimus, trying only to sound disgusted instead of scared. Oh Primus, it was even the same slab as before! Sentinel was a small and distant dread against the way Lockdown was looking at him, at the grappler—oh no, not again, he couldn’t bear to have them ripped away again! His grapplers were a part of him, they weren’t some mod. He flinched under Lockdown’s touch. 

Lockdown smirked. “Stop carrying on. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

“I said, get off me!” Optimus didn’t care about the panic in his voice, he couldn’t move and Lockdown was grinning down at him, and stroking his digits over his grappler like he already owned it. He vented hard. He couldn’t stand the feeling of filled space over him. He was trapped, there was nowhere to go—

Lockdown struck him hard across the faceplate. “Stop sniveling.”

“Get off me!”

“You’re not in a place to be giving orders, sweetspark,” said Lockdown. The hook bit in cruelly under Optimus’s chin. 

“But I am,” said a voice from the doorway. Optimus couldn’t see him, but the voice was definitely Megatron, and from the way Lockdown tensed up, he’d probably just come in with a charged fusion cannon. “Step away from the slab.”

Lockdown did, raising his servos. “Intruder defense systems—” he started, and Megatron laughed. 

“You don’t think I was stupid enough to come alone, do you?” he said. “We’ve gutted your ship; did you know that a lot of its modifications are compatible with Polychrest’s? Put those stasis cuffs on. Now.” Lockdown hesitated. Megatron’s cannon’s whine surged up into the audible. “Now.”

Lockdown snarled and moved. The lights went down. Optimus fought the stasis cuffs, tried to gasp a warning. Metal clashed, and then Megatron laughed. Lockdown cursed, something went whumph-zap and the lights came back on. 

Megatron dropped Lockdown carelessly on one of the shelves, securely stasis cuffed, and drew a sword. “Hold still.” 

Optimus did, optics wide. There was being dramatic, but this was taking it too far! He fought not to flinch as the sword came down, felt a whisper of air and metal against his frame as it severed the restraints. 

Megatron offered him a hand up, said, “Smokescreen, report.”

Smokescreen’s voice crackled back through his comms; he must have put them on externally audible channels, though Optimus couldn’t see why. “We’ve completed the operation, Lord Megatron. Polychrest reports ready for departure.”

“Good,” said Megatron, and turned and fired on the cabinets and shelving. Lockdown yelled protest; Megatron ignored him until the contents of every shelf were reduced to smoking rubble. He picked up Lockdown and slammed him onto the slab, reactivating the restraints as he did. He destroyed the shelf Lockdown had been on as well, then stood back and looked down at Lockdown. 

“Next time,” he said, “I won’t bother coming myself. I’ll send the Justice Division after you.”

Lockdown’s optics widened, flicked to Optimus. 

“Optimus is under my protection,” said Megatron, leaning forward. “When you accepted this commission, you must have known that. You were stupid enough to take it anyway. I will choose to believe it was stupidity, rather than the belief you could best me, which is why you’re still online. Am I clear?” 

Lockdown’s optics narrowed again. “It’s business. Nothin’ personal about it.”

Megatron smiled. “Then consider this me making it personal,” he said. “You will not touch any Decepticon under my command, nor any Autobot under Optimus’s. Try it again, and I’ll do considerably more than destroy everything you care about. My Decepticons have stripped this ship of every valuable mod. I have destroyed your collection. I would pull the remaining modifications out of your frame myself, but with an Autobot squadron coming in as we speak, I don’t have the interest or the time. But try anything—anything at all save fleeing once you inevitably free yourself—and so help me Unicron, I shall turn the entire fleet on you.”

Lockdown tried to puff himself up. “If I’d known you wanted the little Autobot on your spike that badly—”

Megatron’s fusion cannon made an entirely inappropriate tink noise as it came to rest against Lockdown’s chest plating. “You’re missing the point,” he said. “You defied my protection, and my authority. You recall what I did to Dirge.”

Was that a flicker of fear that crossed Lockdown’s faceplate? 

“Good,” said Megatron. “You have proven useful in the past, Lockdown. You have that to thank for your continued function. Come, Optimus. We have a battle to fight.”

The moment they were out of the room, he turned back around, going down on one knee to better examine Optimus. “You are unharmed? If he injured you, I will go back in and offline him this moment.”

“I’m fine,” said Optimus, as the reaction hit. He tried not to tremble, but his frame had its own ideas, the hazy memories of the last time he’d spent in Lockdown’s servos flooding back. He reached for his grapplers to make sure they were still there. 

Megatron half extended one servo, hesitated, then gently laid it on Optimus’s forearm. “If you wish it, I can still offline him.”

Optimus shook his helm. “I’m fine now. Really.”

“As you wish,” said Megatron. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no, no assistance.” The prospect of Megatron carrying him through the halls again was just embarrassing. 

“Are you sure about the offlining?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” snapped Optimus. “Absolutely, positively sure. Don’t we have a battle?” 

“A small one,” said Megatron, regretful. “Mostly in the air, by the looks of it. They sent hardly anyone.”

“What about the humans?”

“Ratchet is a remarkable diplomat when the situation so demands.”

“I need more specifics than that.”

“The humans were remarkably cooperative, though the one named Fanzone did take the time to make a generally derogatory remark about machines.”

“Oh no,” said Optimus. “If this goes truly badly, remind me to have a box of chocolate and some flowers sent to his wife.” At Megatron’s startled expression, he added, “How do you think we managed so long without being arrested as dangers to the peace?”

“I wasn’t aware that you were bribing the organics.”

“It was a polite gesture, not a bribe,” said Optimus. “And polite gestures count for a lot more when they don’t try and turn around and kill people.”

“The Dinobots and Soundwave weren’t necessarily designed to kill people. I simply pointed out the desirability of liberty.”

“Shuttlescrap.” They came around a corner to find Smokescreen and a group of Decepticons pushing anti-grav trolleys into the boarding tackle. 

“Lord Megatron,” said Smokescreen. “With all respect, Commander Slipstream requests we hurry. The Autobots will break atmosphere within the hour.”

“Have we all the modifications?”

“Yes, my lord. These are the last of them.”

“Good,” said Megatron. “Let’s go make the Autobot fools sorry they ever laid optics on this planet.”

Smokescreen grinned. “With pleasure, my lord.” She turned back to her command. “You heard Lord Megatron. Move your afts! There’s tailpipe to kick!”

Optimus, watching her, wondered if he would ever get as good at commanding Decepticons as that. He hoped so.

Ratchet reported back to his post in Victory’s medbay, and he and his staff clustered around the monitor, watching the Autobots come in. They’d managed to move the confrontation out over some kind of cultivated land—the vibrations from Victory’s engines alone were enough to shatter every window in downtown Detroit—but it still wasn’t ideal. The squadron had set up a defensive perimeter around the city the moment it became clear the Autobots intended to force a confrontation on Earth itself, rather than on the Moon, which would have been the ideal terrain. No one would have to worry about squashed humans there. 

Of course, it was in the Autobots’ best interest that their opponents be distracted by squashed humans. Hence the perimeter. Ratchet was rather startled that Megatron had thought of that, much less given the orders, but Megatron seemed to be in a mood to shatter expectations today. Given the results, Ratchet wasn’t going to complain. 

He’d had to watch Lockdown drag Optimus away, and then the human police had come to investigate the commotion. The deputy called Fanzone, who muttered about machines, and told Professor Sumdac, who had the Victory’s hailing frequency. Ratchet, audials turned up to full sensitivity, eavesdropping on the conversation over the deputy’s communication device, would have winced at the sudden pregnant silence when Megatron answered. Then Professor Sumdac said, in a tone that made Ratchet wonder how Sari got away with so much slag, “I see that Optimus was indeed correct when he said he had a lot to explain.”

“Yes, he does,” said Megatron, in his most pleased, condescending tone. Ratchet, beginning to get some control over his motor functions again, groaned. “Now what is the reason for this call?”

“Lockdown’s got Optimus,” said Ratchet. There was a pause. Megatron said, “What was that?”

“We found Ratchet in partial stasis and Optimus gone,” said Professor Sumdac. “What was that, Captain? Oh. Ratchet believes Lockdown to be responsible.”

“Of course,” said Megatron. “I will deal with it. What is Ratchet’s condition?”

“I’m fine,” snapped Ratchet. “Just waiting for it to wear off. Tell him I’ll come meet with you in Optimus’s place.”

“He says he’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it. A pleasure as always, Professor Sumdac.” 

A pause, probably as Professor Sumdac made absolutely sure the communication channel was off, and then, “What was Optimus thinking?”

“Get me up there and I can explain,” said Ratchet. 

“I hope you can,” said Professor Sumdac. 

Sumdac’s reaction when it was explained was better than Ratchet had expected, but deeply concerning all the same. He’d looked up at Ratchet, both startled and angry, and in the few seconds before Fanzone exploded into profanity, said, “Oh no, and my prototypes aren’t even ready for testing! I’ll get right to work!”

“This is why I hate machines!” started Fanzone, but Professor Sumdac was already gone. Ratchet looked down at the other humans and let out the most sparkfelt sigh he’d voiced in ages. He waited for Fanzone to stop yelling, and then said, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. Should I tell Professor Sumdac?”

“I’ll tell him,” said Fanzone. “You lot focus on dealing with the mess.” The look Fanzone’d given Ratchet didn’t sit well at all with him, but there were bigger organic swimming things to heat. Namely the Autobot squadron that had just bridged in over the atmosphere, and the comm from Megatron saying Optimus was online and well—or as well as anyone who’d just been fished out of Lockdown’s filthy clutches could be. 

And now they waited. The Autobots were visible without magnification now. 

The comms crackled on, Optimus’s voice. “Hold the line,” he said. “There are 1.2 million sentient beings in that city. We cannot allow them to be harmed.” He paused. “The Elite Guard thinks they can take whatever they want, no matter the cost. Today, we prove them wrong.” 

Chapter Text

Optimus looked up at the ranks of Autobot shuttles coming in for landing, at the command ship above them, and reset his vocalizer out of sheer nervousness. They had to do this—but the odds weren’t good at all. 

He glanced sidelong at Megatron, who also stared up, grinning. “Autobot aggressors,” he said. His voice doubled oddly in Optimus’s audials; he was transmitting his words to all comm frequencies. “I am Megatron. This planet is under my protection, the protection of the Decepticon Empire. Attempt similar oppression on it as you have inflicted on Cybertron, and you will be destroyed.”

Optimus hastily reset his comms to broadcast as well. “There’s still a chance to resolve this without lost lives. Turn around. Leave Earth in peace. We don’t have to do this!” 

Megatron made a face worthy of Sari at that. 

Optimus’s answer came in the shape of a blaster bolt from the nearest shuttle. He dodged, brought out his battlemask, and raised his axe. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. Next to him, Megatron snorted. 

Fighting was easier this time. He was defending Earth, not trying to conquer an Autobot colony. These bots—he could hardly bear to think of them as Autobots—were trying to destroy humanity. He’d stood against Megatron with nothing but a batch of repair bots to save this planet; he wasn’t about to let the Elite Guard do whatever they wanted. 

He slapped a bot aside with the flat of his axe, a grounder with a jetpack similar to his. The Elite Guard had had enough time to replicate it, evidently. Most of the rest of the fighting was on the ground, and the Decepticon and AFF forces down there seemed to be holding their own pretty well. He and Megatron and a few of the other flyers were trying to keep the handful of Autobot flyers—and the shuttles—from picking off the ground forces. Very few of these bots seemed to know what they were doing in the air, and Optimus wondered if their jetpacks were as new to them as his had been during the battle over Detroit. 

A blow with the axe took out one stabilizing wing on an attacker. The Autobot yelled as she lost control and spiraled to the ground, but she’d live. Optimus was already looking around for the next threat. 

And an instant too late, saw one of the shuttles fire at Megatron. Optimus screamed a warning, threw himself at Megatron to knock him out of the way. 

Something struck him, slammed him hard against Megatron’s plating and wrenched, and then there was pain, nothing put the pain, and cold deep within his chassis, where no cold should be.

The little Autobot was a pleasure to fight alongside. Megatron remembered doing so on Earth, the sheer satisfaction of having an efficient fighter at his back, and a quickly-ignored, very small part of him felt somewhat badly for using him as a shield back then. It had been a waste of an effective warrior. Optimus moved fast, elegantly, and though that stupid ‘jetpack’ of his would never rival the wings of a real flyer, he handled it well. 

That and his political acuity and intelligence made him very attractive indeed.

Megatron batted away a blaster shot with one of his swords and lunged forward to skewer the Autobot responsible. He blasted a shuttle out of the way and saw a flash of red and blue out of the corner of his optic as Optimus dealt with an opponent on their flank. He grinned. 

And then Optimus’s weight slammed sideways into him, the little Autobot yelling a warning into his audial, words that scaled up into a binary scream of pain, and the press of Optimus’s frame against him went limp. Megatron caught him before he fell, and his servos found wet energon and the slick ugly surface of thick cables, the jagged edges of plating. He looked down, at the mess he’d put his servo into, Optimus’s internals bared and ruined. 

The Autobot was like a human child’s doll in his servos, small and fragile. Disconnected cables and lines snaked out of his chassis down Megatron’s arms, hot and slimy, gushing energon. Somewhere deep in the hole that had been a perfectly functional frame a few clicks ago, the rounded edge of his tank glistened, streaked pink and black with energon and oil. 

“Hold the line!” Megatron roared over comms at the rest of them. “I will return!”

He gathered Optimus into his arms, hardening his spark to the gasping reedy shriek this produced, and flew back to the Victory, fast enough that warnings of overstressed thrusters popped up in his HUD. He could feel Optimus’s fluids dripping down his arms, still hot and fresh; he was still leaking like a punctured oil drum. 

He tried not to think about the hot urgency that wrapped his lines, the way his intake closed, the way his traitorous servos wanted to shake. He was not afraid. The wounding of one Autobot ally, no matter how important, was not the reason for the horror and denial, the way everything sharpened down to the trembling weight in his arms, why even over the wind he could hear the stifled whimpers of his burden. He’d seen Decepticons twice Optimus’s mass take a wound like this and go down shrieking; the little Autobot’s pride had to be enormous to overcome the agony. 

“If you offline I will resurrect you myself, you little fool.” He realized he’d said it aloud, but Optimus likely hadn’t heard him. 

He landed, less gracefully than could be wished, shoved past the alarmed mecha in the shuttlebay and ran, ran to medical, holding Optimus close, hoping the movement wouldn’t damage him further. 

“I need a medic!” He heard the desperation in his voice, wanted to be angry at it, but couldn’t care. 

Someone said something, a gurney appeared by his elbow. “My lord,” said one of the medics, and Megatron stared down at him, uncomprehending, until the mech gestured and he realized the gurney was for Optimus. He set the little mech down as gently as he could, and something in the terrified optics wrenched his spark. A little blue servo groped weakly for his—and then the medic shouted something at his fellows and Optimus was whisked away into the surgery, leaving Megatron with one servo outstretched, looking after him. 

He couldn’t remain here one moment longer. Megatron snarled, whether at himself or the medics, he wasn’t sure, turned on his heel and fled back into the battle. 

Battle, he could manage. 

Commotion outside of the operating room, and the orderly slid a mech with red and blue plating onto the slab in front of him. Ratchet had already clamped three of the spurting energon lines before he realized his patient was still online and making little terrified pained bleats; not that he could risk full stasis before the mech’s energon pressure had been restored to something useful and his spark could be stabilized. One of his nurses patted at the mech’s undamaged plating, murmured reassurances. Ratchet reached for the next clamp, swore at the mech handing it to him viciously as the useless fragger fumbled it, and applied it anyway. “Energon, groundframe, seven liters.” 

First Aid reached past him and got the line in. 

“Spark levels,” said Ratchet. 

“Steadying,” said First Aid. 

Ratchet touched the undamaged servo. “You’ll be fine, kid,” he said, and looking up saw that it was Optimus. 

His tank twisted into a hard knot. “You’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Aid, get him into stasis. He’s stable for now. Next!”

Chapter Text

Sentinel Magnus watched the footage of the battle and seethed. 

It did his spark good to see Optimus fall, it really did. Served the glitch right, having his own idiocy be responsible for his offlining—but then Megatron elbowed his way in, his greasy servos all over Optimus’s frame. He was right, they really were fragging after all. As disgusting as it was to contemplate, at least his propaganda was accurate. 

But the bit that really wrenched his crankshaft came later, when Megatron rejoined the battle, covered in energon and oil—Optimus’s energon and oil, frag him!—and won it. 

All by his fragging, filthy, glitchridden, Decepticon self.

It was terrifying. 

This was the seventh time he’d watched it, the whole thing, and it was still terrifying. Megatron plowed into the line, charged shuttles, shredded both line and shuttles with what seemed like nothing more than a pair of swords and sheer rage. The shuttles fell back—at least, the surviving shuttles fell back—and with them aboard, the fragging command ship saw Megatron coming at it and fled. 

He was going to nail the commander responsible for this debacle to the fragging wall. Sentinel slammed a fist down on the table and raked his free servo over his helm. Megatron. On his own. Had shredded a full line of battle. 

Covered in Optimus’s energon and oil. That last part torqued him off most. Filthy little cheat. Optimus fragging Megatron. Megatron putting up with the little glitch leaking all over him. Who in their right mind would do that? It wasn’t to be tolerated. 

They were going to pay—

On the comm screen, Lockdown reset his vocalizer noisily. “Are you done stewing?” he asked. “Because I have something else you’ll want to hear.”

“And why would I want to hear anything from you?” snapped Sentinel. “You failed.”

“Yeah. It’s why I failed that you want to hear.” Lockdown brought his hook into the visual feed and pretended to examine it. “It’ll cost you.”

“Why would I care?”

“It’s about Megatron,” said Lockdown. “A weakness.”

“Fine. You have my attention.”

“Payment first.”

“Fine,” snapped Sentinel, and typed in the code. “There. You have it.”

“Pleasure doing business with you as always, Magnus sir,” said Lockdown. “When Megatron finished his little heroic rescue, he couldn’t resist threatening me one last time before leaving. He told me to remember Dirge.” At Sentinel’s expression of irritation, he grinned further. Frag him. “Ah. You don’t know about Dirge.”

“I don’t make it a habit to learn about Decepticon squabbles,” said Sentinel. 

“This one, you should have,” said Lockdown. He looked too satisfied for Sentinel’s peace of processor. “So, just before the end of the last war…”

Stable didn’t mean out of Primus’s grabby little servos, not by a long shot. Ratchet’s patch job on Optimus hadn’t saved Optimus; it had staved off deactivation long enough to allow him to repair the other critical cases. As soon as no one was in immediate danger of dying, Ratchet started in on the major surgeries Optimus needed to survive. Replacement lines, lots of them. Prying out the components that had fused with the heat of the blaster bolt, replacing those, too. Removing the slag melted to the sides of his tank and sparkchamber—slag that had once been bits of his plating and his internals. Cutting away the plating too heat-warped to salvage and welding in new metal. 

At the end of it all, Optimus would live. He’d even be restored to full function, something Ratchet was enormously proud of. When you’d spent three megacycles peeling at someone’s sparkchamber, you took what you could get. Right now, Optimus had a big ugly patch of gray metal on one side, but getting it nicely painted could wait. He was online, and he was going to stay online, and that was what mattered.

The humans complicated everything. Humans wanted to know everything. No sooner had Ratchet finished reattaching the last of Optimus’s external plating, a horrible job at best, but better than rearranging his internals, than Sari and Professor Sumdac turned up, demanding to see him. 

They already knew what happened, they said. They wanted to see Optimus anyway. So Ratchet obliged. 

“He’s going to be under for the next few days,” he said, stepping carefully through the infirmary doors. “That shot came within inches of offlining him, and still damaged some pretty critical components. He’ll pull through just fine, though. Kid’s tough—slag.” He paused in the doorway, looking at the berth, or rather what was in the chair next to the berth. “I told that crankcase to go get some recharge in his own berth, frag him.”

