Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Megatron lay on the thin prison bed, on his back, with his hands folded over his chest.

A part of him ached for the poetry of window bars, for some visible sign of his entrapment. But the room had no windows, only four drab walls. Graffiti made the place even grubbier than it had already been, and Megatron had already corrected the spelling mistakes and grammar of the previous inmates. In particular, the hand carved tags of one ‘Skullcruncher waz here’ had provided quite a source of entertainment in their inaccurate renditions of Cybertronian anatomy.

Megatron sighed. For all his attempts to make a dark situation brighter, there was no getting around it. The room was a claustrophobic box. Even the tiniest little aperture, the tiniest opening to the weather and the air outside-! But no, such a thing was more than he deserved. He was alone.

“Hello.” Someone knocked smartly on the door. “Excuse us, is Overlord in there?”

Megatron frowned at this. He did not require a window to track the passage of time, and it was too soon after his last refueling for his visitor to be the guard.

“No.” Megatron said, gruffly, and sat up on the bed, unplugging himself from the attached recharging station as he did so.

There was a muffled conversation outside the door.

“We’re sorry.” The stranger replied. “Then, could you tell us which one of these solitary confinement cells is his?”

“No.” Megatron answered. “Ask the guard.”

“The guard has been… indisposed.”

Megatron’s optics widened at the implications, and he fixedly stared down the blank door on the other side of the room. Who was here? And why had they killed the guard? He gripped the edge of the seat and sat up a little straighter.

The person on the other side of the door cleared his throat awkwardly, and said something in an undertone to another bot. From further down the hallway was the clang of an opening prison door, and now that Megatron was listening for it, he could hear blaster-fire. The bot outside Megatron’s cell coughed again, and shuffled his feet. From the sound of his movements he was rather a large bot.

The stranger spoke again.

“So. Are you a Decepticon?”

“I was.” Megatron said.

The other bot was quiet for a moment, and when he answered, his voice had become devastatingly polite. Every syllable was polished, refined, and ice-cold.

“You aren’t anymore?”

“No. I’m waiting for my trial, at which I shall certainly be sentenced to death.”

“Oh.” The other bot relaxed at this. “Oh, that’s alright then. But look, are you sure you don’t know where Overlord’s cell is?”

It truly seemed the stranger was not here for him. Megatron shrugged, even though the other bot could not see him. “Not a clue, I’m afraid.”

“Tarn!”

“Yes?” The bot – Tarn - replied.

“We found him, and we’ve got the chainsaw ready to go. We thought you might want to do the honors.”

“Wonderful.” Tarn chuckled. “Well, it was nice talking to you, ex-Decepticon. I hope you get what you deserve.”

Megatron didn’t answer, but listened to the footsteps leading away. The revving of a chainsaw and sickening sound of tearing metal carried faintly down the hallway and through the thick metal. Megatron’s gut turned.

Tarn was the leader of the DJD, the Decepticon Justice Division. Megatron remembered him. During the war, the DJD’s purpose had been to kill defectors, traitors, and those who in any way hindered the Decepticon cause. Overlord had been guilty to the core.

There was a muffled cheer, and the wet thud of something heavy falling to the ground. The growl of the chainsaw guttered out.

“Well done, everyone!” Tarn called. “Can someone – ugh – can someone pick the head up? Thank you. Anyway! This calls for a celebration. We’ve earned it…”

Megatron tuned out Tarn’s speech, and lay back on his tiny prison bed.

He folded his arms over his chest, and pondered things.

If the DJD were here, it was unlikely that he, Megatron, would survive the night. A DJD ‘celebration’ almost always ended with fire and mass-murder – he had trained Tarn to be thorough, after all. In a way, it was fitting Megatron die at the hand of his creation. There was poetry to it. Justice.

Megatron steeled himself for the end, and in doing so, ran through his three main disappointments.

Three. He regretted losing sight of his original goal in the war, and wrecking mass-destruction on the Cybertronian race.

Two. He wished he had been able to make some kind of amends, instead of sitting back and waiting for death.

One. Megatron wished he had taken Optimus’ deal, and had made a public statement in return for mobility. At least then, he might have lived out the last of his days somewhere other than prison. Somewhere with a view, perhaps.

Just as he was thinking this, there was a loud yet distant cheer, and the world exploded into pieces above his head.

Megatron barely felt it. In one moment, he was on the bed, and in the next he was airborne. Even as he was carried through the wall on a wave of heat and noise, he could not find it within himself to summon any other feeling but acceptance.

This was the end.

But then he hit the ground, hard, and rolled to a smoking stop. He was deaf and everything burned, but he had survived.

Megatron sat up with momentous effort, and immediately hissed and clutched at his leg. Energon-blood fuel was leaking from somewhere underneath his plating, and had begun to pool on the path. Something was wrong with his knee. It was unlikely he would be able to walk.

Megatron looked around for shelter, and found his surroundings to be unnervingly mundane. The details in particular were overwhelming after weeks of the same blank room. He was lying on a cement-paved path, which was broken in places by the slow and unstoppable push of roadside weeds. Where the tarmac ended, a gutter began, and divided the pavement from the black tarmac road.

The sky above him was heavy with dark clouds. It looked as though it would rain, soon.

He looked back the way he had come. The prison building was already half-obscured with smoke, and in the centre of the building unfurled twisted sheets of melted metal, like a red-hot flower, from where the explosion had burst through the wall.

Megatron did not believe in Primus, and nor did he believe in fate, but whether they existed or not did not matter. Just around the corner from where he had landed, within crawling distance, stood a phone box.

Megatron dragged himself toward it with newfound determination. Perhaps it was not too late to take Optimus’ deal, after all.

When Ultra Magnus walked into the Lost Light, he found Rodimus floundering.

The agency was in turmoil. The main office had been overrun with both the day and the night shift, and bots were packed shoulder to shoulder. Rodimus was doing nothing to control the chaos, however, except stand on a desk and shout.

“Shut up!” Rodimus yelled. “Everybody stop moving! I’m not finished talking!”

Magnus was about to clear his throat, when Rodimus pulled out an air horn, and blasted it obnoxiously. The entire room groaned and put their hands over their audio sensors.

“Right.” Rodimus put his hands on his hips. “As I was saying. I called you all in here because Optimus wants us to go rescue Megatron from the DJD. So, we need somebody to bring an NCA.”

“A Non-Cybertronian Automobile?” A pink bot scoffed. “Can’t he drive himself?”

“Nah, Optimus said he was injured.”

The room cheered. Rodimus laughed and waved his hands to suppress the celebration.

“I know, I know. But yeah, someone’ll need to drive him.”

Magnus grimaced at the mangled contraction. He cleared his throat, and everyone jumped.

“Someone ‘will’ need to drive him.” Magnus corrected.

“Magnus!” Rodimus grinned. “Thanks for volunteering. Okay everyone else, chop chop, let’s roll out! Til all are one!”

Before Magnus could object, the chaos resumed. Rodimus back-flipped off the desk. The atmosphere of the room did not reflect the gravity of the situation whatsoever. Yet, when it came to the Lost Light help agency, this was relatively tame.

The only bot who seemed to be taking the operation seriously was the pink bot who had spoken up earlier, Arcee. She was standing in the doorway of the captain’s office like a landmark and barking out instructions. Magnus approved of her leadership. It was a pity she was captain of the night shift, or Rodimus might have learned something from her example.

“Whirl!” Arcee’s voice was hoarse from overuse. “Put those fragging guns back and get out to the prison! Scout out the situation! Cyclonus, go with him and keep that nutjob in line! Now!”

The bots she had commanded rushed to obey, and Magnus waded through the mess to approach her.

“Arcee.” Magnus rumbled. “Where does the night shift keep their NCA’s?”

“Ground level, parking bay three.” She snapped out the answer without looking at him, and returned to her savage leadership. “Velocity, you’re coming as a field medic! Stick close to me. Swerve, shut up, or I swear to Primus I will rip your voice box out myself! Why are you still here?”

“I apologize.” Magnus said. “I simply appreciate your organizational-“

“Don’t patronize me.” Arcee cut him off with a growl.

Magnus nodded smartly and stomped away. For all that Arcee was a highly competent captain, for all that the night shift was a formidable force under her leadership, her style of command was riddled with far too many threats and insults for Magnus’ liking. There was a deep well of vindictive anger within her; too deep for Magnus to determine it’s source.