Megatron slumped back in the chair, one elbow propped on the berth, helm leaned against his servo, optics offline and systems humming irregularly in recharge. A datapad, still active, had fallen from his other servo to the floor.

“Why’s Megatron here?” hissed Sari. 

“He is the leader of the Decepticons, if you haven’t noticed,” said Ratchet. 

“No, I mean, why’s he—”

“Ratchet,” said Professor Sumdac, with an expression that even Ratchet could tell indicated he had worked out the real reason that Megatron was there, “I would like to have a word with you and Sari. Outside, please, so that we do not wake anyone up.” This last was accompanied by a pointed look in Megatron’s direction. 

Ratchet muttered a curse under his breath, and followed. “Professor Sumdac—”

Professor Sumdac looked up at him and folded his arms. “I do not know how to put this delicately, Ratchet,” he said. “Megatron is extremely manipulative, and it is irresponsible on your part to encourage—”

“I’m not encouraging anything!” said Ratchet, raising his servos defensively. “It’s Optimus’s choice, not mine—but you can bet that I’ve been keeping a close optic on Megatron, and as far as I can tell, he’s been pretty well behaved.”

“Yes, he was ‘pretty well behaved’ when assisting me, too,” said Professor Sumdac. “That did not stop him from using me to his own purposes.”

“Believe me, I think his own purposes in this case align with Optimus’s best interests,” said Ratchet. 

Sari folded her arms, too. “Uh, hello, this is Optimus we’re talking about here? He’s not just a doormat, he’s a doormat that moves so he can get stepped on again! And you’re trusting Megatron around him?”

Ratchet pinched his nasal ridge, let out a long ventilation, and counted back from ten. “Megatron’s got standards,” he said after a time. “He’s not about to hurt Optimus, trust me on this.”

The glares intensified. 

“It’s their business,” said Ratchet. “And how the frag did you miss that footage of the battle?”

Sari and her father looked at each other. “I didn’t find it particularly reassuring,” said Professor Sumdac, carefully. “Certainly, I suppose certain parties would be happy to have it interpreted as Megatron getting revenge for Optimus’s injury. But that is not a safe assumption, not with Megatron. He is very persuasive. When he is manipulating you, you do not feel that he is asking anything of you at all, but that it is all your idea. Believe me. I know.”

“We are not having this discussion here,” said Ratchet. “Conference room. Now. I need to show you something—particularly what exactly happened on Cybertron that made Optimus defect.” He was already sending the request to Slipstream for the video of that one protest, for the security recordings of the shuttle explosion, and he ducked back into the medbay to pick up the datapad with a copy of Pharma’s little project on it. “This isn’t about Megatron manipulating anyone,” he said. “Sentinel and the Autobots didn’t leave us with much of a choice. Come on.”

Megatron woke in the medbay, spinal strut roaring protest. He grumbled at it, looked down at the little Autobot next to him. 

His spark dropped. He bared his dentae in a snarl, rose all in one motion and left, the distress too great to allow anything else. 

How dare she? How fragging dare she? The image of that hideous damage seemed printed on the insides of his optics, overlaying another image, an old one. 

Strika was a fool, and he was weak in his dotage, weak and sentimental. The Decepticons could not afford for him to make this mistake twice, and he so nearly had! The way his tank clenched when he thought of that little trembling weight in his servos was proof enough. He was a fool for this, and Strika doubly so! 

The Lord of the Decepticons had not the luxury of grief. He had lost a war to it, once. Now, he’d almost made the same mistake. 

The little Autobot was lovely indeed, intelligent, a brilliant warrior, but no, it was folly to take this regard further. It endangered the Autobot as much as it did him. 

A small part of his spark hurt at this. Was a private affair so much to ask? it wondered. He’d already given up so much for the Cause, was he to surrender this small solace as well? 

But Megatron had not risen so far, had not won battles by listening to that part of his spark. He shoved it aside, and stormed to the bridge. 

Or tried to. There were humans in the way, the hateful Sumdac and his offspring, and Ratchet. Megatron stopped where he was and glared down at all three of them. 

“Stop that,” said Ratchet. Megatron bared his dentae. “Professor Sumdac may have just found a way to cure Skywarp and the others.”

“How wonderful,” he said, barely suppressing the urge to say, With something else he looted from my frame?

“Hopefully,” said Sumdac, glaring back at him. Oh dear, did the memory of his captivity rankle? How very unpleasant, to be imprisoned and used to further an alien interest, for a handful of orns. How very unpleasant indeed. Was having one’s body fully functional and inviolate a burden rather than boon under such circumstances? Perhaps an apology was in order. 

“There is a matter I want to bring up now that you are awake,” said Sumdac. He stepped back so he could see both of them, and frowned. “You need to leave Earth. All of you. I am not having a war fought here.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” said Megatron. “Unfortunately, that’s not up to me, now is it?” He frowned at Ratchet. “I dare say your kind little leader would protest most volubly at the idea of leaving Earth to fend for itself against an Autobot invasion.”

“We are capable of dealing with the Autobots,” said Sumdac. 

“And here I thought that Sumdac Systems didn’t make weapons. Has time so corrupted your morality, Professor?”

“Hey!” Sari stepped forward, tiny fists balled. “Don’t you dare talk to my dad like that!”

“It’s not a weapon,” said Sumdac. “It’s a forcefield.”

“You’re going to surround the planet with a forcefield,” said Megatron, flatly. He’d heard worse plans. Mostly from Blitzwing. Overcharged Blitzwing. 

“No, only attackers, a long-term forcefield surrounding the planet would make no sense, energetically speaking,” said Sumdac. “We also may be able to create something that broadcasts the effect of stasis cuffs. But none of this will damage the target. We want the Autobots gone, not destroyed.”

Megatron snorted. “So be it. We have bigger problems than babysitting you.”

It was several megacycles later, when they’d finished their preparations to take off, that the message arrived on his private comms. He hadn’t even known that Sumdac had those codes, and the reminder of that violation made him snarl to himself, drive a fist into the wall. 

Optimus has friends, the message said. Don’t even think about using him. You may have fooled Ratchet, but not me.

How very unlike Sumdac. How cute, that he was acting as if Optimus was one of his offspring, a helpless one at that. Perhaps the human had learned, though he was deluded if he believed Megatron meant to be that foolish. 

He tried to think of a suitably scathing retort, but stony silence seemed to be best.

Chapter Text

“Strika,” said Megatron, a low growl, “We need to talk.”

Strika stepped forward to let the door slide shut behind her. She’d already seen the reports from the battle on Earth. Successful, but Optimus’s wounding was both horrifying and sobering. The alliance was tenuous enough; had that shot been even a digitwidth higher, the alliance would have died as the bolt ripped the Autobot’s spark into oblivion. 

Ratchet was a wreck. He was trying to hide it, but Strika could tell. The exhaustion showed, the unwillingness to leave Optimus’s berthside even in the hands of a competent assistant. He probably blamed himself. Medics always did. But Optimus would live, and that was enough of a victory for the day. 

And now, looking at Megatron, Strika had a strong suspicion that the blaster bolt hadn’t just damaged Optimus. Her leader was sitting very still and rigid, and looking at her with narrowed optics. She could all but smell the rage wafting off him. 

“Indeed, my lord,” she said. “Your attack on the Autobot line of battle, while effective, was incredibly risky. Losing both you and Optimus in one battle would be unacceptable.”

“Indeed it would,” he said, still cold. Strika paused in the doorway and narrowed her optics back at him in a frown. Was he angry at her? That was the most juvenile thing he possibly could manage. “Optimus almost deactivated.”

“But he didn’t,” said Strika. “Thanks to you, and to Ratchet.”

He surged upright. “Are you a fool, General? Are you a complete and utter fool?”

“Not the last time I checked, my lord,” said Strika, and folded her arms. “Neither am I Starscream.”

“You encouraged me. You encouraged me knowing full well what happened—”

“With Terminus,” stated Strika. Scraplet fragging Primus, he really was this juvenile. Anger gathered tight under her spark. She squared her shoulders and looked at him, half hoping he wouldn’t pick up on her rage. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t back off, and she’d have an excuse to fight him. 

“It lost us the war,” snarled Megatron. “Have you not learned from experience? You want me to form a bond with a fragile little Autobot who is so easily offlined? Who is so much a helpless little fool? You idiot, Strika!”

“Let me be sure I understand you correctly,” said Strika, letting each word fall deliberately. “You believe that I am a fool for merely encouraging your interest in Optimus, because you believe that your reaction to Terminus’s death lost us the last war.” She was pleased; not a hint of derision, not a hint of the vicious rage that rose in her. If he wanted to play himself as too tragically bereaved to think sensibly because of a dead bondmate, he’d chosen the wrong audience. 

He just looked at her.

“Fragging Unicron in the Pit, Megatron!” Strika roared. “You’re not that fragging important!” 

She’d startled him, startled and angered. She stepped forward, still yelling, pressing her advantage while he was still too surprised to yell back. “He was more than your fragging mate! We lost our chief strategist. Compared to the rest of the turmoil his deactivation caused, your misery hardly signified! You want to blame yourself for our loss? Try this instead; it was my fault. He died, and all his duties fell into my lap and I had no clue how to deal with them! I had no clue what to do, frag you, because I was a warrior and cared about nothing more than the next objective! That’s concrete! That makes a lot more sense than ‘we lost because our poor leader had his spark broken’!”

“That is enough!”

“No, it is not!” They were practically chestplates to chestplates, him glaring up into her face, and Strika saw the dangerous light in his optics and did not care. “You think you lost us the war single-servoed? Never mind the Allspark, never mind the spacebridges, never mind fragging Ultra and his fragging hammer, Lord Megatron is capable of losing wars all by himself out of sheer perversity? You pompous preening spike casing!”

“You think this excuses—”

“Do you think you’re special because your mate died, you fragger?” Strika’s voice rose to a pitch she seldom allowed off the battlefield. “We’ve all lost people. All of us. So stop being such a fragging coward about it!”

The blow to her midsection sent her staggering back. The second all but knocked her off her stabilizers. Megatron charged, yelling in incoherent rage. Strika set herself and met him halfway, slammed him onto the ground. He slashed her across the stabilizer with his claws, seized her arm and pulled her down into a hard knee to the faceplate, clubbed her two-handed across the back as he came up. 

His cannon whined to life. So he was serious. Strika laughed into his faceplate and surged forward, uncaring of the dents he left, the hot scorch of his cannon across her side. She slammed her into the wall. He kneed her in the interface array, dug claws under a plate and wrenched. Strika roared with the pain, helmbutted him in the nasal guard. Bashed him into the wall again. 

“I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it,” she said, bashed him again. He brought a stabilizer up and kicked her away. The second cannonblast didn’t go as wide, and Strika grunted as the ablative armor over her arm took the blow. It hurt like Pit, would have killed someone Slipstream’s size, but it was far from enough to discourage her. “Because that’s why I’m here.” She dodged another blow, grabbed his arm, fingers denting the metal, used his momentum to yank him helm first into the conference table. “I tell you what you don’t want to hear, my lord, and I’m not about to back down because you’d like someone else to blame for—whatever the frag this is. You’re upset over the little Autobot’s health? Not my fault!” 

She grunted as the next kick landed. If she was in a charitable mood, she might allow him to win this fight easily. She wasn’t. “You can’t deal with the emotional conflicts related to the little Autobot? Not my fault! That’s on you, my lord, you alone! You want something to blame yourself for, try that instead of this idiotic self-aggrandizing ‘I lost us the war’ slag!”

He stepped back, venting hard. He’d definitely come off better than her, but not by that much. 

“If you find your decision-making is impaired by your feelings for him, then that’s your fragging problem. Not admitting your feelings—or not pursuing them—isn’t going to make a jot of difference.” Strika paused to vent hard. Whatever she pretended for the young cons, she wasn’t as young as she used to be. “You’ll have to deal with them one way or another. And I won’t always be here to talk you out of these fits.”

He looked at her a long time. 

“You overstepped.”

“Sit on a missile and rotate.”

He looked startled. 

“I’m not Starscream,” said Strika. “I’m not about to play the toady because we had a fight.” She probed at a dent, hissed with discomfort. “And don’t use your fragging cannon inside the ship, it’s Pit to repair.” She looked up at him. “And go to Ambulon, not Ratchet, to get those dealt with. Ratchet’s going to singe our tailpipes enough for this as it is. Ambulon understands.”

Megatron paused. “I suppose,” he said after a time, “that you are correct.”

Strika wasn’t sure if he meant about Optimus or Ambulon, but she’d take what she could get. 

Ambulon had gotten to the welds first, but when Strika showed up in his office that nightcycle, Ratchet could tell she’d been in a fight. And since there hadn’t been a battle recently…

“Did Megatron do this?”

“Yes,” said Strika, obviously pleased with herself. “And you should just see him. Serves him right for cheating in our practice matches. Philosophical debate.”

“Pit of a debate,” he said, and followed her out. “What did you tweak his thrusters about?”

“Not here,” said Strika. 

She remained silent until they reached Ratchet’s quarters, then waited for the door to close. “About Optimus. He was concerned about earlier events.”

Ratchet glanced sidelong up at her. “Would this have anything to do with Terminus?”

She stiffened, standing in the doorway. He sat on the edge of the berth, deliberately nonthreatening. 

“How do you know that name?” she asked. After a moment she moved forward to sit with him.

“I’m an observant mech,” said Ratchet. “I saw his name on Megatron’s medical files—it’s very unusual for bonded mecha to survive the death of half of the bond, and I was making a study of survivors. And I’ve heard the name bandied about a lot recently. Usually accompanied by significant looks.”

Strika was quiet a moment. A huge servo gently touched his back. He leaned into the touch, and she began stroking his dorsal plating, her optics dim slits. 

“And because of Optimus,” she said at last. 

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “I know about Starscream, which led me to believe that Megatron had terrible taste in mecha, but I know nothing about Terminus. For Optimus’s sake…”

“Understood,” said Strika. She fell silent again, her servo still. Several long vents passed. “Perhaps it is Megatron’s story to tell, but I doubt he ever would, and if it would reassure you as to his intentions toward Optimus, it is worthwhile.” She pulled her servo back, as if embarrassed, folded them in her lap. Then, with a touch of humor, she added, “And it might save you from putting your stabilizer into something nasty, later.

“There are bonded mecha, and then there are couples like Megatron and Terminus,” she said. “Or myself and Lugnut. The truly powerful bonds, the ones that baffle the medics, they’re very rare among warbuilds, and very common among civilian models. They’re not supposed to happen for us, but for Megatron and Terminus, one did. They were a wonder to watch on the field; they fought as one mech, one spark, and while they weren’t designed for heavy combat individually, together, they were as powerful as any frontliner you care to name. They joined the Decepticons together, when it was only a political movement under Megazarak. 

“Megatron was already active, writing speeches and tracts and so on. His skills caught Megazarak’s attention, and he found himself swiftly promoted. He became the voice of the revolution; while Megazarak led, it was always Megatron’s movement, always his principles and philosophies truly behind it. Megazarak only wanted power, and didn’t care—at that point. 

“He did send Megatron to speak before the Council. You know what happened next—the Prime at the time…”

“Pacificus,” said Ratchet, remembering the long-ago newscast, the smoldering broken frame, blue and red, and the wreckage of the Council around him.

“Yes. Betrayed Megatron into the hands of the then Primal Vanguard on the floor of the Council. Megatron, Starscream with him, fought his way free—Terminus and I found them soon after and we fled back to Kaon as the War began. 

“They were inseparable, the two of them. I cannot say this enough, Ratchet. Megatron has never done anything half-sparked, and this was no exception. He adored Terminus. Terminus was as much a part of him as a limb; he was as much to Terminus. Their worlds may have centered on the Cause, but their anchors were one another. 

“Megazarak promoted Megatron to his second-in-command, a position no one had occupied long, and, as he had with Megatron’s predecessors, became suspicious that Megatron planned to overthrow him. Only, with Megatron, he was right. None of us, not me, not Lugnut, not Terminus, not Starscream, could see the Decepticons surviving with that fool in command. But Megatron watched himself, held his glossa, a long, long time, and we dared think he’d dodged Megazarak’s suspicions. 

“Until he criticized a personnel choice. A minor thing, and he was mild; most wouldn’t have taken it as criticism. Megazarak said nothing at the time, but when Megatron returned to his quarters that night, he found Megazarak’s thugs waiting for them. They tortured Terminus, spark and frame, to make Megatron beg Megazarak for mercy.”

Ratchet snorted, grim. “A lot of good that likely did them.”

“It worked,” said Strika, equally grim. “That should tell you all you need to know about what they did to Terminus. I knew nothing of this until I got the comm from Megatron, after Megazarak had left them. 

“I found him cradling Terminus. Terminus was still online, but there was so little left of him—what was expected of someone so injured was suicide. There was no chance of recovery, not with the medics ordered not to give assistance. But Terminus refused to die with Megazarak still online, enraged he’d been used as a weapon against his bonded, and Megatron refused to lose his mate to such an attack, and refused to allow such a cowardly method to kill him, as well. 

“We faked Terminus’s deactivation. We hid him, nursed him as best we could, and Megatron returned to his duties. Megazarak remarked on his survival, then dismissed it, likely proud to have so broken his lieutenant, broken past redemption. We waited. It was solar cycles before Megazarak made a great enough error to allow Megatron to challenge him formally. Megatron won; Megazarak had grown even more arrogant and foolish with time. Terminus insisted on seeing it; I think it was his appearance that made Megazarak truly yield. On his urging, Megatron spared Megazarak and sent him into exile, no longer a person, not even worth killing.

“They began the business of running the war themselves, and with Terminus’s strategic genius behind Megatron’s leadership, we started winning. Even without the Allspark, even without spacebridges, we thought we could win.”

“You certainly came very close to it,” said Ratchet. That was an ugly memory, Praxus. New horrors every megacycle, and the constant knowledge that they were losing, the constant dread of the future.

“We did. And then Terminus was assassinated.”

“That’s why you broke off the offensive in Praxus,” said Ratchet, with sudden acute understanding. 

Strika nodded. “An ambitious fool attempted to kill Megatron through him. Megatron survived. Barely, for all that he tore the assassin limb from limb as his spark dropped into burnout. It was a close thing indeed, and the moment he rose from berth, he threw himself into the war with such vigor that he nearly starved himself into stasis lock in the first orn. I bullied him back into fueling, back into living, into caring, but I doubt he has ever fully recovered. It’s an old wound, one that he tries to pretend does not have a great hold on him, but it is still deeply painful. He still flinches from true intimacy; his relationship with Starscream was deliberate, choosing an impossible partner so he would not have to acknowledge how hurt he really was. Starscream knew it, knew most of his spark was still with a dead mech, and hated him for it.”

Her servos tightened. He reached to touch the back of one, and it turned over, clasped his gently, as if he were something immensely fragile. “Terminus’s deactivation crippled us, far more than I think any Autobot ever realized. A good thing, that. I have no doubt your Elite Guard would have killed him far earlier if they’d suspected.”

“We never knew he was bonded,” said Ratchet. “Not a hint. They discussed it, because of the scarring on his sparkchamber, but they attributed it to the Allspark.”

“The Allspark?”

“When he tried to combine it with his spark,” said Ratchet. 

“Of course he did.” Strika sounded abruptly tired. “The sentimental fool. Turning the Allspark into a weapon, taking it into his own spark. Of course he did. Finally winning the war with something that included Terminus, however small a part he was in it—sentimental fool.”

“Why is he interested in Optimus?”

“Optimus reminds him of Terminus. Frag, the bot reminds me of Terminus sometimes, with the things he says and does. But he’s different enough. Optimus has a deep kindness Terminus never did, and I think Megatron needs that more than even he knows.”

“Yes,” said Ratchet. “He is kind.”

Strika nuzzled her helm against his, pulling him in against her. “As are you.”

Ratchet gasped a startled laugh and the tension broke and for some reason it was far funnier than it should have been. He laughed until his vents were wheezing with it. 

Strika stroked his helm. “It’s true,” she said, stubbornly, and refused to say more.

Chapter Text

He rebooted slowly, damage alerts flickering and fading away. Optimus onlined his optics and tried to sit up. 