Magnus put aside pondering the issue as he arrived in parking bay three. The NCA’s stood in shiny black lines on the tarmac. Non-Cybertronian Automobiles were used mostly for politicians, celebrities, and criminals – anyone that would find it detrimental to be recognized in public. These were the older models, all sleek black lines and shiny curves. However, after many a naïve pedestrian had mistakenly wolf-whistled the inanimate vehicles, the design had been changed to save everyone the embarrassment.

Magnus stopped at the car door, and hesitated briefly.

The atrocities Megatron had committed during the war were too great to comprehend. Was rescuing him really the best course of action?

Yet if Optimus thought him worth saving, perhaps there was more to the situation.

Magnus heard revving in the distance, and made his decision. He opened the car door.

The rest of the Lost Light had already rolled out, but Magnus could hear the growling rumble of vehicle-mode engines speeding away down the dark streets. The NCA – Magnus – followed, at the precise set speed limit. A rust-red glow graced the clouds of the horizon. Already there were distant fires, and something buzzing in the air. Rodimus was reckless, Arcee was ruthless, and the DJD were on the loose.

Magnus sighed. No doubt, it would fall upon him, once again, to keep everything in line.

When Optimus had said he would send help, Megatron had not expected him to send the Lost Light agency.

He had dragged himself into the phone-box, and after calling Optimus, had blacked out unintentionally. When he had awoken, he had found the world washed red with firelight and Rodimus Prime leading the charge against the DJD.

Megatron had never been rescued by a more immature group of bots.

Megatron ducked as the rapid staccato of blaster fire sounded out from somewhere nearby. They had rushed past him without a plan, without direction, but they had proved instrumental in distracting Tarn from his ‘celebration’. True, it was unlikely the Lost Light would last long, but at least their sheer numbers prevented the DJD from focusing on one target. Indeed, perhaps a frenzied approach was the best one, as without tactics there was nothing in their movements for the DJD to predict.

There was not much left of the prison fortress. All that remained was a giant melted monument, licked smooth by the inferno. Embers still flickered in the dark hollows of the building. Megatron could feel the heat radiating off it even from a block away.

In the distance, a siren began to wail, adding to the symphony of chaos that had consumed the world.

Megatron closed his eyes against it momentarily.

Something in him wished that the fire had consumed him, that Tarn had found his hiding spot before the Lost Light had arrived. It would have been far easier that way.

But as Megatron was slowly coming to realize, the world was not yet finished with him. He opened his eyes reluctantly, turning the optic filaments back on. It would not do to be taken unawares.

Rodimus was standing a little distance away from his phone booth. The bot’s paintjob of yellow and red flames matched a little too well with the distant burning building. His engine was making the idle rumble of a racecar ready to go, but the bot did not move but to frantically whip his head from side to side, trying to take in the scattered bedlam. Megatron followed his gaze.

Sparks floated down in delicate spirals from the prison pyre and framed the fighting in the distance. The Lost Light bots visible through the glass of the phone-box were distinguishable as no more than silhouettes, but the DJD was clear. Tesaurus, a lumbering giant with an ‘X’ for a face. Kaon, the electric chair. Helex, the Pet, Vos, and of course, Tarn. He took on assailant after assailant with casual menace. Unconscious or injured bots were littered on the ground around him.

A medic nearby was trying to drag one such fallen bot out of the way. As Megatron watched, a DJD member leapt at them in beast mode, and was promptly beheaded. Beside the medic, a blood-energon pink bot spun to a stop, and bared her flaming swords. In the next instant, she was gone, rocketing across the crowd to protect another bot.

Tarn backhanded the bot before she could get there, but the victim had not even hit the ground before Tarn howled in pain.

A flaming sword was impaled into the gap between his neck and shoulder from behind. The vicious pink bot had leapt onto his back, and Tarn spun back and forth trying to dislodge the attacker. She climbed up with incredible balance, drew back the other sword, and hacked into the side of Tarn’s neck in attempt to behead him.

The sword got stuck, and Tarn screeched. It was an unearthly wail, the stressed electronic buzz of a pained vocalizer, and it made everyone who heard it clutch helplessly at their sparks.

For Tarn’s voice had the power to kill, and up until now the giant had been toying with them.

Megatron pushed to his feet. By supporting his weight entirely on one leg, he was able to stand up, with effort. He had been through worse before.

“Rodimus.” Megatron called out. “Order them to retreat. Tarn will kill them.”

Rodimus looked around at his voice, and his face twisted in disgust. “Whatever.” He said. “I was about to give the order anyway.”