He glanced down at his midsection and gasped. An ugly weld ran across his abdomen, dead gray, as if an enormous something had simply taken a bite out of him. 

The memory surfaced, and he shied away from it, from the very memory of that pain. The waking processor simply couldn’t comprehend it, and even though he ached now, it was nothing compared to that agony. 

He touched the new metal, surprised when he felt the pressure of his servo. It looked so completely alien—

“Get your filthy servos off that,” snapped Ratchet. Optimus’s helm jerked up. “Do you know what sorts of things live on your servos? No, you don’t. No, you don’t want to.”

Optimus let out a ventilation of relief. It was the standard lecture. Everything had to be okay. “The battle—”

“We won,” said Ratchet. “Thanks to you.”

Optimus frowned. “All I remember is getting shot.”

“Megatron was very upset,” said Ratchet. “You should see the footage. He tore the Autobot line apart single-servoed.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Optimus shifted uneasily as Ratchet scanned him, glanced sideways at him. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Ratchet, with a smirk. 

“No,” Optimus repressed his irritation. “No, it’s really not.”

“He wanted revenge,” said Ratchet, and poked at the new metal. “Because of this.”

“I thought you said servos were filthy.” Optimus realized what he’d said and tensed, but Ratchet only snorted. 

“I’m a medic. I wash mine.”

Optimus sat still while Ratchet finished checking him over. The thing with Megatron wanting revenge for his sake was patently absurd, of course, but Optimus alarmed himself it how much he wanted it to be true. The idea of Megatron esteeming him so highly was…nice. 

He remembered Megatron’s rage on Lockdown’s ship and shivered.

“It’s normal for the new metals to be sensitive,” said Ratchet, getting out the materials to restore his paint. “Your neural net’s still calibrating for the new material.”

Optimus nodded, embarrassed that his thoughts had shown that much. 

The only people who’d come looking for him—who’d ever looked out for him before—had been this team, Ratchet and the others. That very fact had made them all but—well, the human term family fit well enough. The sheer strangeness of having people to rely on that much, even if Bumblebee could be a real crankcase sometimes, had made him wary at first, sure it was only because it was expedient. But they’d seen him at his worst, and didn’t take any of the many opportunities to let him down that would have been absurdly easy to get away with. They’d faced Megatron with him. 

He was still startled and wary every time had further evidence of this. For that reason, Bumblebee and Bulkhead’s failure to appear hurt more than it should have. He knew he ought to hope that they’d chosen to leave him, perhaps revolted at his treachery, because the alternative was that Sentinel had arrested them, and that was too horrible to contemplate. But the mere idea of them angry at him made his spark hurt. At least Ratchet was still here.

He looked at Ratchet, lecturing on about something or other as he worked, and ex-vented heavily. He’d probably scare Ratchet off if he mentioned any of this; the older mech wasn’t fond of maudlin displays. Even if he was the reason Optimus was still online. 

Before Earth, Sentinel and Elita had been all he’d needed as friends. And look where that had gotten him—both of them had learned who and what he truly was, and hated him. He couldn’t say they didn’t have good reason, especially Elita. Sentinel…Sentinel he couldn’t think about. He was afraid that, if he did, he’d realize that Sentinel was somehow right, that he’d see himself the way Sentinel did and realize it was more accurate than the way he saw himself. 

He had very few mecha he truly trusted, he realized. Prowl, certainly, once they’d come to understand each other. Ratchet was another. Bumblebee and Bulkhead, too. They’d all seen him as he truly was, and they all had been willing to stick their necks out for his sake, even when they didn’t have to. Even when it would have been far more convenient not to. 

He’d do the same for them and more. The sheer novelty of having it reciprocated was not something he was comfortable with. And the very idea that Megatron might think similarly of him…

It made him hopeful, and excited, and happy. He tried to push the thought away. He was presuming horribly, and the disappointment was more than he’d be able to bear if he was wrong.

Because he wanted it to be true. That was frightening in itself. 

“Ratchet?” he said, and Ratchet paused in mid lecture and frowned at him, “Thank you.”

“Here,” said Ratchet, and plopped a datapad into his servos. “Instructions. I know you weren’t listening. Also, a suggestion?”

“Yes?” said Optimus, looking up from the pad. 

“Go find Megatron and let him know you’re all right. It’ll do him some good. He was worried.” 

Optimus stared at him.

“He fell asleep in the chair and everything,” said Ratchet. “Go on. I’m sure there are all sorts of great leader-y things you need to do.”

“Er,” said Optimus, not sure how to respond to that.

“Go on, git,” said Ratchet. Optimus wasn’t sure what that meant, but the gesture that accompanied it was clear enough. He complied. 

Strika didn’t even look at him when he arrived on the bridge. She only said, “He’s in the forward launch bay. You’ll have some privacy there.”

The absurd hope rose in him. He squashed it as best he could. Don’t be absurd, he thought. He likely had a good reason for everything he did. Megatron doesn’t operate on sentiment alone!

He got to the forward launch bay far sooner than he wanted to. Megatron stood among the shuttles and assorted repair kits, frowning through the forcefield as if the rocky planetoid in front of them had done him some serious wrong. Optimus reset his vocalizer. 

Megatron turned, more abruptly than was his wont. “Optimus.”

“You wanted to see me?”

Megatron’s optics lingered on his newly painted abdomen. “I’m glad to see you functional, at least,” he said. “If you had deactivated…”

Optimus looked down and shuffled his stabilizers. “You saved my life,” he said.

“Ratchet saved your life. I merely delivered you,” said Megatron. “I would have been…” he looked away, as if it were a painful admission, “upset, had you indeed deactivated. Our alliance would not have survived. And I would have been sorry to lose such a promising officer.”

“There was Lockdown as well,” said Optimus.

“Yes,” said Megatron. 

They looked at each other. 

“I ah, heard that you were the reason the battle was won,” said Optimus.

Megatron looked away. “I was concerned,” he said.

That made no sense. “For what?”

“I believed you dead,” said Megatron. 

“Oh.” He’d just as much as admitted it. Optimus’s spark sped up. He stared up at Megatron. What the frag could you say to that?

Megatron moved forward, took his servo in his own, strangely gentle for all his size. Optimus stared up at him. 

Megatron looked as if he were about to say something, then leaned further forward and almost touched the side of Optimus’s helm, pulled his servo away quickly as if he hadn’t quite meant to do it, as if he thought he might break Optimus with a touch. “Next time,” he said, while Optimus gaped at him, realizing that was indeed a gesture of genuine affection, that he was right, “let me take the shot. My armor is better than yours and I never—” the servo tightened, then gentled immediately so as not to hurt him, “want to see you like that again. Never.” 

Optimus, hugely daring, put his free servo on Megatron’s, and froze, hoping he hadn’t presumed too much. “I…”

“I called myself a thousand kinds of fool,” said Megatron, “and Strika several thousand more. I have grown to care for you perhaps more than I should, and seeing you so injured…” He looked away, obviously uncertain as to what he should say next.

“I wondered if I might be a fool to ask this,” he said. “Or a fool to further pursue this, but I am sure I will be a fool in any case, no matter what I choose. Optimus, may I court you?”

There were no words for this. None at all. Optimus stared. He stammered something, stupid, no doubt. He reset his vocalizer—

—and the realization hit him like Meltdown’s acid. Court. Megatron meant to court him, which meant that he wanted to propose a sparkbond, and he couldn’t do that. Megatron thought he was still sealed. 

He’d have to tell him. 

His spark plummeted. He hadn’t realized how much he’d hoped for this. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted this, and now, now, to have it all yanked away… It was unfair, it was cruel. And there was nothing else he could do, nothing else that was right to do. He couldn’t let Megatron begin courting him without knowing that he was already…

How was he to say this?

Optimus looked into Megatron’s optics and could not speak. Shame rolled through him, hot and foul and he pulled his servos back out of the absurdly gentle huge ones that held them and stammered, “I can’t.”

Megatron looked puzzled. Concerned. Lowered his hand, reset his optics. Then nodded. “I understand,” he said, very quietly indeed, and Optimus hoped he’d imagined strictly repressed hurt in that smooth voice.

He couldn’t meet Megatron’s optics anymore. It was wrong to simply leave at that. He wanted this, he didn’t want Megatron to think that he found him frightening or repulsive or that he didn’t trust him. “Wait,” he said, and Megatron paused in the act of rising and bent that calm regard on him, made him feel small and foolish. He ducked his helm. “I’m unsuitable,” he said, and shame rose hot in his intakes again. “I’m sorry.”

“Your former function matters little to me,” said Megatron, after a moment. “I would hope that you knew that. So what, exactly, renders you ‘unsuitable’ for such a match?”

Primus below, he was going to have to say it. He was going to have to say it out loud. He’d thought the inquiry, the public apology, had been bad. No, this was far, far worse. After all Megatron had done for him…

He took a deep ventilation, forced himself to look up, past Megatron’s left shoulder if not exactly into his optics, straightened his frame into parade rest, and said, “I am not sealed.”

After a moment, as Megatron said nothing, did not move, he dared look at his faceplate.

Utterly impassive. Impossible to tell if it hid disgust or anger. 

“It was unlikely I was going to bond,” he said after a moment, to fill that hideous silence.

At last Megatron spoke. “You mean to say that you are not inexperienced?”

Not trusting his vocalizer, Optimus nodded.

Megatron reset his optics a few times. Then something in that frame relaxed, and the corner of his mouth quirked ever-so-slightly up. “A relief,” he said.

Optimus’s utter shock must have been clearly visible, because he looked abruptly concerned again. “Was that what rendered you unsuitable?”

Optimus nodded again. He’d allowed himself a flare of hope, no more, because when Megatron found out who had taken his seal…

“It is of no issue here,” said Megatron.

“It was Sentinel,” said Optimus, before he lost his nerve entirely.

Again the shame and dread as Megatron reset his optics a few times. 

“We all have our regrets,” said Megatron after a moment and Optimus wanted to flinch away from the implied judgement, looked down and clenched his servos. 

And Megatron was kneeling in front of him again, servos on his shoulders. “Don’t take it to spark, Optimus. I don’t care about your previous interfacing habits, even if you had fragged all the Elite Guard and half the Senate into the bargain. If you want this, this we shall have—Sentinel be slagged.”

Optimus stared at him. “You don’t have to be bound by your previous offer,” he forced himself to say. “You didn’t know.”

“I don’t care,” said Megatron. “All I am concerned about is whether you want this.”

“I do,” said Optimus. “I do.” More than anything, in that moment, but he cut himself off before he could say it. “I only… I never thought…”

“I don’t care,” Megatron repeated. “I am no more sealed than you are. May I court you?”

“Yes,” said Optimus, spark beating fast. He half-wondered if this was a dream. He stepped into Megatron’s arms, leaned up and pressed his intake to Megatron’s. 

Maybe it was hasty. Maybe it was a bad idea. But this once, Optimus managed to push those thoughts aside, let his world narrow down to the feeling of Megatron’s careful embrace, the  plating under his hands, the hot press of Megatron’s intake, and his spark sang. 

Chapter Text

Before your eyes are wicked souls

There's nowhere to run, face them straight on

Someone tells me to erase my weakness or fear

We reconstruct our minds

Tightly hold onto that hand

Believe in the bonds between each other 

And FIGHT!

--TFA Japanese Opening

“Decepticon warship Conquest, this is Autobot shuttle Delta Echo Seven-Niner, requesting clearance to land.”

“Autobot shuttle, this is Conquest. Please decelerate to seven thousand mechanometers and hold position. Verbally deactivate your self-destruct mechanisms.”

“Acknowledged. Computer, override seven-six-one-thirteen. Authority…” 

Strika frowned at the viewscreen. That was an unusually large shuttle, the Elite Guard insignia still prominent on its bow. And the voice sounded familiar. “Smokescreen, instruct them to stand by to receive an inspection party.” 

“Yes ma’am. Autobot shuttle, please stand by to receive an inspection party. Deactivate all weapons and unlock your starboard hatch.”

“Acknowledged. Conquest, be advised we have a patient in stable but delicate condition.”

“Acknowledged.” Smokescreen closed that channel, opened another, relayed the request for an inspection party, switched to the next. “Ratchet, an incoming Autobot shuttle says they have a patient in stable but delicate condition. I’ll direct them to the forward launch bay.”

“We’ll meet them there,” said Ratchet, and cut the channel. 

Smokescreen paused when the inspection party was away, and glanced up at Strika.

“You’re doing well,” said Strika.

“I’m supposed to be a commander, not a communications officer! When do I get to do something interesting?!”

“Communication is the most important part of any battle,” said Strika. “What would you do if your communications officer was deactivated in the middle of a fight? A commander should have some proficiency at every one of her crew’s tasks. Specialization is for organics and Autobots.”

Smokescreen blinked up at her, obviously thinking about that. The console crackled. 

“Shuttle’s clean.”

Smokescreen took a deep ventilation and turned back to work. “Autobot shuttle, you have permission to land. Please proceed to the forward launch bay as indicated by the active beacon, frequency—”

Strika folded her servos behind her and nodded approval. Good. Smokescreen would make an excellent commander, and she’d have to start nudging her into closer proximity to Slipstream. The two needed to learn to rely on each other. They’d make an excellent command team once that happened. 

Thundercracker and the newly arrived Trailbreaker also looked promising, though Strika had yet to tweak the duty rosters so she could observe them working together. Thundercracker had far too much arrogance; Trailbreaker had none at all, and if things fell out right, they might complement each other rather than drive each other mad. It was worth a try. 

The inspection party’s ping with the crew information arrived, and Strika’s optics went wide. “Inform Lord Megatron,” she said to Smokescreen. “I’ll meet him and Optimus in the forward launch bay.”

Dealing with the paperwork was far better with Megatron there than alone. Optimus huffed a contented ventilation and dared to lean slightly into Megatron’s comforting bulk. Megatron made an amused noise, and moved to better accommodate him. Then he snorted, something that had worried Optimus badly the first few times. It sounded like an engine backfiring. 

This time, Optimus managed to keep the startled reaction down to a flinch, and asked, “What is it this time?”

“Overlord,” said Megatron. “Turning that mech into a superweapon was the stupidest thing my predecessor ever did. He’s asking for command of an entire space station. He knows what the answer will be, and he’s still asking.”

“Ah,” said Optimus, who had only heard stories of Overlord in the Academy, most of which were—he sincerely hoped—exaggerated. 

“Strika will have to have a word with him,” Megatron went on, shuffling the datapads in front of him. “Anything interesting from your people?”

“A handful of mishaps in the firing range,” said Optimus. “The civilians require training. Though one was due to a Decepticon—is his name seriously Misfire?”

“Ah. Him. Let us say that it isn’t a particularly new problem.”

“Well, at least the new arrivals have company, and no one’s been seriously injured.”

“One moment. Comm.” Megatron touched his helm. “Yes, Strika—what. I see. We’ll be down immediately.”

Optimus looked up at him quizzically. 

“We have new arrivals,” said Megatron, by way of explanation. “You will want to greet them personally.”

Mystified, Optimus rose and followed him to the shuttlebay, and stopped dead in the doorway when he saw who the new arrivals were. His spark squeezed, relief and happiness and something else and he was striding forward before he thought.

Bumblebee and Bulkhead were too busy complaining at Ratchet’s ministrations to notice his arrival. When they did, their faceplates lit up. “Hey boss-bot—Uh, boss-bot?”

Optimus strode up and embraced them all, fiercely, ignoring Bumblebee’s protests and Ratchet’s grumble. How could he have doubted them? He hadn’t dared to believe he’d see them all online again, and said as much.

“Yeah, online,” said Bumblebee. “It’s not going to stay that way if you don’t quit squeezing that hard, boss-bot.”

“Sorry,” said Optimus, releasing them. “I’m just—glad you’re here. How did you manage to get out?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Bumblebee looked at Bulkhead. Bulkhead looked at Bumblebee. 

“Uh, boss?” said Bumblebee. “Promise you won’t freak?”

And Jazz stepped out from the shuttle, faceplates set, shoulders stiff. Optimus stared, not quite daring to believe the input from his optics.

“Ratchet,” Jazz said, unusually somber, looking at Megatron and nowhere else, “we have a fourth passenger who will need your attention.” His throat cabling worked as he reset his vocalizer. “Optimus, I place myself in your custody, and whatever current knowledge I possess at your disposal.”

“Why?” said Optimus, the only thing that came to processor. There was undeniable hatred in the way Jazz looked at Megatron, undeniable fear in the way he stood. He was the head of Autobot Intelligence. He could hardly expect good treatment in Decepticon servos.

“I became a little better acquainted with Sentinel’s M.O.,” said Jazz, and now he did look at Optimus. “Especially as it pertained to you.”

“Me?” said Optimus, tank lurching as he felt every optic in the room focus on him. Jazz, however, looked away. 

“It’s not the Cybertron I want to live on,” said Jazz, then, more quietly, “And not what Prowl would have wanted.”

“I…” Optimus looked around. What did Jazz mean about Sentinel? He didn’t mean… Oh Primus, even thinking it was like saying it out loud, and he hoped no one else would even think… His gaze darted to Megatron, who seemed completely unmoved, meeting Jazz’s hatred with quiet evaluation. “Thank you, Jazz.”

“You do understand that we’ll have to confine you with some security,” said Strika, folding her arms. “We can hardly have you running about on the ship before we know if we can trust you.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” said Bumblebee. “He risked his function to get us all off Cybertron, and you’re going to stick him in the brig—!”

“No, no. It’s cool,” said Jazz, raising his servos. “I understand.”

Optimus wanted to protest, but Strika was right. “It’ll be temporary, and I know for a fact it was just cleaned. Punishment duty for blowing up half the firing range.”

Was that a touch of grim humor on Jazz’s faceplate? He thought so. But whatever Jazz was getting up to, they had to figure it out soon. 

“I’ll see you there shortly,” he added. He didn’t quite dare to put a servo on Jazz’s shoulder—it seemed somehow presumptuous—but he did smile, genuine relief. “And Jazz…Thank you.”

They had quite a good little setup here. That explained the size of the shuttle; it was a repurposed medical transport. And what lay in the middle of the protective web of tie-downs, clamps, and other various restraints stopped him dead. 

“I thought they said he was dead,” said First Aid. “Physical trauma stressing the spark to burnout.”

“Well, obviously not,” said Ratchet, looking at the monitor. “Stable but critical. Definitely Pharma’s handiwork. No one else could manage something this good. We’ll scan for processor alterations as soon as we’re in the medical bay. For the meantime, lend a servo and be careful about it. Agent Blurr’s been through enough.”

Chapter Text

“And above all else,” said Ratchet, looking down at the carefully-repaired patchy plating of the mech in the berth, “we’ll need to make sure Shockwave isn’t around when he wakes up.”

Shockwave cocked his helm at Ratchet. It was unsettling how plaintive he could manage to look, even with only one optic to do so with. 

“Don’t give me that,” said Ratchet. “I saw the incident report. Putting someone through a trash compactor is not considered a sign of affection in Autobot society, Shockwave.”

“I was doing what was necessary to carry out my orders,” said Shockwave. 

“Yes, and you know better than to think that’ll fly with me,” said Ratchet. “Now, about Thundercracker’s repairs—”

His desk console beeped, an incoming message. “Slag it all,” he said, and went to answer.

“I have an incoming transmission for you, sir,” said the young Autobot on watch. “From an Autobot vessel, Omega Supreme. Would you like me to put it through?”

Oh slag, thought Ratchet again, tanks lurching. “Yes,” he said. 

The screen changed, and there was Arcee, sitting in Omega’s command chair. “Mister,” she said, “you have a lot of explaining to do. To both of us.” 

Oh no. “I do,” said Ratchet. Thank Primus Shockwave was out of the pickup, but Ratchet could still feel his interested gaze. This was not a call he wanted to take in public, but it was too late now. 

“Well, you’re going to have to do it in person,” said Arcee. “We’ll arrive within the week. Professor Sumdac’s sending the tool he said you were interested in.” 

Oh good, he was going to get his plating peeled but at least he’d have the satisfaction of handing Ambulon the tool that might repair Skywarp before Arcee took him down to his component systems. At least he wouldn’t have offlined in vain. Small mercies. 

“Thank you,” he said aloud. “And really, Arcee, I can explain.”

“I look forward to it,” rumbled Omega. Ratchet winced, feeling like the worst person in the universe.

The transmission ended. Ratchet let out a long ventilation. 

“Ah,” said Shockwave. “Perhaps we might be able to examine Arcee’s repairs. They may give us insight into further possible methods for helping Skywarp and the other victims of Pharma’s experiments.”

Ratchet turned a disbelieving stare on him. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” said Shockwave. 

“You hacked her,” said Ratchet. “Do you really think she’ll ever want you fiddling around her processor ever again?”

“But for the sake of repairing other bots, it’s only logical…”

“Don’t,” said Ratchet. “Just don’t. Don’t ask. Don’t approach her. You’ll wind up getting kicked in the interface array.”

“Surely she wouldn’t be so unreasonable!”

“It’s not being unreasonable,” said Ratchet. “It’s not unreasonable at all to dislike someone who kidnapped and hacked you. Or threw you in a trash compactor.”

“Agent Blurr ran into that of his own volition,” Shockwave pointed out, primly.

“You still crushed him and tried to incinerate him. If you can’t recognize why a mech would be reluctant to spend time around you for that, the problem’s with you, not with him. Now come on. We have Jazz’s scans to examine.”

“What do we do with him?” asked Optimus, looking at the security feed from the brig. Jazz sat with his arms folded and face still. 

“He’s a security risk,” said Megatron, leaning over his shoulder. “It might be a trap—though, sending the head of Autobot Intelligence seems unusually stupid.”

“It’s not the sort of thing Sentinel does,” said Optimus. “He’d never be able to get past sending the head of Autobot Intelligence. He’d be more likely to deny that they’d need to resort to a trick entirely. He’s too convinced of Autobot superiority.”

“You think he’s telling the truth.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Optimus, condemned by his own honesty. “And I’d like to think that he wouldn’t have brought Prowl into it otherwise.”

Megatron made a thoughtful noise. “And then there’s the matter of the badly injured member of the group.”

“Agent Blurr.”

“Indeed. Shockwave delivered a full report on his interactions with him. I gather it would be best to keep the two of them separate.”

“A very good idea,” said Optimus. “A greater issue will be Arcee’s arrival with Omega Supreme.”

Megatron’s face stilled. “You didn’t mention that earlier,” he said, very carefully.

“Ratchet just commed me. In light of that…”

“The requirements of war,” said Megatron, “are often unpleasant.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Optimus realized what he’d said and tensed, expecting Megatron to object or worse.

Instead, Megatron just stared at him. “You want me to apologize?”

Relief, and a bit of guilt, swept through Optimus. Megatron’s reaction was better than he had expected, given his rudeness. “Yes. It’s not as if you can do much more than that.”

Megatron ex-vented heavily. “I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus. It wasn’t as if he could have asked for any more. “I need to talk with him.”

“Be careful,” said Megatron, and gave him a small grim smile. “We wouldn’t want to strain Ratchet’s patience.”

Very funny, Optimus almost said, but stopped himself before he could push his luck with Megatron’s patience twice in the same conversation. 

He found Jazz sitting in the same attitude, deactivated the bars before anything else. “Jazz,” he started, and then didn’t know what else to say. 

Jazz looked down at his servos. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“You did your duty,” said Optimus. “When the alternative was joining the Decepticons. I can’t blame you for that.”

“Do you know what that duty entailed?” said Jazz.

Optimus thought back to the shuttle explosion, that recording of the protest, and was silent. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think you meant that,” said Jazz. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because it was the only decent thing to do,” said Jazz. “I’ll give you any information I can. Whether it’s useful or not, that’s up to you. But I’m not going to be complicit in Sentinel’s crimes. Never again.” His optics lifted to Optimus’s faceplate. “And I’m sorry. For arresting you. I knew it was the wrong person, but that was who the warrant was for.”

“No. It was better that way; Ratchet managed a lot more than I would have,” said Optimus.

“And I had no idea about…about Sentinel.”

Optimus’s tanks clenched. Why did he have to keep mentioning that? “You had no way of knowing. It’s in the past.” He hoped there wasn’t any sound monitoring here. What if Megatron started asking questions? He certainly knew that Optimus had shared Sentinel’s berth, but if he knew the circumstances, he’d know Optimus was a coward, more willing to whore himself than to fight. 

Jazz just looked at him. He looked away, unable to meet Jazz’s optics. “Were there other factors?” 

“Yes,” said Jazz. The door to the cells slid open. Ratchet stepped in, a handful of datapads in his servos. 

“Oh,” he said. “I’ll just leave you two alone, shall I?”

“Don’t,” said Jazz. “You’ll probably want to hear this too. I didn’t want to do this. I tried to record one of Sentinel’s rants. I thought that if the Council heard what he was saying, what he was ordering, they’d have to remove him. I never got the chance. Once I reached my office, I was ambushed.” He paused, looked from one to the other. “By a bot who called herself Trepan.”

The datapads clattered to the floor. Optimus turned to stare at Ratchet, who stood with a stricken expression on his faceplate. “Ratchet?”

“You’re sure it was her?” said Ratchet. “You’re sure?”

“I never actually saw her,” said Jazz. “She said she hacked people, could change memories. One of my informants told me the rest.”

“Frag.” Ratchet ran a servo over his faceplate, then said into his comms, “Megatron, get down here. You’ll want to hear this.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Optimus.

“Be glad you don’t,” said Ratchet. “Frag, and here I hoped she’d been squashed by something during the war. I hope it’s an impersonator.”

“My sources didn’t think so,” said Jazz. 

“Trepan—no wonder Pharma got funding for his little horror show, if the original is out and about.”

“One thing,” said Jazz. “From what I heard, she doesn’t work for the Council.”

“She never did,” said Ratchet. “She works for bigger people.”

“The sort of big that doesn’t use names,” said Jazz, a wry twist to his intake.

“Someone wants Sentinel to stay in power,” said Ratchet. “I was right. There is a King Rat.”

“Uh.” Optimus looked from one to the other. “There’s a very large organic vermin running Cybertron?”

“Earth turn of phrase, kid,” said Ratchet. “Think about it. You know Sentinel. You know he couldn’t lead his way out of a wet paper bag unless it got caught on his chin. You know how eager the Council was to have him in power last time. His sole virtue is that he’s easy to manipulate. You hand him a few petty victories—over you, for instance—and he’s a happy mech. He’s a figurehead. Which means, even if we win, even if we conquer Cybertron, the problem will come back. Maybe within orns. Maybe millennia. But we won’t have won. Not until we address the root of the problem.”

The doors slid open. “What is it, medic?” said Megatron, Strika close behind him. 

“Tell them what you told us,” said Ratchet.

Jazz did.

Something changed in Megatron’s expression, as if he’d closed down behind his optics. “You’re sure.”

“On what information I have, yeah,” said Jazz. 

“What did she look like?”

“I couldn’t see her, but big. And she had—what’s the organic term—tentacles.”

“It would be wiser to proceed as if he were correct,” rumbled Strika. “Ratchet. Check his coding. Note any modifications, especially those made recently, or any made consecutively.”

“But that’s highly invasive,” said Ratchet.

“Do it,” said Megatron. “My apologies, Jazz. But until we know if she succeeded in altering your personality core, we cannot trust you.”

“So that’s what she does,” said Jazz, eying Ratchet suspiciously. 

“You could be a walking bomb and not even know it,” said Strika. “We can’t risk it. We’ve already had enough trouble with Pharma’s hamfisted servowork. Trepan is far worse.”

“Fine,” said Jazz, sounding resigned. “Go for it, doc.”

While Ratchet busied himself with the preparations, Optimus looked at Megatron and Strika. “Who’s Trepan?”

“She changes processors. Everything to do with them. She can rewrite everything you are, pull any scrap of informations she wants out of your processor, plant new memories, anything,” said Strika, while Megatron’s servos clenched. “And she loves it.”

“I was on the receiving end of her ministrations. Once,” said Megatron. “Fortunately, she didn’t have the necessary time to make any real changes. We checked. If he’s telling the truth, if she attacked him, we have every reason to trust him.”

“You ready, kid?” said Ratchet. 

“Just do it,” said Jazz, opening a jack on his wrist. 

Ratchet plugged a cable with a datapad on the other end in, and waited. “No major consecutive changes made since we left Cybertron,” he said after a few ventilations.

Megatron and Strika visibly relaxed. “Good,” said Megatron. “If you’re right…”

“If Trepan’s still running around,” said Optimus, “why are they doing research on mind manipulation?”

There was a pause.

“Because someone doesn’t trust Trepan anymore,” said Strika.

“Or never did.” Ratchet snorted. “Apparently, there’s more to this than meets the optic sensor. Maybe the Council isn’t so happy with Trepan and her employers.”

“Speculation,” said Megatron. “But worth consideration. I wouldn’t trust Trepan if we had her.”

Jazz reset his vocalizer. He looked somewhat shaken. “One other thing,” he said. “Of immediate interest. The Halcyon Junction.”

“Yes?” said Megatron. 

“They’re fortifying it. With the power of the Allspark behind it, that spacebridge can send ships throughout the known universe.”

“Isn’t that what spacebridges do?” muttered Ratchet.

“You haven’t listened to Bulkhead much, have you?” said Jazz. “While spacebridges may seem to warp people from place to place at random—or within certain parameters—they really follow certain rules. They ‘like’ certain coordinates better than others. You can set some bridges for other coordinates all you like, but they’re still going to dump you out at their ‘preferred ones’. They follow the path of least resistance, and it takes a lot of energy to coax them out of it. This spacebridge you’re sitting on, the BX Junction, services Cybertron itself, Earth, and one of the outlying colony worlds. Try setting it for, say, Cardassia Prime, or even Qo’noS, proximal as it is, and you’ll still wind up on Cybertron, Earth, or that colony world. That time you wound up warping randomly around the galaxy? That wasn’t random at all, that was the device in question following the usual ‘paths’ spacebridges use—though unconnected to a set bridge at intersecting ‘paths’, it was unrestrained and could follow those ‘paths’ to a much greater extent than if tethered in location to one particular spacebridge at the intersection of these ‘paths’.” He stood. “And if you want a better explanation, you’d better ask Bulkhead.”

“No,” said Megatron, looking like he had a helmache. “I don’t want a better explanation. I cannot understand half what Bulkhead says in any case.”

“The difference between the Halcyon Junction and the BX, Cybertron or Earth Junctions is that it lies at the intersection of an unusual quantity of paths,” said Jazz. “And with the power of the Allspark behind it, it can ‘climb out’ of those paths and go elsewhere, unconstrained by those paths. Frag, if you hooked the Allspark up to the BX Junction, you could probably get to Qo’noS or Cardassia just fine.”

“So if we leave it in Autobot servos…”

“They’ll be able to go anywhere, unrestrained, and turn up where you least expect or want them,” said Jazz. “Fuel for thought.”

Optimus looked at Megatron. They processed that. Fuel for thought indeed. 

“I’ll check it against our intelligence reports,” said Strika. “If you’re right…”

“I’m right,” said Jazz. “I wish I weren’t.”

Chapter Text

“It’s really strange,” said Bulkhead later that day. “All these Decepticons keep flirting with me. Like, lots of them.”

“I always said it’d take a Decepticon to think you’re pretty, Bulk,” said Bumblebee, and Ratchet gritted his dentae and resisted the urge to apply a wrench upside the scout’s foolish little helm. 

“And they don’t seem to be joking,” said Bulkhead. “Or acting like they’re doing me a big favor, and like I should be grateful. Some of them were Seekers, even.”

“Of course they mean it,” snapped Ratchet. “They’re Decepticons. You look like a warframe, Bulkhead. Of course they think you’re hot stuff.”

“Wait, you’re saying cuz Bulkhead’s big and can’t fit through doors the Decepticons think he’s cuter than me?”

“And Optimus too, if that makes you feel any better,” said Ratchet. “Bulkhead’s got a frontliner build. They like that. Optimus has a scaled-down version of the old officer frames. Not as interesting to Decepticons, no matter what Autobots think. Cultural differences, Bumblebee, get used to them.”

Bulkhead had a very thoughtful look on his faceplate. “You mean they really think I’m hot?”

“Yes, I just said that. The fact that you’re the greatest processor in the history of spacebridge technology doesn’t hurt, either.”

That thoughtful look grew. 

Ratchet watched it grow, sighed. “And yes, you’re up on all your inoculations and aren’t carrying any infections. Have fun.”

“Thanks, Ratch!” Bulkhead grinned and headed out the door. Bumblebee lingered.  “Gee, I didn’t guess Bulk was a spike mech.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” said Ratchet. 

“He should be waiting, then. I mean, it’s all very well for me or Optimus but valve mecha shouldn’t ‘face around! Their mates will be able to tell.”

“Decepticons don’t care, and they’re a lot more sensible than you are,” said Ratchet, wondering if he were very, very good if he could be a fly on the wall the day Bumblebee found out that Optimus wasn’t a spike mech. “Neither does Bulkhead. He grew up on an energon farm, Bumblebee. He’s not going to be as squeamish about interface as you are.”

“Squeamish? Who said I’m squeamish? I’m just used to proper behavior!”

Ratchet snorted. “You and proper behavior haven’t ever had more than a passing acquaintance, let alone a chance to get used to each other. Did you really swallow all that slag they fueled you with in boot camp?”

“I swallowed nothing.”

Ratchet managed to keep his faceplate devoid of expression at that one. “Then stop running your vocalizer before someone pulls it out. You got a reason to be here, kid?”

Bumblebee looked down and shuffled his stabilizers. “Is Blurr gonna wake up?” Before Ratchet could get a word in, he went on, “I mean, it’s not like I like him or anything, he’s such a crankshaft, but it was kind of my fault how his cover got blown and he got dragged into our mission and got caught by Shockwave and I still want to race him.”

“Enough, kid,” said Ratchet. “He’s gonna be fine. He’ll roll out of here on his own wheels within the week. We’re just letting him come out of stasis on his own so everything integrates properly. You two will have plenty of opportunity to get on everyone’s circuits.”

“Oh,” said Bumblebee. “That’s good.”

Ratchet watched him go, and shook his helm. The kid’s spark was in the right place. It was just packaged in layers of irritating personality. 

Optimus looked over the various intelligence reports in front of him and ex-vented. “Our intelligence reports match Jazz’s account more or less exactly, but I’m still not sure…”

“That he’s not lying? Very true,” said Megatron. “Unfortunately, there’s no ethical way to confirm it.”

Optimus glanced sidelong at him. “We’re not hacking him.”

“Of course not,” said Megatron. “We’d alienate him if he was indeed sympathetic, and give him a further reason to turn on us if he’s a spy.”

“Sorry,” said Optimus. Megatron looked at him oddly. 

“You’re not supposed to agree with me all the time,” he said. 

“I uh.” Optimus looked down. 

“There’s no requirement for you to be more than usually agreeable to me simply because we’re courting. We’re equals. Both on the battlefield,” Megatron put down the datapad he’d been reading, and lifted Optimus’s servo to his intake, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of Optimus’s knuckles, “and here.”

“Equals,” said Optimus, a little startled. Cybertronians need order, that long-ago instructor’s voice reminded him. Even if there are only two, one will follow the other. And while this might be put aside for administrative purposes, it is unnatural, and we always will—indeed, should—revert to that behavior in our intimate relationships. 

Did Decepticons not revert to such behavior? It was a bit much to wrap his processor around. Perhaps Megatron was reminding him that he couldn’t let their relationship get in the way of running things. 

That made sense. They were on familiar ground, then. 

And Megatron still held his servo, looking at it as if it were something precious. “We’ll release Jazz,” he said, sounding as if his processor were very much elsewhere. “We can have someone discreetly keep an optic on him to ensure he’s not about to tear apart our engines or something similar. Perhaps he and Shockwave might consult, if they’re not likely to tear each other to pieces.”

“They might be,” said Optimus. His interface components were warming. All Megatron was doing was holding his servo. How was that even possible? Certainly, they were in Megatron’s quarters, but in the standard captain’s receiving room. He’d been in Ultra Magnus’s receiving room a thousand times, there wasn’t anything indecent about it. 

Megatron’s optics flicked down to the pile of datapads. “My work will tolerate a pause if yours will.”

Was that an invitation? The very thought had his full array coming online faster than was decent. Megatron’s other servo came up to cradle his helm, and on an impulse he turned his faceplate to nuzzle and kiss the inside of Megatron’s wrist. 

He looked up, at Megatron leaning over him, and moved forward to kiss him. Megatron’s intake pressed hot over his, his glossa pushing in. Optimus opened to admit him, reveled in the hot heat of it, pushed back. Megatron growled into his intake and both servos caught Optimus’s frame and all but lifted him into the other mech’s lap. 

Those servos were wonderful. Optimus hadn’t imagined that servos that big could be so deft, that Megatron could be so gentle with his claws. He moaned, tried to reciprocate, certain he did a pretty poor job of it. Megatron broke the kiss to mouth his way down Optimus’s neck, nibbling on the armor, working his way back to suck on an audial fin. Optimus gasped, hips jerking forward. He hadn’t realized his fins were so sensitive!

One of Megatron’s servos cupped his aft, stroking over the plating covering his valve. Optimus found himself bucking into it. He stopped himself, that was utterly unseemly, but Megatron lifted his intake away and said, “No need to be shy,” and Optimus stopped caring about decency. He was already unsealed, everyone knew it, there was no reason not to follow through, and he wanted this. A little self-consciously, he went back to rubbing his panel against Megatron’s servo. Megatron’s digits crooked, and he gasped. 

“Shall we take this to the berth?” purred Megatron into his audial. 

“Yes,” gasped Optimus. “Yes, please.”

Megatron picked him up bodily, that wonderful servo still under his aft, and strode into the berthroom, the door folding open in front of them as if it were aware of their urgency. Optimus clung to him, his arousal growing unbearably. 

Megatron bent and set him gently on the berth. Optimus lay back, Megatron’s fingers teasing every sensitive bit of wiring in reach. It was all he could do to retain the presence of processor needed to cant his hips correctly and spread his legs in the appropriate manner before his panel slid back, exposing and drawing attention to his valve rather than his spike. As liberal as Megatron seemed, he doubted he would take well to being propositioned to be spiked. Especially by someone so much smaller.

He eyed the length of Megatron’s spike and suppressed a twinge of nervousness—it would hurt, certainly, Sentinel had, but it was worth it. It was Megatron. He moved his hands into the expected position, on the berth to either side of his shoulders, and waited.

“Optimus…” Low, hesitant. Megatron had stopped moving above him and was looking down at him with concern. “Optimus, you don’t need—that is—” He seemed clearly at a loss for words. Finally, almost blurted, “Why?”

Why? Optimus reset his optics several times, utterly confused. “I’m...I’m the smaller partner,” he said. “I’m supposed to submit to you. It’s...I shouldn’t...I’d never presume to proposition you with, uh,” he gestured to his spike, feeling the charge ebb from his systems.

“So you’re supposed to present like…” Megatron trailed off, then gave up, shook his helm and ventilated heavily. 

“I don’t understand,” said Optimus. “Have I done something offensive?” He closed his panel and drew his legs up to his body, feeling abruptly foolish and presumptive.

The berth creaked as Megatron settled himself on it, and a large servo found his. “No,” said Megatron after a moment, and Optimus didn’t relax; there was still an edge to his voice.

“But...I don’t understand,” Optimus said again. “If—if not that, how…” He couldn’t quite form the words—did Megatron take his partners in a different position? The idea was worrying. He had no idea what he was supposed to do.

“What do you prefer?” asked Megatron, and looked at him. “I don’t mean what you’ve been taught is correct interfacing behavior—” his mouth curled into a fleeting sneer, “but rather what you find pleasant.”

Optimus stared at him and could find nothing to say.

“Please tell me that wasn’t your only—” Megatron checked himself, glanced at the floor as if calling on Primus, and let out a heavy ventilation. “Of course.”