Rodimus pulled out a megaphone from nowhere, and shouted into it.

“Retreat!”

All those that were able to obey ran, but for the pink bot. Tarn shrieked again, and she faltered, but clung on grimly.

“Retreat!” Rodimus turned around and waved a hand. “Get back!”

The pink bot did not obey, but stabbed one heel hard into Tarn’s shoulder to hold herself there. Tarn was talking, putting his voice to work, and this made her movements jerky. Yet slowly, inexorably, Megatron saw her raise the flaming sword above Tarn’s head.

“Arcee! Please, you’ll die!”

It was the medic who had spoken.

Arcee – the pink bot – looked up.

“Retreat!” She roared, leaping off Tarn’s back, and all the remaining bots obeyed, dragging the fallen with them as they did so.

The bots fleeing either side of his phone box did not spare him a glance in their escape. Shouts and shrieks filled the red air as those running tried to find their friends in the crowd. Behind them, Tarn took two faltering steps, reached up, and tried to tug the sword free. He did not succeed.

“Time to go, time to go.” Rodimus was chanting and waving one hand in a rapid movement, to usher the crowd along faster. “Where the frag is Magnus?”

“Language.” A deep voice answered. “I am here, Rodimus.”

A tall, blue bot approached them, pushing through the rushing bots with a determined yet stoic urgency.

“My name is Ultra Magnus.” He addressed Megatron. “You are to come with me. Rodimus – make sure Arcee leaves as well.”

“Frag, where is she?” Rodimus whipped back to face the chaos.

Megatron limped to his side, trailing energon behind him. “Helping the medic.” He answered, and pointed into the crowd, where the pink bot was assisting the medic from earlier with the injured. Rodimus noticed her, saluted Magnus badly, and sprinted after them.

Magnus motioned for Megatron to follow and started away.

“I can’t.” Megatron stopped him. “My leg.”

Magnus looked back at him, scowled, and cleared the distance between them in two large steps. To his shock, Megatron found he had been heaved into a bridal carry. His leg cried out at the abuse, but he grimaced and grit his teeth.

Megatron looked back at the entrance of the prison to see Tarn finally pull the sword free. Behind the Decepticon mask that covered his entire face, Tarn’s red optics were hungry

“Right.” Magnus readjusted Megatron roughly. “Let’s go.”

The run to the car was a blur of pain. Megatron wondered at the absurdity of the situation. He – Megatron – having to call his arch-nemesis for help. Autobot help. Then, being rescued by the Lost Light. Rodimus, of all people! Being carried away from the scene was only the final indignity.

Well. At least he had survived.

Magnus stopped at a red traffic light, even though there was no one else on the road.

The rain promised by the weather forecast that morning had come. It fell like sparks in the glow of the red traffic light and pattered against the front window of the NCA. Each drop hung in the air a moment before whirling away and disappearing into the night. Out of the corner of his vision, Magnus saw the dim crimson glow of Megatron’s optics, as the bot turned toward him

“You’re taking me to Optimus, then.” Megatron said. His voice was deep and serious, but faintly strained, as though speaking were an effort.

“No.” Magnus replied. “To Ratchet. You’re injured.”

Megatron put a hand on his bloody leg, grimaced, and looked out the window at the dark rain. The energon leaking out of his leg ran down the side of the seat to pool on the floor. Magnus hoped whoever cleaned these vehicles would be able to handle the stain.

Beside Magnus, Megatron sighed.

“After the doctor fixes me, I’ll see Prime?”

For the first time, Magnus looked over at his passenger.

“Do you want to?”

Rain drummed on the other side of the glass where Megatron’s head rested.

“Prime and I…” The optic lights of Megatron’s eyes were dim and listless. “There’s so much bad blood between us. I want to see him. But I know I don’t deserve to.”

“You’re right.” Magnus turned back to the road. “You don’t.”

The red lights reflecting off the black road changed to green, and they drove off.

Ratchet’s clinic was small and out of the way. The neon light of the pawnshop beside it was broken, and flickered like an ersatz flame to cast intermittent shadows on the dirty entrance.

Inside, Megatron was sitting on the doctor’s bench, and his fixed leg no longer pained him. Ratchet, a red and white medic, was hunched over it. The clicks and snaps of the internal mechanisms being fixed was quite unsettling to listen to, but it was reasonable to think he would be able to walk, now.