“Of course what?” demanded Optimus, becoming angry in his own right. He had no idea what he’d done wrong or why Megatron was irritated, and it was utterly unfair. What did Megatron expect out of him? He was an officer, not a courtesan—Megatron should have known better than to expect anything more refined from him.

“I—never mind.”

“Of course what?” demanded Optimus again. “I’m not a courtesan!”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were. Only that—” he gestured at Optimus. “This is unnecessary.”

Optimus huddled up around himself and glared. “Unnecessary? How? I’m not—I’m—”

Megatron settled next to him. “I was taken aback, that’s all,” he said gently. “I didn’t expect for you to, uh, present to such a degree.”

“I…” Optimus looked down. Wonderful. They hadn’t even interfaced, and somehow he’d already done something wrong, even though he was following all the etiquette, everything a proper valve mech was supposed to do.  He couldn’t get anything right, and Megatron wouldn’t tell him how he’d fragged up. The unfairness of it hurt. Like those first few days on Earth, but worse, far, far worse. Earth, he’d had an excuse! It was an alien planet! But here, when it mattered, he fragged up. 

“I’m not accustomed to such expectations,” Megatron was saying. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so formal.”

Optimus looked at him, and all the hurt turned to anger. Was he saying he expected Optimus to act like a courtesan after all? Decent mecha didn’t—

He stood. The roiling emotions in his spark made the prospect of remaining unbearable.  “I’m sorry,” he said, didn’t mean it. How could Megatron expect that? “I should go.”

And went, with only the faintest impression of Megatron’s startled faceplate as he left the room. 

Chapter Text

“And that,” said Ratchet, “is how the Magnus Hammer wound up in Ultra’s servos. Funny enough it worked; it can be quite picky about finding the right bearer. Even Optimus told me he had a Pit of a time getting it to behave for him.”

“Fascinating,” said Strika. “So the old weapon of the Protectors became the symbol of the supreme ruler of Cybertron.”

“As did the title of Magnus,” said Ratchet. “They said they did a few tests on the Matrix and that it wasn’t able to bond to anyone again, but sometimes I wonder. Primes are hard to control.”

“No wonder Optimus made people nervous, then. A Prime would easily displace Sentinel.”

“Exactly why our king rat would want to cripple or offline him.” Ratchet became aware of a presence over his shoulder. “Hello, Megatron.”

“What happened with Sentinel?”

Ratchet looked up at him. Megatron stood in front of him, arms folded, optics narrowed to blazing slits. “What do you mean?”

“Sentinel and Optimus. What happened?”

“You should be asking Optimus that,” he said. Next to him, Strika quietly absented herself from the conversation and vanished out the med bay door. Coward.

“I don’t expect an accurate response,” said Megatron. 

Ratchet gave him a long blank look. 

“Your esteemed little leader acted as if he believed I expected no more than for him to play the ‘face toy,” said Megatron. “The position he took on would have made a pleasure drone protest, and he was horrified when he found that it wasn’t what I expected of him. There’s only one place where he would have learned that slag. So, medic. What can you tell me about Sentinel?”

“Nothing that medical privacy would allow me to relate,” said Ratchet. Megatron bristled, and he raised a servo to forestall the outburst of righteous rage and said, “However, I can illuminate some of the, ah, stranger bits of Autobot interfacing etiquette.”

“You mean that was normal?” Megatron looked startled. 

Ratchet gestured to the seat Strika had vacated. “Sit down. I’ll get crimped lines in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you like that. I take it from your reaction that you haven’t had much to do with the Autobot military aside from blowing them up.”

“The researchers assigned to us didn’t have much interest in discussing their interface lives,” said Megatron, rather wryly. 

Ratchet snorted. “Sounds like you didn’t see much of Pharma. He boasts. Without much basis.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?”

“Now you’re just being rude.” Ratchet gave him a crooked smile. “In any case, Autobot culture—particularly military culture—has undergone a massive shift since you last spent any time being, hah, intimate with it.”

“Go on.”

“Young mecha of Optimus’s generation are being told that our species craves a hierarchy. If you put two mecha in a room, the theory goes, one will naturally want to follow the other. It is what we’re programmed to do, and while we can resist it if necessary—in military situations that require collaboration, for example—it’s unnatural to do so, and it should certainly not be resisted in informal, social circumstances. It’s actively harmful to mecha’s relationships.”

“Even in berth,” said Megatron, flatly. 

“Particularly in berth,” said Ratchet. “The more intimate the relationship, the more important that each partner knows xir place.”

“That sounds like Functionist propaganda,” said Megatron. 

“Oh, it is,” said Ratchet. “And since it’s the Functionists returning like a bad organic foodstuff, one’s form dictates function. Valve mecha submit.”

“Valve mecha?” said Megatron. “Have they started designing models with only a spike or valve?”

“No,” said Ratchet. “But for Optimus’s generation, your first sexual encounter dictates your role in the rest of your interface life.”

Megatron’s expression of puzzlement grew. “But spike seals are broken in the first round of upgrades. How do you tell?”

“The presence or absence of the valve seal is the determining factor,” said Ratchet. 

“You’re joking. That’s absurd. Even Autobots aren’t that stupid.”

“Functionists,” said Ratchet. “And technically, mecha aren’t supposed to interface outside of a bond—bonds are far more common than not among Autobots, after all—but as you pointed out, the spike seal gets knocked off in the normal sequence of events regardless of sexual activity. So that, too, hinges on the valve seal.”

Megatron groaned and actually put his helm in his servos. 

“Optimus is, as you found, a valve mech,” said Ratchet. “And that’s why he was displaced as Magnus. They could prove that he’d interfaced outside of a bond—and gave Sentinel the benefit of the doubt, because he still had his valve seal.”

Megatron raised a servo. “Enough. I am becoming stupider just listening to this slag.”

“Oh, no, you don’t get off that easily,” said Ratchet. “See, a Magnus needs to be able to make a bond. And who’d want a mech who been sharing himself around? Besides, Optimus was a valve mech, which meant his instinct is to submit. You can’t have a Magnus submitting to people.”

Megatron snorted. “You don’t need a valve to submit.”

“Yes, well, it’s fallen out of favor,” said Ratchet. “In any case, Optimus’s first encounter was with Sentinel, and he happened to use his valve, which in their current lack of wisdom translates to him having to be submissive.”

Megatron snorted again. “What a limited life Autobots lead, to be sure.”

“And, if you’re interfacing properly,” said Ratchet, raising his voice over Megatron’s, “there are very particular things you ought to do. Only courtesans or pleasure drones do anything other than insert tab A into slot B and thrust. There are even proper positions to take. Now, the general population is fairly lax about these standards. It’s something everyone disobeys and feels faintly shifty about—shifty enough to come down like a ton of rectangular building things on any public figure who’s revealed to have broken them. But the military gets fanatic about them. It’s a rigid structure, and it lends itself well to, ah, maintaining standards.”

“Oh,” said Megatron, looking rather taken aback. “That…clarifies matters.”

“And that’s what you put your stabilizer into,” said Ratchet. “Even more so since Optimus has already run afoul of these expectations.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” said Megatron, rising. “I have…things to attend to.”

Ratchet watched him go and wondered how many more times he was going to have to give that lecture.

“Optimus!” 

The call brought Optimus up short, panic clenching his tanks, but he couldn’t very well run away. 

He wished the previous night had never happened, that he’d never been bold enough to ask Megatron anything. Of course it had gone wrong! These things always went wrong! He’d been a fool, and of course he’d ruined it, of course Megatron hadn’t seen him as an equal partner but a pay-bot, who’d expect otherwise of a bot who flung himself into another’s berth so rapidly!

Why would Megatron want to see him again? 

He forced himself to turn and look at Megatron. He’d done worse, he reminded himself. Megatron at least didn’t look angry, though most of the time Sentinel hadn’t needed to look angry to be vicious. He squared his shoulders. 

“I believe I owe you an apology,” said Megatron. 

Optimus stared at him, feeling as if the ground had been yanked out from under his stabilizers. “What?”

Megatron glanced up and down the corridor, making sure there wasn’t anyone to overhear. “I was unfamiliar with Autobot etiquette,” he said. “And so I reacted very badly and very rudely. I am sorry.”

“I…” Optimus didn’t know what to say. His spark beat fast. Megatron meant this? 

“I had no intention of treating you in any other way than a respected partner,” said Megatron. “Due to my unfamiliarity with Autobot etiquette, I fear I did exactly that. I ask your pardon for my rudeness.” He offered a servo. After a hesitation, Optimus took it. Megatron bent to press a kiss to it, his intake warm. 

“I didn’t think that…I mean…I…there’s no need,” Optimus managed, and his helm jerked up at the sound of stabilizers on decking further down the corridor, quite possibly the rest of the mecha on his duty shift arriving back to their quarters. “Should we discuss this somewhere more private?”

“Perhaps we should,” said Megatron, and gestured for Optimus to lead the way. After a moment, Optimus recovered himself enough to say, “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry I ran away like that from you.”

Megatron chuckled. “Braver mecha than us have quailed on the battlefield of romance.”

Optimus couldn’t help the laugh, hastily covered his intake with a servo. It was so ridiculous, and a glance up at Megatron’s faceplate set him laughing in earnest. Megatron somehow managed to be more restrained, but his grin was utterly evil. They reached the door of his quarters, and he touched the entry code, then caught Optimus around the waist and swung him in, leaned down and kissed him. Optimus reached up and caught the sides of his helm in both servos, and kissed back. Megatron’s intake opened to admit him, yielding. 

After what seemed like a blissful eternity, they parted. Megatron’s servo cradled his helm, careful and considerate. Megatron smiled down at him. “Thank you,” he said. “For forgiving my earlier rudeness.”

“There was nothing to forgive,” said Optimus, spark beating fast. Warmth bloomed between his legs at that smile, and he looked down, embarrassed. “Just… thank you.”

Megatron kissed the top of his helm and pulled him close. “Don’t be ashamed. Our relationship will involve as much or as little physical intimacy as you wish.”

“But I do want physical intimacy!” said Optimus, surprising himself with the force of it. “I just don’t want to frag it up, like last time!”

Megatron snorted. “Don’t take responsibility for everything, Optimus. That was as much my fault as it was yours.” He bent to be on a level with Optimus, smiling. “And there was no harm from it, not to me. Do not fret yourself. Besides, ‘facing generally involves rather a lot of fragging up. We had to pull Strika and Lugnut out of the engines once, because they rolled off the walkway.”

“You’re making that up,” said Optimus.

“Ask Strika to show you the scars,” said Megatron. “Though I will warn you, some are rather intimately placed.”

“Oh,” said Optimus.

“And Starscream put out one of my optics once, with an infortuitously placed wing,” Megatron continued. “If both parties are happy and consenting and no one ends up in the medbay, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

“And I do not want to hurt you. We’ll both be careful. Besides, you don’t have wings to put in my optics. You dictate the pace, Optimus.”

Optimus tried not to think about damaged optics or engines, leaned up and kissed Megatron full on the intake before he could second-guess himself. 

Megatron’s optics went very wide. 

“Is the door locked?” Optimus asked. 

“Yes,” said Megatron. “Do you want—”

“Yes, I want to.” He looked up at Megatron, servos knotting behind his back. “I…care about you, and want to be intimate with you.” There, Optimus, he thought, good job at choosing the most stilted, awkward wording possible.

But Megatron just smiled, and took his servo in his own and kissed the back of it. “You honor me greatly,” he said, and as far as Optimus could tell, he was being absolutely sincere. “What would you like to do?”

Optimus looked away, the nervousness swamping him again. “I…” What else was there to do than frag? There were other things, but only pay-bots engaged in them, and he had no idea—

“May I try something on you?” asked Megatron, gently. “I think you will like it, and there is little chance of either of us misplacing a wing.”

The heat in his components flared, a heat mirroring the weight of Megatron’s hand at the small of his back. He was still nervous, but the way Megatron was looking at him made his circuits sing, made excitement rise in every inch of his frame. Megatron didn’t hold his inexperience against him. And having him lead the way was somehow vastly comforting. 

He nodded. 

“Do you prefer your valve or your spike, when you self-service?” asked Megatron, and the forwardness made heat rush to Optimus’s faceplates. 

“My valve, usually,” he said. “I uh, I don’t get as far with my spike, usually.”

“Very well,” said Megatron. “Then I would like your permission to pleasure your valve with my intake and glossa.”

Optimus stared at him, both appalled and unexpectedly aroused at the statement, delivered without any trace of embarrassment. Then he caught the amused slant of Megatron’s optics, the quirk of his intake. 

He fragging enjoys saying things like that!

Megatron was still waiting for a response. His components pinged him, already fully online. 

“Yes,” he said. 

Megatron grinned in response, and led him back to his berth. “Sit down on the edge,” he said, and knelt as Optimus scooted himself up and onto it. “Lie back or sit, whichever you prefer.”

Optimus braced himself on his hands, spread his stabilizers, and looked down at Megatron, who smiled back at him and pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee. 

Optimus gasped and his panels sprang open, spike and valve together. Megatron hummed deep in his intake and kissed him again, further up the thigh. “You’re lovely,” he said, leaning back and looking at Optimus, a frank and somehow gentle regard. 

Optimus wasn’t sure what to say to that. 

Megatron didn’t seem to expect a response, kissing and nibbling his way up Optimus’s thigh, glancing up at him to check his reactions. Optimus made a little noise like a moan, hastily stifled, and his valve clenched on air. Megatron purred, intake pressed against the plating of his inner thigh, and he felt it in his valve, shook and whined at the sensation. 

Megatron looked up at him again, optics narrow with amusement, and a large, hot glossa swiped over the outside of his valve. Optimus gasped with shock, and a big servo took him by the hip to steady him. 

Optimus offlined his optics and lost himself to the sensations, heat and wet and pressure over his valve, pausing to swirl and suck at his anterior node. 

He was shaking before long, and then Megatron purred again, sending vibrations all through him, and the tip of that glossa probed into him, stretch and shocking pleasure, and his arms went out from under him as the overload took him. 

It was several moments before he mustered the energy to do so much as reset his optics. Megatron got to his stabilizers and leaned over him, faceplate wet with fluids and slightly singed from the transfer of energy. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Thank you,” said Optimus, heedless of the static in his voice. “I…I hardly ever overload so easily. How—”

“Practice,” said Megatron, grinning broadly. 

Optimus lay back on the berth, still panting. He felt limp and delightfully exhausted, and he wasn’t sure if he could get up if he tried. Everything felt like it was trembling. 

Megatron stroked his faceplate, lay down next to him, and put a gentle servo on his abdomen, stroking the plating there. Optimus hummed, content, and burrowed in against Megatron’s side. “What about you?” he managed after a time. 

“I can take care of myself,” said Megatron, and reached down with his free servo to stroke his erect spike. Optimus watched him for a while, imagining that length and girth inside him. It was a nice enough spike, dark gray and maroon. No barbs or thick knobs to drag over valve sensors, and nothing that looked like it could expand to tie him to his submissive partner. Just, a spike. A very large spike, slickening with lubricants. 

He watched Megatron’s servo move, the way he squeezed a bit at the tip, and an idea came to him. He pushed himself up. “May I…” He wasn’t sure how to complete the sentence, but he very much wanted to give back. The idea of Megatron overloading under him was incredibly appealing. 

Megatron nodded and moved his servo out of the way. Optimus climbed onto him, where he could reach Megatron’s spike properly, and was struck with a brief acute bout of nervousness—he’d only ever read about doing this sort of thing in the sort of books you hid under your berth padding during inspection, and those were dreadfully inaccurate when it came to military maneuvers even though most of the main characters were supposed to be Autobot officers, and who knew how much more accurate they were supposed to be about their actual subject matter? He hoped more so. He remembered something about flicking your glossa a certain way and about not actually biting and keeping your dentae covered with the edges of your intake so you didn’t scrape anything sensitive in the wrong way. He looked down at the spike in front of him and carefully wrapped a servo around it, started to move. The thin plating under his palm seemed almost soft, like organic satin, and he worried that if he pinched or squeezed wrong he might dent it. 

It was slick with fluids. He wasn’t sure he wanted to put his intake on it. He rubbed his thumb over the tip of the spike, gently but firmly, and was rewarded by a sharply indrawn ventilation and a quiet groan. He repeated the gesture, and Megatron canted his hips up into his touch. 

He watched Megatron’s faceplate, how his optics offlined and his intake opened to gasp in another ventilation, cooling fans roaring, and that decided him. He leaned down and took as much of the spike as he could into his intake. 

It wasn’t very much. The taste wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, though, just oily and metallic. He still wasn’t sure about swallowing any of the lubricants, though. You were supposed to move your helm back and forth, right? And press a bit, that would make sense since Megatron seemed to like that…

A deep moan rumbled through Megatron’s frame. Oh, good, he was doing something right.

He tried not to think about what exactly that something was, because this was utterly scandalous, but Megatron had been more than willing to bury his faceplate in a valve, so it really wasn’t that bad, was it? This was between him and Megatron, no one else, and watching Megatron react was completely worth it. 

Megatron’s hips twitched, and kept twitching. Yes. Definitely something right. He had to back off a bit because that was making the spike bump the back of his intake and that was really uncomfortable, but Megatron stilled when he put his servos on his pelvic plating. 

“Primus,” said Megatron, “you’re good.”

He was? He had no clue of what he was doing, but that was encouraging. He also wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could keep being good. His intake and glossa were getting tired. 

Megatron shook under him, his servos fisting in the berth coverings, and his frame arched up, his vents coming in short sharp gasps. Then he froze, and hot liquid hit the back of Optimus’s throat, making him sputter and jerk away.

Megatron subsided back on to the berth, panting. Optimus sat where he was, his intake full of transfluid, covered in cooling transfluid, and wondered where he could spit. 

“I’m sorry,” said Megatron. It sounded like he was laughing, or trying not to. “I wasn’t expecting it or I would have warned you.” He groped around and came up with a polishing cloth. Optimus spat into it with no small amount of gratitude. It wasn’t that it tasted bad, but the prospect of that in his tank was just too strange. 

Megatron produced a second cloth and started wiping him down, paused. He touched Optimus under the chin and kissed him. Optimus stiffened in surprise. His intake had just been around Megatron’s spike, and Megatron was fine with kissing him? 

“I’d never done that before,” he admitted, when Megatron broke the kiss. Megatron chuckled and reached up to run the cloth over an audial fin. 

“You’re very good,” he said, concentrating on wiping off Optimus’s helm, even though Optimus was fairly sure there was nothing there. Then he looked down at himself, and started to wipe himself off as well. 

Optimus smiled, feeling at once shy and content, and after a few more swipes, Megatron cast the cloth aside and gathered Optimus into his arms. “Thank you,” he said again. “For being willing to try again after that fiasco. I am delighted by your company.”

Optimus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I should be thanking you,” he said, a little shakily. It occurred to him that he ought to feel guilty, unnatural, about what he’d just done, but he was too tired and felt too good to think about it.

“No,” said Megatron, burrowing his faceplate into the junction between Optimus’s shoulder and neck. “You don’t need to.” He turned his helm to nibble along Optimus’s neck. “You have always been one of the worthiest opponents I’ve ever fought. And now, we can face the universe together, as it should be, dearest spark.”

Chapter Text

Optimus onlined in hazy contentment. There was a large warm servo wrapped around his waist, and a warm, humming bulk at his back. 

“Online?” said Megatron’s voice behind him, and he craned his helm back to look at the other mech. “Good. I was concerned I’d have to wake you for our duty shift.” The arm around him tightened, pulling him flush against Megatron’s plating, sending the vibrations of the other mech’s systems through his entire frame. 

Optimus’s interface systems indicated that they were quite online and quite interested, and that he ought to be doing something about this. 

“We should get moving,” said Megatron, sounding reluctant. “Washracks?”

“Certainly,” said Optimus, wormed his way out from under that big warm servo, and stood, realizing with a jolt of embarrassment that his array was still open. A glance over his shoulder showed that Megatron was in much the same state.