Ratchet finished, leaned back, and stretched.

“Go easy on it.” Ratchet snapped, and disappeared into a doorway behind him. For a moment there was only a muffled grumbling, and then the clank of something falling over. This prompted a yelp and then a rather colorful string of swear-words.

Magnus’ perpetual frown got deeper. He stood opposite Megatron, and folded his arms, but said nothing.

“Alright, what happened?” Ratchet walked out into the cramped room with a number of medical implements. “Shootout? Who with?”

“The Decepticon Justice Division.” Magnus answered.

Ratchet shot a glare at Megatron.

“They went after him?” Ratchet said, skeptical. “I thought they were his personal assassins.” Ratchet jerked a thumb in Megatrons direction to emphasize his point.

Magnus shook his head. “Megatron is the highest profile ex-Decepticon on record. Ever since he defected, it is likely he has been the DJD’s main target.”

“They weren’t after me.” Megatron interrupted. Magnus looked at him, but Ratchet stolidly ignored that Megatron had spoken, and went about putting the medical tools into cupboards about the room.

Magnus winced at a slam, and nodded to Megatron gruffly.

“Save it for when Prime gets here.” Magnus advised.

Megatron dipped his head in acknowledgement and fell silent. The only sounds were the soothing patter of falling rain on the roof of the clinic, contrasted against the irate clatter and bang of Ratchet’s cleaning.

Megatron searched the room for a window to look out of, something upon which to fix his gaze, to avoid the tension rising in the room. The only one he found was miniscule, in the top corner, wedged above a heating vent and beneath the roof. It was so encrusted with grime that only darkness was visible outside.

Magnus stood to attention, waiting, and his scowl was carved out of stone. His stance was so stiff as to be geometric. Even his optic lights were a cold, melancholy blue. He too was looking out of the window.

“He’s here.” Magnus said, in unison with the sound of a truck pulling up in the street outside. Ratchet immediately ran to the door, and from outside came the sound of a muffled conversation, hushed by the hiss of falling rain. Magnus and Megatron were left alone in the cramped room.

“He’s forgiven you.” Magnus said suddenly.

Megatron would deny forever that he flinched in surprise.

“Who?” Megatron asked.

“Prime.” Magnus was observing him dispassionately, in an almost detached manner. “He wants to believe the best of you. That you can change.”

“He hasn’t forgiven me.” Megatron shook his head. “He just gave me a second chance. There’s a difference.”

In a cold, stretched moment, the tension rose and broke.

“Look. Megatron. Let me speak plainly.” Magnus was a tall bot, and now he stood even taller, so that his body seemed to creak at the perfection of his posture.

“I trust Optimus. I trust his decisions. But so far, you’ve given me no reason at all to trust you. At the first sign of suspicion – as soon as you even think about trying something – I’ll come down on you with the full weight of the law and you’ll go straight back to prison. Understood?”

“Understood.” Megatron answered, solemn. “I would expect no less.”

Magnus nodded firmly and fell silent. After exactly ten seconds, Ratchet and Optimus entered the room. Megatron wondered how much they had heard.

“Megatron.” Optimus said.

“Prime.” Megatron replied.

Optimus sat down on a comically small box, between Magnus and a row of cabinets, across from Megatron.

“I heard what happened.” Prime said. Everything about his voice commanded power and strength, and yet at the same time, was incredibly gentle. It was the most kindness Megatron had been shown in weeks.

“The DJD was after Overlord, not me.” Megatron told him. “I was merely caught up in the ‘celebrations’.”

“I understand.” Prime said. Megatron relaxed a little in relief. “But this shows that there is chance the DJD will find you, either on purpose or by accident, as happened today. What has happened once can happen again. Megatron, you are not safe anymore.”

“I am not being put in prison again for my ‘protection’.” Megatron warned him.

Optimus shook his head. “No. Provided you read the speech I gave you, I am willing to allow you free movement. May I ask… why did you not read it the first time?”

It was Optimus’ strength, combined with his kind and compassionate nature, which made him reliable. It made Megatron feel as though he could trust his emotions to the bot.

“I didn’t want to disappoint Soundwave.” Megatron said, extremely quietly.

“Soundwave.” Optimus spoke without judgment or curiosity.