They entered the washracks together—fairly spacious washracks, and to Optimus’s surprise both of them fit. Megatron gave him a crooked smile and said, “The previous captain was rather larger than I.”

“I see,” said Optimus, looking around. The situation struck him all at once; he was standing in a Decepticon washracks, with his interface components open, and Lord Megatron standing in front of him and the night before they’d—they’d done something that was utterly indecent, that only pay-bots ought to. This wasn’t right, however much he wanted it, had the Decepticons corrupted his morality so completely?

Megatron turned on the washracks and warm water covered him, jolting him from his thoughts. He looked up at Megatron, who smiled again, leaned down and brushed a kiss over his helm. “It is a delight to have the company of a handsome, intelligent mech such as yourself once again,” he purred. He reached for the soap, covered a soft cloth, obviously organic in origin. “May I?”

It took Optimus a moment to realize what he was asking. “Oh!” he said aloud, and stepped out from under the spray. Megatron switched places with him and knelt to better reach him, running the cloth gently but firmly over his frame. Optimus leaned into the touch, feeling it wash away his anxiety. He glanced back at Megatron, and couldn’t look away at the intense, tender concentration on the other mech’s faceplate. 

Megatron caught his optic and smiled again. “Turn around. I’m finished with your back.” Optimus obeyed, and Megatron went back to work. 

One of Optimus’s fans clicked on. Megatron looked up at him, a thoughtful expression that turned into an absolutely wicked smirk. “May I?” he asked again—but this time his attention was on Optimus’s spike.

Curiosity and plain arousal overcame etiquette. Optimus nodded. And gasped, hard, when heat and pressure surrounded him. And—oh!—that had to be Megatron’s glossa, rubbing against his anterior node—Optimus clutched at the washracks wall and tried to stay upright.

In the end, it was only the message from Strika requesting their presence on the bridge that got them out of the washracks, and Optimus had firmly quashed the nagging voice in his processor that told him he ought to feel guilty. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about Megatron’s open affection and respect, but guilt certainly wasn’t it.  

Oh, someone looked like a turbofox with the good oil. Strika wasn’t sure how someone could look both smitten and smug, but Megatron managed it. Optimus just looked smitten. At least they’d cleaned off well enough not to stink up the place with ozone. She reset her vocalizer to get attention. “One of our informants just sent us this transmission,” she said, and put it on the main viewscreen. 

The vid was silent. People ran, things exploded, burst into flame. Elite Guard officers tried to calm the riots, but were overrun by obviously civilian frames—miners, but civilian all the same. 

“This is a riot,” she said. “Messantine. Our informant tells us that the Elite Guard was unsuccessful in quelling it.”

On the screen, mecha stormed the administrative office. Someone climbed onto the roof and raised a flag. The video froze. 

“They’ll need assistance,” said Optimus. “They beat the Elite Guard stationed there, certainly, but what will happen when the Guard arrives with a few Zeta Class dreadnoughts?”

“It is my judgement that we should send one of you and a detachment of ships to aid the riot and to claim the planet for the cause,” said Strika. She touched another key to refine the image of the flag. The computer thought about it for a few moments, then changed the resolution. “My advice is that Lord Megatron ought to lead this expedition.”

Silence fell across the room. After a few moments, Jazz said, “I get that feeling as well.”

The rest of the Autobots kept staring at the image on the screen, the crudely-painted Decepticon sigil waving over an Autobot world, over cheering mecha with torn Autobot badges—or no badges at all. 

“What did he do?” said Optimus aloud. “Some of them were Elite Guard! They’ve been trained to be horrified by Decepticons!”

“What did who do?” said Bumblebee.

“Sentinel,” said Optimus, still staring at the screen, optics wide. “Whatever he did recently had to be bad, if Autobot miners are turning Decepticon.”

“Messantine has a history,” said Megatron. “But I, too, am startled. Should we not both go?”

“Only one of you is my advice,” said Strika. “In case it’s a trap.”

Megatron and Optimus looked at each other, clearly unhappy. “Very well,” said Megatron after a long moment. 

A sol later found Megatron on Messantine. The rebels had enough of a structure that defense was easy; all they needed was the weaponry. And the ships.

Which didn’t stop the Autobot general from being enormously stupid enough to try boarding the Victory. Megatron snarled and swung with both swords at the oncoming mecha, bulling Elite Guards aside like toys. Someone had some kind of very strange energy weapon back there—if he didn’t know better, he would say that someone had gotten hold of an energon harvester. At least one of his officers had already gone down choking under its onslaught, and he was going to rip the mech responsible to pieces once he got there. Only a matter of time. 

The virulent pink beam swung back to him, and he blocked it with crossed swords, bracing himself against the onslaught. It would probably only hold it off for so long—

—and then he realized his swords were humming. 

He looked at them, suspicious. They weren’t supposed to do that. They were swords. You hit people with them, and if they hadn’t gone blunt yet, bits came off. They were so simple that Lugnut with a hangover could use them—and had, on one memorable occasion when the Elite Guard had tried an uncharacteristic kidnapping—and they absolutely weren’t supposed to do whatever they were currently doing.

The swords shifted in his servos, the right wrenching out of his grip and slamming into the left, and the utterly incongruous sound of a transformation sounded loud in the suddenly quiet hallway. Both Autobots and Decepticons had simply stopped, staring at Megatron’s disobedient swords as they combined and transformed into something much, much larger. 

He almost dropped it when it was finished; the weight was much greater than the two swords had ever been before. It settled into his palm, and the red stone in the center of the hilt glittered. 

It wasn’t supposed to do that, but he could have someone look it over afterwards. Right now, there was a battle to be had. 

“Well,” he said, and smirked at the greatsword he now held, longer than he was tall, and took it in both servos in the proper manner, settling in a guard position he hadn’t used in ages, “I suppose this will do.”

The Autobot line broke and scattered.

Chapter Text

Optimus missed Megatron already, and it had been barely an Earth week. Fortunately, there was plenty to keep him busy. 

In Megatron’s absence, he was technically the local supreme commander of the alliance, Autobots and Decepticons both. And Decepticons could get up to slag far worse than even Bumblebee and Sari combined. Bumblebee and Sari were capable of remarkable (and, in retrospect, amusing) mayhem. The mayhem that certain elements of the Decepticons would cause if given a chance was anything but amusing; the results wouldn’t be measured in monetary property damage, but in lives.

Witness the kill codes he now held.

Strika had given them to him. He’d tried to refuse, appalled by the concept, but she’d insisted. 

Insisted probably being too gentle a word. 

“They’re for the Phase Sixers,” she said. “Megazarak’s old superweapons. You’ve already met one of them, Tarn. He’s the loyalest of the lot, and the sanest.” She let Optimus consider that, then added, “And the nicest. Overlord, Sixshot and Black Shadow, not nearly so much. You’re probably used to thinking most everything you’ve been taught about Decepticons is grossly exaggerated. With these four, it’s not. They’re monsters, selected by Megazarak for their complete lack of conscience and then given enormous power. We don’t know how much of their loyalty—if they have any—remains with Megazarak, and the only reason we haven’t offlined the lot of them is Megatron’s conscience, and because I don’t want to give up the strategic advantage they represent. You will take those kill codes. And if they try anything—which they may well, with a new commander at the helm—you will use them. If you don’t, we won’t be the only ones who die. They’ll go for the rest of the universe after they’re done.” 

Optimus did remember what he’d learned about the Phase Sixers, and the idea that it wasn’t exaggerated made his tanks clench. 

“Keep a careful optic on Tarn and Overlord in particular,” said Strika. “Tarn’s a fanatic, and Overlord’s a sadistic power-junkie who can’t wait to get off over the next hundred disemboweled corpses he creates. And they hate each other.” She handed him the download cable. “Have I made myself clear?”

She had. Optimus took the cable and downloaded the necessary information, and then tried to come to peace with the fact that he had the ability to murder four people instantly with a simple transmission.

He’d grown used to the Decepticons, and used to taking them for granted as slightly angrier Autobots. This was a dose of cold oil—and the other disciplinary issues he’d dealt with kept him from becoming complacent again. Fights happened all the time among the Decepticons, and there were incidents of groups of Decepticons trying to bully new Autobot recruits. Trying being the operative word; a very close optic was being kept on the offenders, and few of those incidents had been recent—the punishments visited upon the offenders had been enough to discourage repeats. He hadn’t realized the tensions present within the Decepticon ranks that the alliance had created, and felt like an idiot for missing them—or had Megatron and Strika been hiding the extents they’d had to go to? 

The Decepticons, as a group, were like a very large, rambunctious, and potentially vicious animal, an animal that Optimus was trying to restrain with the aid of a bit of organic rope. He brought up the subject to Strika, who only seemed amused. 

“Well, of course,” she said. “Many of us were programmed to do the Autobots’ dirty work, and to crave rigid discipline and structure. Some have defied this. Others haven’t, and are only glad they’re being led by one of theirs—and still others don’t care who’s leading as long as their daily lives don’t change and they can kill things. We all live with our manufacturing parameters in our own ways, there’s no dishonor in that. Don’t look for Primes among our ranks, Autobot.”

So now Optimus sat in the rec room on Conquest, and listened to two of those same Phase Sixers, Black Shadow and Sixshot, happily singing along with the increasingly explicit ballads someone was coaxing out of the ship’s aged entertainment systems. They were acting like Autobots, though the obscenities would probably have come to an abrupt halt if any Autobot had realized there was an officer in the room. 

He sighed, tried to block out the strains of The Prime’s Accommodating Batchmate and that paragon of obscene ditties known the universe over as The Good Ship Venus, and went back to reading the most recent of Strika’s reports. 

Strika herself and Ratchet were happily caroling along, and Optimus glanced up and frowned at Ratchet. He was disturbingly accurate—and even more disturbingly gleeful. It was certainly educational. Optimus hadn’t known that anyone would view cyber-eels that way. 

The tune changed. Optimus let out a sigh of relief that turned into an inward groan. Unicron and the Widow? Really? Unicron wasn’t the sort of thing you sung…this sort of thing about! And it was impossible to not listen, something about it just…drew the audials. 

“You were supposed to be here to relax,” Ratchet pointed out during one of the instrumental bits. 

“I don’t know any of the words,” said Optimus, first thing he could think of. 

“Oh,” said Ratchet, and handed him a datapad. “Here.”

Optimus read. He felt his audials begin to heat. “Primus!” he said aloud. “You’re joking.” Then, “How many of these are there?”

“Never underestimate the abilities of bored soldiers,” said Strika, then joined in the final couplet with a surprisingly melodious—and above all, enthusiastic—bass. Optimus had to grab for his cube before it vibrated its way off the table. 

And then the battle stations klaxons went off. 

“Beat to quarters!” Slipstream’s voice cut through the general uproar. “Generals Optimus and Strika, to the bridge.” 

“Frag,” said Strika and lurched upright. Ratchet’s chair clattered to the ground—he was already out the door. “Come on. Let’s see what the fragging bots are up to this time.”

Megatron and a number of the miners’ elected leaders sat around the strategy table and looked at the sword in the center of it. All attempts to persuade it to separate back into its individual components had failed either miserably or hilariously—one had resulted in Megatron gaining a set of minor but irritating singes on his armguards. 

“No, I haven’t seen anything like it,” said the oldest of them, D-494. Megatron had initially dismissed her as an incompetent civilian, and been taken aback by her refusal to accept a proper designation, but D-494’s eccentricities were more than made up for by a vicious cleverness and an even more vicious sense of humor. Both together, applied to defense, had resulted in some impressive victories. In terms of both Autobot lives and morale. 

“My serial number was supposed to make me less of a sentient being,” she’d said when Megatron demanded why she’d keep such a humiliating title. “By embracing it, and leading our people to freedom, I am proving that the very thing that the Autobots used to define me as lesser has no power over me. To change my designation would be to acknowledge their effort as successful, and show shame for the one name that has been mine since I was brought online.”

Megatron wasn’t sure how much the older bot’s evaluation counted for—for all her age, she’d spent most of it below ground—but it did make him feel less of a fool for being unaware of the swords’ capabilities. Or sword’s. He folded his arms. “I suppose I can use it, all the same,” he said. “It matters little; the Autobots are already all but defeated.”

“Messantine will be ours!” declared the younger of D-494’s lieutenants, Hardhitter. Megatron had also been inclined to dismiss him on the grounds of young idiocy, but the younger mech had proven to be a capable warrior. Megatron was tempted to take Hardhitter with him and suggest him to Strika as another possible protege. She did, after all, tend to collect them. 

“Ill-behaved swords or no,” said D-494. She looked up as her other lieutenant, Tachyon, pushed his way into the structure, dragging two Autobots in stasis cuffs with him. He put them down on the floor, and they glared up at Megatron with identical expressions of defiant bravado. 

Megatron looked down at them. They were larger than most Autobots, obviously flightframes, and garish blue and orange. All in all, recognizable. Not that he remembered their designations, but he’d seen them on Earth. Part of Optimus’s team, no less. What a delightful coincidence—the safe if involuntary return of two of the mecha formerly under his command would certainly be welcome.

“We captured them because Autobot flightframes—”

Megatron raised a servo. “No need to explain yourself,” he said. “I recognize them. Prepare them for immediate transport back to the Decepticon fleet; Optimus will likely want to see them.”

The orange mech’s optics went wide, but the mouth clamp kept him from saying anything. The glares, if anything, intensified. 

“Now,” said Megatron, pleased with himself, and turned back to the immediate issue of freeing Messantine once the prisoners were out of hearing range, “our lines are thin here. Move this unit here, and replace them with my 14th division, they’re more experienced…”

“What happened?” 

Slipstream gestured to the holotable. “Two Autobot squadrons incoming,” she said. “Bulkhead shut down the spacebridge, so we won’t have any coming through there. But there’s something wrong with their ships.”

“What do you mean?” Optimus leaned forward.

“We’ve never seen anything like them.” 

“Like what?” They turned. Jazz pushed his way onto the bridge. “Look, I know I’m not exactly Decepticon of the Year, but I did just defect from Autobot Intelligence. What do those ships look like?”

Optimus reached into the holotable and after a few tries managed to persuade it to magnify the ship in question. “Oh,” said Jazz. “Those.”

“Those,” said Strika, looking at him sidelong. “That was not a good tone.”

“They’re not good news.” Jazz leaned in. “That’s the Elite Guard’s newest ship, the Ultra class dreadnoughts. They named it after old UM after he offlined.”

“He offlined?” It shouldn’t have startled Optimus so badly, and given the shape of the government Ultra Magnus had run, and the injustices under his administration, it shouldn’t have caused a sharp pang of grief. It did. 

“Yup,” said Jazz. “Not even half an orn after you left. The armament consists of…”

Optimus listened to Jazz list the incoming ships’ stats with a rapidly sinking spark. Even Conquest, lovingly maintained as she was, stood very little chance in a direct battle with one of those. Their firepower was enormously superior—the flagship threw twice the energy in an average broadside than Conquest, and the engines had been completely overhauled, creating a much faster ship for the size-class.

“We’ll have to retreat,” said Strika. “Frag. After everything—we’ll retreat. Better to lose the system than our ability to fight.”

She was right. Optimus could tell she hated it. She sounded almost sick as she said it. It didn’t make her any less right. He looked into the table. There were four of those new ships, a huge spread of support ships—they were fragged if they engaged in a traditional battle. The Decepticon line wouldn’t last a megacycle. 

Which meant they shouldn’t fight traditionally.

“If you didn’t form a line of battle and harried them with the frigates and support ships, how long could we hold them off?” he asked.

“A few megacycles,” said Strika. “We’d take heavy damage. Retreat would be difficult, and I don’t see a possibility of victory.”

“Jazz. Any manufacturing defects?”

“They’re more lightly armored than the old Steelhaven,” said Jazz. “They’re relying on the placement of the weapons systems to protect the engines—you see how they’re tucked up in the belly of the ship with the weapons banks on either side.” 

Optimus did. The weapons banks with the engines in the center formed an inverted v seen from the aft of the ship, the engines tucked away at the apex of that v. Impossible to shoot with a traditional broadside. In fact, impossible to get at in almost any battle situation unless you could come up from underneath, and the placement of the engines were such that it might allow the ship to be flipped to present the weapons systems instead.“Is that all?”

“There’s no exhaust tube to put a torpedo down, if that’s what you’re hoping,” said Jazz. “Engines are the most vulnerable part of the ship. Doesn’t need armor, not with the protection of the weapons.” 

“Hm,” said Optimus. “Good. Slipstream? I need six flyers you trust to be calm and quickwitted under fire. Smaller is better. Jazz, how do you feel about flying?”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me Ratch whipped up another of those damned jetpacks.”

“The Autobots are doing it. Bulkhead and Bumblebee even stole one.” 

“Fine,” huffed Jazz. 

“Strika, how’s our store of explosives?” 

“Large,” said Strika, looking at him suspiciously. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something extremely inadvisable,” said Optimus. His spark beat fast, and totally inappropriate to the situation, a wild excitement grew in him. This might work. He could do this! “The engines are weakly armored. Standard-issue Decepticon explosive charges punch through most standard Autobot ablative armor. Even that of the Steelhaven.”

“Where do you want the team to meet you?” asked Slipstream.

“Aft launch bay. The sooner we can get away from the ship, the better. We don’t want them to notice there are flyers out there.”

“Take a shuttle,” said Strika. “There are plenty of things that can splat you out there, Autobot. Even debris.”

“They’ll notice the shuttle. We need to make sure they don’t know we’re there. Strika, can you keep them occupied for long enough?”

“As long as you need,” said Strika, “Or until they blow Conquest apart under my stabilizers.”

Optimus smiled. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

“Seekers assembled, sir,” said Slipstream. “I took the liberty of putting myself on that list.”

“Very good,” said Optimus. “Slipstream, Jazz, with me. Strika, have the explosives ready for us in the launch bay.”

“And the jetpacks,” said Strika.  “Are you sure—”

“Yes,” said Optimus. “Just keep them off our thrusters long enough to get the explosives placed.”

She nodded, and Optimus strode off the bridge, feeling faintly ridiculous because he had to take two steps to Slipstream’s one. At least Jazz was in the same situation.

“Teams of two,” he told the assembled mecha. “Each of you will carry an explosive, in case your partner is deactivated before placing the bomb. Fix them at the apex of this,” he gestured to the diagram of one of the ships. “That’s the engines. Then get clear. The future of our cause rests on your shoulders. And don’t get spotted; you’ll be debris if you do.”

They nodded solemnly, a motley group, tall elegant Seekers and little awkward Autobots with the bulk of jetpacks on their backs. Slipstream stood next to Smokescreen, the littler Decepticon shifting from stabilizer to stabilizer and all but bouncing with enthusiasm.

He was proud of all of them in that moment. Scared, because they could all be offlined in the next few moments, but proud, and glad to have them at his back. “All right, people. Time to roll out!” He paused, looked around at them, and the absurdity of that struck him. “Or fly.”

Slipstream grinned down at him. “Rise up works too.”

“Fine,” said Optimus. “Time to rise up!”

Chapter Text

Vacuum never felt natural. There was no risk of icing, but the strut-deep ache of cold settled into Optimus’s frame. The operation of his systems would keep his lines from freezing, but he hated the sensation all the same. 

The other thing was the silence. It was almost unbearable; the audials began to generate false noise to compensate for it, buzzing and ringing. And even though he was flying at breakneck pace for the smaller ships of the fleet, there was no sensation of the movement of air. 

Optimus hated vacuum. He didn’t see how the Decepticon flyers tolerated it. 

They’d hide among the smallships until the Elite Guard was distracted enough by Strika’s defense. Then they’d advance, place the bombs, and get out. They were good bombs, too, force-fielded to direct the blast up into the belly of whatever they were attached to, carefully designed for use in space. 

A ping reached his commsuite. Jazz.

“So why’d you take me? Not that I’m complaining, mind, but I know my loyalty’s still in doubt. Why trust me with your back?”

Optimus thought about it, watching the rapidly approaching glitter of hard starlight on hulls. “Because I think you needed me to.”

Jazz looked at him sidelong, a deeply suspicious expression. Optimus shrugged. He felt like an idiot for saying that now, but he didn’t have time to explain. If Jazz was telling the truth, if he regretted what he’d done to other Autobots in the name of order, he needed to see that he could be forgiven, that absolution, no matter the wrong, was possible. It was what Optimus would have needed in his place. 

Slipstream and Smokescreen broke away, headed for the furthest ship—Righteous Fury, if the ID information Strika was sending him was correct. The other three groups peeled away, and left Jazz and Optimus looking at the Magnus. 

Optimus dove forward. Above them, light flickered as Conquest began its attack, eerie and silent in vacuum. 

Jazz whooped over comms. Well, at least the flying suited him. Optimus darted and ducked, trying to keep within the sensor footprints of the other ships as much as he could; they were small enough that they would blend in with the larger masses, making them hard to detect. 

If Optimus had thought the description was bad, seeing Magnus this close was worse. He could spot all that top-of-the-line armament, and it wasn’t encouraging. They were going to have to get around all that. Fortunately, most of it was aimed at Conquest. 

Here was hoping that Strika could hold out. “Let’s do this,” he sent, and threw himself forward. Now or never.

It was easier than expected. Locked in a silent fury, there was hardly opportunity for the two ships to notice the activities of two very small independently propelled objects. The engine sections loomed ahead of them; Optimus shot up and under, tucking himself into the crease of the hull, and streaked along it as close as he dared. He reached for the bomb, disconnected it, pulled up short, and fastened it to the hull. Next to him, Jazz did the same with his explosive. “Ready?” 

Jazz nodded, and Optimus kicked down and away from the ship. They had to get out of range as quickly as possible; the timer on those was deliberately short. One klick, two—

There was no sound of whumph. Sound doesn’t carry in vacuum. But the experience was whumph, especially as the explosives tore open Magnus’s belly. Atmosphere boiled out, freezing as it did, a great white cloud flickering orange. Magnus shuddered again, and Optimus could only imagine the chaos within, red-streaked smoke and shouts and screams over the roar of escaping atmosphere. 

Magnus bucked. Another explosion tore the hull—and then something reached the central reactor of the engines, some shrapnel, fire, something, because there was a dreadful long silent moment, and then the ship blew apart. Bits shot away—and kept going, without friction. Some of those bits had been people. Optimus ducked them as best he could, pulled Jazz away from the sudden undadulturated blast of heat that would have slagged him right there without atmosphere to dissipate it, and fled back to Conquest.

Across the fleet, Righteous Fury went up as well. 

Something sour settled in Optimus’s tank. This was my idea, he thought. And I’ll have to live with it.

“Optimus!” Smokescreen sent, sharp but not panicked. “Slipstream’s injured. My jetpack can’t accelerate both of us out of range fast enough!”

“On our way,” said Optimus, and threw himself back into the fray.

Slipstream was furious. One of her thrusters had been severed below the knee, by a flying chunk of berth, apparently, and the indignity of that was certainly not lost on her. The heat-burns across her other shin didn’t help matters at all. She was snarling curses into vacuum, optics blazing. Optimus was glad that she wasn’t transferring half the rant onto comms. 

The next ship blew, and after a long attempted vent, the last went as well. Conquest bucked under the onslaught of the abruptly released heat energy. 

“Try ambushing us again, fraggers,” said Slipstream, with vicious satisfaction. 

And then they realized what they were in the shadow of.

Under any other circumstance, it would have been comical, the two Autobots and two Decepticons all looking up slowly with identical expressions of horrified disbelief, red and blue optics equally wide, all clustered together for support as if hugging each other in fear. 

Four intakes formed the same curse, as they all met the optics of the enormous Autobot decal above their helms. Red as human blood, Optimus thought in a brief, absolute panic, then yanked his faceplate back under stern control. It didn’t do for your subordinates to see you with an expression of absolute panic. “Time to go,” he said, trying to sound calm, and they turned—

—and found themselves face to muzzle with a lot of Autobot blasters. Optimus cursed his incompetence; he’d fallen back on listening for approaching threats again, and no one had any idea of their approach until now. Frag. He glanced over his shoulder, in time to see a forward hatch open and disgorge more Autobots behind them. All had jetpacks, rapidly spread to guard them from below as well.

Frag, he thought. There was no way out of this. 

The lead Autobot gestured for them to raise their servos. Optimus couldn’t see a way out, but being captured would be worse. Not for him, but for Slipstream and Smokescreen and Jazz; Smokescreen would be dissected to see what had gone wrong with her, Slipstream would be subjected to the same kind of experiments that had crippled her brothers, and Jazz… Optimus didn’t like to think of what would happen to Jazz. 

So he settled into a defensive stance, and there was an almost palpable air of relief from the mecha around him. Slipstream shook herself loose from their support and leveled both blasters at their captors. 

There was a moment of hesitation.

And then a purple wave of light slammed into the mecha in front of them, and silent chaos erupted around them. Optimus spotted Thundercracker and a few other members of his team, but there were bigger forms there, far bigger, and where they were, no bot survived very long at all. One slowed long enough to be recognized, and tank purge rose in the back of Optimus’s intake. It was Tarn, the big Phase Sixer who’d tried to kill him when he’d first arrived. And there were others.

Oh Primus, Strika set them all loose!

They ripped the Autobots threatening the team apart. Then they started on the frigate itself, and there was no time to stop them. They simply worked too fast. 

Optimus’s intake half-opened in protest, and one detached himself from the rapidly growing wreck and met them. He lifted Slipstream and Smokescreen together in one massive energon-stained servo, a gentle grip that looked threatening all the same. “General Strika informs me that you are to retreat immediately.” The generous intake with its wide dermas tipped up in a smile. “I am to make sure you do.”

The smile made Optimus want to jump in the washracks and scrub half his paint off to get the memory off. Jumping in the effluent of a thousand malfunctioning oilpans would have been preferable to that smile. 

“Come along then, little Autobots,” said the Phase-Sixer. 

Slipstream glared at him, Smokescreen yelled, “Next time you call me an Autobot is when you lose your fragging glossa, Overlord!”

The universe seemed to freeze. Slipstream looked down at her companion with an expression of utter horror. Optimus was abruptly very glad indeed of the kill-codes. 

But Overlord just laughed, infinitely condescending, and somehow that was worse.

“Enough of that,” said Optimus, forcing a snap into his voice. “Come on. We’ve done our job.” 

Overlord looked at him. He could have sworn he felt his paint try to crawl off his front to get away from that gaze. That smile remained, but the optics were all wrong, cold, like the mind behind them were absent…and then for a flash of a second, it was.

Optimus’s intake went completely dry, because that split second of evaluation was the most terrifying thing he’d ever felt. There was a mind behind those optics, and he never wanted to encounter it again. “Come on,” he said again. “We can support Slipstream. There is no need for you to carry her.”

Overlord complied. That was somehow worse than any challenge could be. 

Optimus made sure to fly sweep. He didn’t want to turn his back on Overlord. If he did and survived, he had a nasty feeling that it was because Overlord didn’t feel like it was convenient to kill him at that moment. 

Monsters indeed. 

Behind them, the Autobot fleet broke ranks and fled. 

“Urgent message for Lord Megatron,” said one of D-494’s messengers, tapping urgently at Megatron’s arm. “From General Strika. Packaged, encrypted.”

Megatron looked down at the little femme, an administrative model, one of the few that had joined D-494’s rebellion. She bobbed her helm at him. “It’s in Command. We won’t risk transferring it. Tachyon will take over from you here, sir.”

He nodded at her, transformed, and rumbled into the air. Messantine would fall soon, and he intended to appoint D-494 as his governor and take Hardhitter with him. The latter wasn’t entirely altruistic; letting the younger bot learn more of command would be good for him, but it also meant that they’d have a hostage to make sure that, if D-494 got any ideas about betrayal or breaking their alliance, she’d have good reason to rethink them. 

He transformed as he landed, straightening from his crouch to meet D-494’s optics. “There is a message?”

“Yes,” said D-494. “And a report. The Autobots are retreating, abandoning the planet. We have won.”

He clapped her on the shoulder, pleased that he could do so with force and not damage her, and strode past her into Command. 

He opened the message. His intake parted, just a little. He drew in a long ventilation. 

Lord Megatron had fought in thousands of battles, suffered thousands of setbacks, won countless victories. He had four million years of practice in the proper restraint of command, the proper restraint that didn’t involve shouting curses in the midst of battle when something went poorly. It made you look juvenile, and could break the morale of your troops, he knew. And the last time he’d come even close—but not crossed the line into actual cursing, only into shouting—had been on Earth when he watched his Cause crumble into dust in his very servos, and knowing the Autobots there intended to deliver him to a fate far worse than deactivation. 

Lord Megatron drew in that long ventilation and let it out in a roar of profanity, in which the words HE DID WHAT?! were somewhat discernible. 

Then, while the staffers clustered around him, babbling like distressed juvenile Earth birds, and D-494 stared at him with cool shock, he started laughing, harder than he had in a very long time. Helm thrown back, servo over faceplate, so hard it was difficult to draw in a good ventilation, he laughed, amused, impressed, admiring and delighted all at once.

Chapter Text

Having Slipstream as a patient was just as bad as having Strika. She tried to get up and move about as soon as the stabilizer was repaired, and Ratchet had to call Strika to get her to behave. The transmission that came in from Windblade a bit after the battle helped some; apparently Caminus was receiving bulletins on the war, and Slipstream’s role in the recent battle—and her injury—had reached the former colony. Windblade had taken the time to send a transmission wishing Slipstream well, and when she realized what it was, her wings had gone bolt upright, quivering with delight, and she’d made a high-pitched noise that no Decepticon would usually admit to. If Ratchet recalled his conversations with Sari correctly, it was called a squee. 

The number of transmissions between Caminus and Conqueror increased drastically after that.

Omega and Arcee arrived before Megatron did, which was one small mercy for which Ratchet was grateful, and Shockwave was off in an intelligence briefing with Strika and Optimus, which was another.

So they had the medical bay to themselves. 

“It’s not much,” said Ratchet, nervously, pulling out a seat for her. She gave him a look of cool amusement as she settled into it, and they both sat and looked at each other a while. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said softly. 

“Everyone has a choice,” she said, just as softly. Ratchet winced. It would have been better if she’d yelled. 

“They were going to lobotomize Optimus. And the Decepticons. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”

“So you defected.”

“So I defected,” said Ratchet. “It was the simplest solution.”

“Even after everything that happened in the war.”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other again. It was an effort to meet her optics, but Ratchet forced himself to. 

“You are not the mech I thought you were,” she said. 

“I know,” said Ratchet. It hurt to hear. He offlined his optics and ducked his helm. 

“You’d turn to the Decepticons after everything Lockdown did? And Shockwave? And what Megatron did to Omega?”

“I’m sorry,” said Ratchet. “Arcee, I didn’t do it lightly, I did it because they’d taken my research that I wanted to use to help other people with processor injuries, and used it to lobotomize people. What they did to Lugnut was butchery, sheer bloody butchery, on a prisoner, Arcee. They changed who he was. They changed what he was. That’s bad enough as an effect of a wound in battle, but done deliberately? Primus, Arcee, I couldn’t let that happen, and then there was what Sentinel was doing to Optimus.” He looked down at his servos. “They dragged me into it and wanted me to be complicit. And when I entered the operating room, they had Optimus on the slab. So tell me, Arcee, what the frag was I supposed to do?” He looked up at her, suddenly very angry. She looked back at him cooly. 

“We correct the cause,” she said softly. “Not abandon it.”

“Well I—” Ratchet cut himself off and looked away. “I’m not strong enough to do that, then,” he said. “Maybe some mecha are, and I hope to Primus that they get to work, because good mecha are dying at its hands.” 

She just looked at him. 

Ratchet put his faceplate in his servos. He remembered Lockdown, remembered Shockwave, remembered the horror of what Shockwave and Megatron had done to Arcee and Omega, both of whom he felt responsible to… 

He forced his helm up. “I don’t think I could have done anything else,” he said, “and been myself. Either you can accept that, or you can’t. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let them use me to do,” he gestured in the direction of the ward that contained the injured Seekers, “that. Primus, Arcee, why did you even come?”

She put a small object down on the table in front of him. Human made, gleaming, a thick stylus with long pipes rising from the back. “Sumdac sent that. He also expressed his concerns about Optimus.”

“The kid is fine. Slag, the kid’s more than fine. The kid took on an entire fragging fleet, and even better, he won.”

“And where Megatron’s involved?” 

“I’m keeping an optic on it.”

“Good,” she said. 

Silence again. 

“I understand if you leave,” he said. “And don’t want to see me again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said. “But you owe an explanation to Omega.”

“Yeah, I sure do,” said Ratchet. “And what about you?”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But I hear Megatron has a bounty on Lockdown’s helm, which helps, and I think Optimus is competent, for all his faults, and I don’t want to see your research misused, either.”

“So…”

“I’ll join the AFF,” she said. “But don’t expect me to be friendly with any Decepticons, and if I see Shockwave or Megatron, I’ll be kicking them.”

“Sounds fair,” said Ratchet, hugely relieved.

“What they did to me was unforgivable,” Arcee said flatly. “But the Autobots are doing worse, on a much larger scale. I’d be a hypocrite of the worst order if I supported them merely because of what Shockwave and Megatron did.”

“Thank you,” said Ratchet. 

She snorted. “But Omega hasn’t made up his mind yet,” she said. “And you’d better talk to him. I’m not going to tell him what he’s supposed to think; he’s had enough of that.”

Ratchet put his faceplate in his servo and let out a small, sparkfelt groan. 

“It was your decision,” said Arcee. “If you can’t explain it to Omega, you shouldn’t have made it. You’re his mentor, Ratchet. I’m only a substitute, and he misses you.”

“Mentor?” said Ratchet. “He was programmed to rely on me, believe anything I said. That’s not a mentorship, that’s damn near slavery.”

“You still need to talk to him,” said Arcee flatly.

She was right, of course. It didn’t make walking into the secondary aft shuttlebay, hastily refitted into something like a hab-suite (Shockwave assured Ratchet that Decepticons had counted shuttles among their ranks back before the war, though none so heavily armed or armored as Omega, and were familiar with making appropriate accommodations) any easier. It didn’t make resetting his vocalizer and saying, “Omega?” any easier either.

Omega looked down at him. It was a bit of a shock to see him in root mode—he’d always preferred his alt during the war, because it meant Autobots wouldn’t stare at him. “Hello, Ratchet,” he said. 

“You doing okay?” said Ratchet.

“Yes. They are very kind. Even if they are Decepticons.” Omega’s optics narrowed. “You told me that I was supposed to protect Autobots. Now Arcee says you are protecting Decepticons. I do not understand.”

“Not just Decepticons,” said Ratchet. “Autobots too. And you.”

Omega frowned. “I do not need to be protected.”

Ratchet looked up at him, lost for words. How did you tell someone that he’d been created as a tool, all the myriad ways his very processor had been compromised to ensure he’d never rebel? How did you tell him that his trust in you only existed so you could manipulate him into committing unspeakable atrocities without asking questions, and that you were supposed to kill him if he didn’t? 

All the difficulty of explaining this aside, Ratchet had never felt more sure of his decision to defect. 

He could of course simply say that Sentinel and his faction were killing other Autobots, and that these Autobots needed protection, and then Omega’s programming would make him him instantly ally with Optimus. But that wouldn’t be right. That would be manipulating him again, just like during the last war. That wasn’t what the new Cybertron should be about. 

Ratchet sighed and sat on the floor. After a moment, Omega copied him. 

“I want you to decide this for yourself,” said Ratchet. “It’s your choice, Omega. Both sides have Autobots on them. One is led by Sentinel.” Remember, the one who tried to shoot you out of the sky? “The other is led by Optimus.”

Omega looked at him, calm and interested. 

“The reason I asked you to leave with Arcee was that Sentinel’s faction wanted you to be turned over to the Military Research Division,” said Ratchet. They said you were too big, and taking up too much fuel, and too dangerous.”

“I would never hurt an Autobot.”

Ratchet looked up at him sadly. “I know, old friend.”

“And I do not like the Military Research Division.”

That, Ratchet was all too familiar with. Omega’s medical checkups had been handled through MRD, because Perceptor and the others liked to keep an optic on how their creation was doing. Omega had hated them. Ratchet had to spend megacycles explaining to him why it was necessary each time, and persuading him that all the pinching and prodding would only last a little time and be over soon. It always made him feel like a traitor when Omega obeyed. Omega always obeyed. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

“They wanted to send Sari to MRD as well,” said Ratchet. Omega’s optics went wide. “We didn’t want to let that happen, to either of you, and so we sent you away with Arcee.” 

“So you weren’t angry with us?” said Omega, and Ratchet’s spark broke at the way he said it. 

“Never with you,” he said. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Because MRD wanted me.” When Ratchet nodded, Omega settled back. “And you joined the Decepticons to keep away from MRD?”

“They took Optimus,” said Ratchet.

“Why would they take Optimus? He isn’t glitched.” Omega looked away. 

Ratchet’s tanks clenched at that. “Did someone tell you you were glitched?”

“Yes. The other medic.”

Probably Pharma. Frag him. Seeing him pounded into a cube of slag by enraged Decepticons was certainly not enough. “You’re not glitched,” said Ratchet. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

“Why did they take Optimus?” said Omega again. 

“He made Sentinel angry,” said Ratchet. “They thought he was a Decepticon. And the only way to rescue him was to ask the Decepticons for help.”

Omega nodded. 

“MRD had hurt a lot of people,” said Ratchet. “I couldn’t let that happen to Optimus, too.”

“MRD is hurting Autobots?”

“And Decepticons. Decepticons who couldn’t defend themselves.”

“I defend Autobots,” said Omega. Frag, the programming had kicked in again. Frag frag frag, couldn’t they have left the poor bot the dignity of a simple choice? But of course they hadn’t.

“Yes, but both sides are Autobots. Optimus and I are working with Megatron and the Decepticons to stop MRD and Sentinel. But MRD and Sentinel are still Autobots.”

“MRD and Sentinel are hurting Autobots. They are not Autobots. I will help you,” said Omega.

Ratchet sighed. Frag that programming. One day, he’d find a way to excise it. He didn’t want to drag Omega into this fight when he was obviously only doing it because of that programming. He didn’t mean to manipulate it, but apparently he had anyway.

“What Megatron did to you is wrong,” said Ratchet. “You don’t have to join us if you don’t want to.”

“I protect Autobots,” said Omega. “That’s what’s important. I won’t stop protecting Autobots because I’m angry at Megatron. And I’m staying with you, Ratchet.”

Ratchet smiled up at him, even though it felt as if he’d manipulated Omega into doing this, despite all his efforts not to. “Thank you,” he said. “So what did you and Arcee do while you were gone?” 

He listened to Omega talk about the trip, and left feeling somewhat happier with the universe in general. It sounded as if the three of them had had a delightful adventure, well away from harm, and he wondered if he ought to tell them to leave again. But Omega was so eager to see Bumblebee and Bulkhead and Optimus again that he couldn’t bear to bring it up. He didn't want to make Omega feel abandoned again.

It was in a thoughtful frame of processor that he left the medbay and headed back to his quarters. He hated the idea of throwing Omega into another war, after all they’d had to do in the last one. And he wanted to give Omega as much autonomy and ability to choose as possible. He was worried that the programming would take that away anyway. 

He let out another heavy ventilation. There wasn’t a good solution, and his processor wandered fretfully to another subject that had troubled him of late.

Strika had been avoiding him.

For all their open communication and Strika’s obvious interest, things had…not progressed. Frankly, Ratchet was surprised at himself for not seeing that one coming, given Strika’s recent loss and her personality. 

Some mecha appeared to move on very rapidly from a personal loss, and take decisive action to ‘prove’ that they had—despite the fact that they hadn’t, no matter how hard they tried to ignore it. And as the humans said, what doesn’t go out the door goes out the window. 

In other words, you could shove grief away all you wanted, it’d just find more destructive ways to express itself. 

Ratchet was strongly suspicious that this was what was happening to Strika. She’d likely even been trying to force herself further along the path to recovery, in the belief that it would make her a more effective commander, and it was all too likely that her interest in Ratchet stemmed from that, rather than any real affection past friendship. That hurt, but he was a slagged fool for not considering it as a possibility. Of course only Strika really knew that for sure, and it didn’t do to leap to conclusions, but Ratchet retained his suspicion all the same. 

And yeah, it hurt to consider after she’d said she was interested that she hadn’t been, but this slag happened. There were worse things to do than break understandings under these circumstances. Like hold people to them. 

Another heavy sigh. That was becoming a habit. He dragged a servo over his faceplate. At least Optimus was doing well on his own. Ratchet hadn’t dared ask about the relationship yet, but Optimus’s time in command of the Decepticon fleet had been fairly impressive, and the kid had seemed lighter-sparked of recent. If he could avoid having to sit down and have an interface talk with Optimus as well, he’d be a happy mech. At least Slipstream had already had something of an idea of the subject before he’d sat down to talk to her, and at least it wasn’t urgent, with her paramour so far away.

WHUMP. 

Ratchet startled at the sudden noise, badly enough his sirens tried to go on. He relaxed when he realized where he was, outside the practice room. One of the Decepticons, most likely. It was late, though. Most of the sensible ones should have been in berth, and the nocturnal ones should have been on duty. He went to investigate. 

The doors slid open just as the occupant of the practice room hurled a weighted dummy her own size across the room, and resume attacking another. 

Strika at work was spectacular, even if the only things to suffer were the practice dummies. He leaned against the doorframe. “You’re making one Pit of a racket.”

Strika didn’t even pause.

“This or myself, medic,” she snarled. “I cannot recharge. I lie awake in a too-big berth with only the company of my thoughts. I do not want the company of my thoughts. I do not want the silence in my spark. Don’t you dare tell Megatron.” Another hard blow. “He’ll fret. It’s undignified. He’s already fretting enough over the little Prime.”

“You will fall into recharge when you need it,” said Ratchet. “Keep putting it off and that will happen at the worst moment possible. Have you considered the use of a recharge aid?”

He was somewhat surprised her servo didn’t go right through the dummy. “No. Those are for medical use. Not to gentle my—” and the word was said with great disgust, “grief.”

“That’s a medical purpose,” said Ratchet. “Shocking, I know. But this is an injury, in a medical sense. There is quantifiable damage to your spark, which is playing merry hell with your autonomic systems. It’ll take time to resynch, and so care to make sure you’re more comfortable is entirely appropriate.”

She glared at him. He folded his servos. “Stop that. I get that look from all my patients. It doesn’t work. Come on. Sleep aids and a big hot cube of lowgrade oil, that sound appealing?”

Strika looked at the bag, at him. “I suppose.”

“And…” He looked down. “I don’t want to make assumptions,” he said. “If you need a friend more than a frag buddy, I’m here. If you want to go further than that, I’m also happy with that.”

She just looked at him, then away. 

“And if you don’t know, that’s fine too,” he said. 

“Don’t coddle me,” she said. “Where’s this big hot cube of oil?” 

Neither of them said anything further on the subject.

Optimus’s spark beat fast as he watched the shuttle with Megatron and the rest of the supplemental forces sent to Messantine arrive. As soon as it landed and powered down, he strode forward. The door opened in a hiss of hydraulics, and Megatron strode down the ramp, fading singes on his armguards and an enormous sword slung across his back. 

Optimus went to him. Megatron grinned, caught him around the waist and Optimus repressed an undignified squeak as it knocked him off balance. Megatron caught him before he could fall, one servo on the small of his back, one cradling his helm, and kissed him. Hard. Lots of dentae. Optimus found himself kissing back before he realized what he was doing—or more precisely, what he was doing in public. In public, in front of his subordinates.

The Decepticons exploded into catcalls and cheers. The Autobots were fairly silent, though he heard Ratchet whoop. 

“Optimus won us a great victory,” said Megatron, once he broke the kiss and placed Optimus back on his stabilizers. "Truly, he is worthy of praise and his role as a commander of this alliance, my equal."

There was a hiss of indrawn ventilations through the room. Optimus's plating prickled uncomfortably at all those optics on him. The Decepticons seemed impressed, at least, but the Autobots were, to a mech, startled and even disapproving. He caught Jazz's optic, and winced at the expression on the other mech's faceplate. 

But the Decepticons... Some of the older ones had expressions of open joy. He saw respect in the younger faceplates.

Clearly, there was something else going on here. He looked up at Megatron, who simply grinned and offered him an arm. "Now, I would prefer to hear this tale from you, in person." 

Snickering from the Decepticons. Oh no. What had they assumed that meant?

"It's all right," sent Megatron on comms. "I'll explain in private." 

Chapter Text

The doors to Megatron’s quarters whooshed shut behind them and Optimus turned. It was an effort to speak; he worried he was being too presumptive, not appreciative enough. They’d been apart, after all. But Jazz’s expression made it necessary. “What did you do that for?”

Megatron looked down with a wry twist to his mouth. “My apologies,” he said. “I should have warned you. It was a political gesture to the Decepticons. I hope I have not caused you too much difficulty for the Autobots.”

“You may have.” The words were out before he could stop them. He should have. Megatron had just apologized, hadn’t he? 

“What may I do to remedy it?” Megatron caught his expression, and that wry smile grew. “You don’t have to respond immediately.”

“I…” Megatron was being far more tolerant than he had any reason to be.

“And I was glad to see you,” Megatron added. “Very glad—you smashed the Autobot fleet in one battle, a battle even Strika had been certain we would lose!” He placed a servo on Optimus’s shoulder and grinned down at him. “You are one of the most brilliant tacticians our species has ever produced. No wonder we lost on Earth!”

Optimus looked away, unsettled. Most of Earth had been desperate, spur of the moment invention. And if he was so brilliant, Prowl should still be online. 

“I am deeply impressed,” said Megatron, more quietly. “Though, please, next time you do something like this, be more careful. We cannot afford to lose you.”

Optimus allowed himself to be gathered in close to Megatron’s frame, and Megatron dropped a kiss on the top of his helm. A huge servo stroked up and down his back. 

He couldn’t bear this praise a moment longer. It felt as if he were lying by omission. “I’m not that good of a tactician,” he said. “If I were, I wouldn’t have lost one of my team on Earth.”

“The cyberninja?” asked Megatron, and Optimus nodded against his chestplates. 

“Even the best commander cannot keep everyone online,” said Megatron. “A stray shot, bad luck, or their own choices—sometimes your subordinates still die.” He paused. Optimus wondered if he was thinking about Lugnut. “Sometimes, you shouldn’t do anything to stop it. Sometimes it’s necessary.”

Elita. Prowl. Optimus’s mind flinched from that thought. It was one thing for Megatron to say that. Armies were different. When it was you and a small team, there were no excuses. He should have offlined, not Prowl. “It shouldn’t be,” he said softly. “I’ll never abandon anyone again. Never.”

Megatron remained silent. The servo kept moving over his back. 

“You are still a brilliant tactician,” he said after a long time. He kissed Optimus again. “No matter your history. We all make mistakes. I’ve lost my battles, and my people, too. Why do you think we are as ruthless as we are? It’s what it means to be Decepticon. Your people face death and they’re grim, mourn their dead. We laugh at it, we taunt it, and we cheer our dead. You have to, after so many losses. It’s that or give up and be slaves.” He paused. “Perhaps you, too, will learn that.”

Optimus didn’t want to believe that, but remained silent. 

“I am glad to see you,” said Megatron. He leaned back and kissed Optimus on the intake. Optimus leaned into it, glad to be back on familiar ground. He used that relief to push the other thoughts out of his processor, wrapped his arms around Megatron’s neck. Megatron lifted him and held him. It made him feel better, so very much better, took his mind off the question of command. 

“I want to do this properly,” said Optimus, when they broke the kiss. His fans were already roaring, his valve lubricating, and he could hear Megatron’s fans as well. The heat of Megatron’s chassis between his legs only increased it. When Megatron looked blank, he managed, “Your spike in my valve,” in a whisper. It was difficult to say, but the rev of Megatron’s engine and the way that Megatron’s vocalizer clicked as he reset it twice in rapid succession was encouraging. 

“Design specifications?” Megatron asked, voice still fizzed with static, reset his vocalizer again, and said, “That is to say, what are your design specifications? I want to make sure I’m within your parameters.”

Optimus felt himself flush even hotter, but related the exact model of his valve and dimensions with only a slight stammer, and Megatron looked thoughtful, then relieved. “Good,” he said, and kissed Optimus hard, lifting him and placing him on the berth. Optimus let out a breathy moan as Megatron parted his legs and placed a hand over his bared valve. A digit dipped in and rubbed his anterior node. Optimus’s hips twitched into it. 

“I thought you said we were compatible,” he managed. Megatron smiled down at him, leaning over him with one servo on the berth next to his helm and the other rubbing over his valve. 

“I’m making you ready for me,” he purred, and leaned down to kiss Optimus hard. Optimus moaned, and pressed himself hard against the digits playing with him, a huge rush of heat going to his array. Oh, this was good, and the idea of Megatron making him ready was slagging hot. 

A digit probed at the entrance of his valve, and he spread his legs and cocked his hips to better accommodate it, then tensed with a gasp at a sharp pain. 

Megatron froze. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” he stammered, too embarrassed for anything else. “It’s… I…It hurt, a little.”

Megatron withdrew and favored the offending digit with a very irritated expression. “I rushed you,” he said. “One moment.” Optimus nodded, and Megatron went to a storage cubby in the bulkhead and rummaged in it for a few moments, then returned, something silvery in his servos. “If you’re interested, we might try this.”

Optimus peered down over his windshields at the the object Megatron held between two fingers. “What is that?”

“A vibrator,” said Megatron.

Oh. So Decepticons did use things like that for self service. Optimus had thought them a figment of the propaganda bots’ imaginations. “It’s not very big.” Megatron had a little mischievous smirk again, and that spelled trouble. The good kind. Optimus’s valve fluttered. 

“It doesn’t need to be.” Megatron touched a switch, and the thing hummed in his servo. Optimus opened his legs to better accommodate him. Megatron reached for him, spreading his external folds with surprisingly delicate claws. His optics flicked up to meet Optimus’s. Optimus gasped as it touched his anterior node, tension furling instantly in the bottom of his tanks. His servos fisted in the berth covering. 

“Oh good,” said Megatron. “You like that.”

Optimus would have said something along the lines of of course I like that you slagger!but forming words was too much trouble. He twitched his hips, trying to get more, and Megatron chuckled. A digit pressed slowly into him, and he braced himself for a pain. It didn’t come. Megatron kept the movements of it shallow, just in and out, and the stretch and the vibrator together felt good, incredibly good. He offlined his optics and lost himself in the pleasure. 

The tension in the bottom of his tank built. Optimus opened his intake and panted as something rubbed against his ceiling node. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, just good. He tried to squirm, not sure if it was to get more or less of that sensation. It was so much, almost too much, so so much, oh Primus! He hardly felt the girth of Megatron’s finger, vented in surprise as something stretched him.

“That’s two,” said Megatron, a pleased deep rumble. The pressure of the vibrator lightened, which somehow only made things worse. Every light touch as it bumped against his node sent a bolt of pleasure through him, so intense as to nearly border on pain. The fingers moved in him, and he bucked to reciprocate. They both crooked. 

He let out a thin noise and stilled. “Very good,” said Megatron, and the vibrator clamped hard over his node, and he started to shake with overload.

There it was, all at once, a crushing pleasure that arched his back, robbed the ventilators of atmosphere, the processor of thought. His spike jetted transfluid, and it went on, and on, and on, so long that thought began to return while his frame still shook, and he started to vent under his own control again. It went on so long that he almost asked Megatron to move the vibrator away, it was too much, far too much, no frame could tolerate this for so long. 

Then it was over. He looked into Megatron’s optics, panting. The vibrator hummed, the tension beginning, far more slowly, to build again. The two fingers in him felt like nothing at all. 

Slowly, Megatron withdrew, and when he pushed in again, there was a faint sting. “Three,” he said. 

Optimus grinned back at him, exhausted and elated both. “Your spike…”

“Become accustomed to this first,” said Megatron, and pressed a kiss to his knee, “and we will see about my spike.”

“Can that be used on your spike?” Optimus asked, greatly daring.

“There’s no reason not to try it,” said Megatron. “Once we’re finished here. We have a long night cycle ahead of us.” He kissed Optimus again, on the inside of his thigh, as far as he could reach with his hands so occupied. 

Optimus felt the lines and cables of his back tense again, trembling, and the second overload swept through him. He let out a staticky cry, hoped distantly it wasn’t too loud. Megatron laughed, and the digits in him pressed deeper, then withdrew.

Optimus came back to himself, shaking and weak. His entire frame felt heavy. Megatron caressed his hips, murmuring praise, then met his optics and asked, “Do you wish to continue?”

Optimus’s optics fixed on the length of Megatron’s spike, and his interface systems twitched in tired arousal. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fine.” It was mostly static. 

Megatron’s grip tightened, and he lifted Optimus and resettled himself. Hard heat nudged at Optimus’s valve, withdrew, rocked forward again, deeper. Optimus’s hands fisted in the berth coverings, and he threw his helm back, pushing back, spreading himself further. 

He’d expected it to be uncomfortable and only faintly arousing. It was incredible. The pleasure shot through his frame with every movement Megatron made. 

“There,” said Megatron, sounding satisfied, and stopped moving. Optimus whined. “That’s all of me.”

“Primus,” whispered Optimus. It turned into a shout as Megatron withdrew and thrust, the pleasure and charge sending static across his vision. 

“Wrong name,” purred Megatron into his audial, and thrust again. Optimus bit his derma to try and stop the next scream. He didn’t want the whole deck knowing! 

He succeeded on that thrust. Not the next one. Not the one after it, and by the fourth, he gave up on keeping quiet. It was good, it was so good, it was unimaginably good. He’d always thought he wouldn’t ever enjoy interface, made an exception for what Megatron did with him because it wasn’t real interface, not spike in valve real interface. But this was good, this was as good as the other things they’d done, no, better because he wasn’t scared of it anymore, and it really meant something. 

Megatron was still talking, compliments, admiration. Optimus onlined his optics and looked up at him. 

“You’re beautiful,” Megatron said. “Beautiful, strong. My most beloved warrior.” He lifted Optimus’s hips and doubled his pace. Optimus screamed and gasped and completely forgot about anyone who might hear them, lost himself in it, movement, electric pleasure, the scent of fuel and ozone and everything—

The world came apart. He shook with it, back bowed, intake open, no processor even to make a sound, and Megatron was still moving in him, drawing it out impossibly. Primus, Primus, this was too much, how did mecha do this, it was something like pain now, with the pleasure but he didn’t want it to stop. 

Above him, Megatron ventilated sharply, almost a cry, and went still. Heat rushed into his valve, and for the first time it didn’t make Optimus feel filthy. 

Megatron turned his helm and kissed the side of his faceplate. Megatron’s spike slid out of him, making him whimper at the stimulation. He was exhausted, and his valve oversensitive. 

Megatron worked his way down Optimus’s frame, kissing and nibbling, stroking Optimus’s plating as he went. “You are lovely,” he said after a few moments. “The greatest commander the Autobots have ever produced.” Another kiss. “Attractive, clever… it is so rare to find a mech worthy of my attentions, and yet you are so very worthy.”

That sounded unnecessary arrogant on Megatron’s part, but what he was doing felt so good, and Optimus was so tired, that he pushed the thought away as uncharitable. Megatron chuckled and turned his helm to kiss the tip of a stabilizer. “Do you wish to continue, or are you too exhausted?”

“Exhausted,” Optimus said, and Megatron chuckled. 

“Little wonder,” he said. “Would you like to clean up?”

Optimus nodded. Megatron slipped an arm under his knees and another under his shoulders and carried him to the washracks. He stood, rather unsteadily, as Megatron turned the washracks on and scrubbed him with gentle servos. After a few moments he was recovered enough to return the favor. 

After that, Megatron curled up around him in berth, and he dropped into an exhausted, happy recharge, with Megatron stroking his plating. 

Chapter Text

“I’m going to need an explanation.”

“What Jazz means is what the FRAG was that?” Arcee gestured vehemently in the general direction of the shuttlebay. 

Ratchet put his faceplate in his servos and groaned. It had been bad enough acting as Optimus’s SIC after Optimus’s injury; right now was infinitely worse. He wished somebody, anybody, else would take the job. He was a doctor, not a politician!

Next to him, Strika reset her vocalizer and shifted her mass, probably so she could loom better. “That was,” she said deliberately, “Lord Megatron demonstrating that he wished to pursue a formal courtship for the first time since his sparkbonded mate died three million stellar cycles ago.”

“Is that why we’ve got drunk Decepticons everywhere?” Jazz asked, still deceptively calm. 

“Indeed,” said Strika. “We hope that our leader will be happy again. After his sparkbreak over Terminus’s murder, we feel it has been too long. The Decepticons love Lord Megatron dearly. Why do you think he has lasted so long in command? We risk our sparks for him; why shouldn’t we be glad that he’s finally found someone who makes his spark sing?”

“And what about Optimus? Is he consenting?” Jazz looked sharply at Ratchet. “Or is this Sentinel all over again?”

“Sentinel?” said Strika, and also looked at Ratchet. Arcee’s expression was one of dawning comprehension. 

Ratchet let out another sparkfelt groan. “Is medical confidentiality just a collection of syllables to you lot? Ever considered Optimus’s privacy, Jazz?”

“When it comes to leaders, privacy has to take a backseat,” said Jazz. “For everyone’s safety, the command staff need to know the weaknesses of the commanders. We’re not on Earth anymore, Ratchet.”

“Optimus crawled out of Pit twice over,” snarled Ratchet, and all three of them started in surprise. “Leave it, Jazz.”

“Megatron has no intentions on Optimus that Optimus will not wholesparkedly and enthusiastically consent to.” Strika’s voice was quiet, but a warning. “Next question?” 

Uproar outside of the CMO’s office, Shockwave’s voice raised in protest, and the door erupted inward under a shove from Bulkhead, Bumblebee bouncing erratically at his stabilizers. Shockwave was visible behind and above Bulkhead, whatever he was saying drowned out by, “Ratchet, what’s going on with boss-bot?” and “Are Megatron and Optimus fragging?”

“Can we not be having this conversation?” muttered Ratchet into his servos. 

“I’m sorry, General, Doctor,” said Shockwave behind the two. “Amublon and I attempted to keep them out. It did not work.”

“We need some answers, doc-bot!”

Ratchet sighed again. “Fine. That was Megatron publicly announcing his intention to court Optimus.”

“That’s an awful abrupt announcement,” said Bulkhead. “Did Optimus know?”

“Ya know, before Megs swept him of his stabilizers?” 

“Yes,” said Ratchet and Strika together. 

“Optimus and Megatron have been mutually interested for some time,” said Strika. “Even if the timing of the exact announcement weren’t mutually agreed on, the sentiments certainly are. Megatron’s intentions are perfectly honorable.”

“That relationship will not be looked on kindly by Autobots,” said Jazz. “There’s been enough propaganda implying an indecent association, it’ll only make it worse.”

“But it means both the AFF officers and Optimus himself will be accorded far more respect by the Decepticons,” said Strika. “And the Decepticons will view the alliance as far more legitimate. It will make joint operations far easier.”

“Additionally,” said Shockwave, “There is considerable historical precedent for a sparkbond being used to cement an alliance.”

Arcee was glaring at him. Oh slag. “Shockwave, it’s all right. Isn’t there something else you ought to be doing?”

Shockwave’s antennae canted back. “My culture medium is almost done in the autoclave,” he said. “I will go check it.”

“There is no such precedent for Autobots,” snapped Jazz. “None whatsoever. Unless we’re going into Primes and Protectors, which would be…” he caught the look that Strika and Ratchet traded, and his faceplate went hard, “absurd. You’re not actually thinking…”

“Yes,” said Strika. “We are actually thinking. A shock, I know.”