“My most loyal lieutenant.” Megatron clarified. “I couldn’t face what my betrayal would do to him. He was in the room, when you offered me that deal…”

Optimus sat back and fixed his gaze somewhere beyond the walls of the small room. He sighed.

“So he was.” Optimus nodded. “I appreciate that. What changed your mind?”

Megatron put his head in his hands. “It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. I had nothing to lose.”

“Megatron.” Optimus stopped, and his gaze momentarily flicked to Magnus and Ratchet, who were still in the room. “I know you want to make amends. I want to give you the opportunity. I think that you need is a closer eye – someone who can both protect you and keep you in line.”

There was something about Optimus’ presence that inspired stability, comfort. Prime was here. Everything was going to be alright. And so while what he was saying was worrying, Megatron could not find it within himself to be unduly concerned.

“What do you mean?” Megatron asked.

“Magnus?” Optimus was looking up at the tall blue bot.

Magnus wrung his mouth in distaste, but nodded. “I… yes. Yes, of course.”

Ratchet stood up, knocking something to the floor. “What! Prime, are you seriously suggesting Megatron live with Magnus?”

“What?” Megatron snapped his head to face Optimus.

“It’s his decision.” Optimus said, addressing Ratchet. “Between that, and prison.”

Megatron sat back a little in shock. Some part of him felt almost betrayed.

“Prime.” Megatron began. “I had thought you and I could-“

Optimus stood up swiftly, and in doing so reminded Megatron of how he had never truly been able to defeat the bot on the battlefield.

“I have responsibilities.” Optimus said. “A city to run. Starscream is already suspicious of the leeway I have given you, and I cannot risk my position any further, for the sake of those who still require me. I have to rebuild what the war destroyed. I too, have to make amends.”

Megatron bowed his head.

“Very well, Prime.” Megatron said, reluctantly. “I’ll live with your bot.”

“Good.” Prime said. “And now to the matter of your second chance. Once you have given the speech, I believe you would be well suited to join the Lost Light help agency. A command position would be best – that way, you will be under constant scrutiny.”

Ratchet exploded. “Captain of the Lost Light? Are you mad, Prime?”

Optimus gave Ratchet a look. “Co-captain. His position will not be field-based.”

The medic leashed his anger but did not back down. “He’s a mass-murderer! An ex-dictator! He’s evil, and he’ll always be evil.”

“Ratchet.” Optimus spoke quietly, but his voice still gave Megatron the impression of creaking ice. To push further would have been unwise, and Ratchet was no fool. He backed down. His engine still rumbled at an idle growl, however.

“Excuse me, Prime.” Magnus said. “Are these your final decisions?”

Optimus narrowed his eyes. “They are.”

“They’ll generate a lot of paperwork. Change of address forms, adding a second tenant to my lease, police procedural paperwork-“

Optimus chuckled softly. “Yes, Magnus. You can handle it.”

“Thank you.” Magnus clasped his hands behind his back. “In that case, I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“I have some things to discuss with Ratchet.” Optimus walked across the room and gestured for the doctor to lead the way. “I’ll see you tomorrow, to organize the speech.”

Megatron got off the medical bench gingerly, but his leg gave him no trouble.

“Optimus.” Megatron called out.

Prime looked back.

“Goodbye.” Megatron said.

Prime’s handsome blue optics grew sad.

“Goodbye, Megatron.” Prime said, and hesitated, as if to say more. But then he merely nodded, and left.

Magnus’ apartment was extremely high up, in a moderately classy apartment. Magnus had chosen the building for its unique security system – to activate the elevator, each resident was required to submit a digital password. Magnus had changed his on a daily basis, but perhaps now, that would not be so.

He stared at the closed doors and tried to concentrate on one thing at a time. He failed. It was too much, all of it overwhelming.

Megatron, beside him, was examining the interior of the elevator. The ceiling, the control panel. The back wall was a mirror that framed their forms, side by side. Magnus turned his gaze away from the other bot.

The ding of every passing floor, and the harsh fluorescent lights were painful.

“Do you… Megatron trailed off.

Magnus surmised where he was headed. His own thought process had been heading along similar lines.

“No.” Magnus answered. “I live alone, as such, I do not have a spare recharging station.”

Megatron slumped slightly. Magnus disapproved of the poor posture, but could relate to the sentiment.

Megatron did not react for a number of floors.

“One does not need to be plugged into a bed in order to rest.” Megatron finally pointed out.

Magnus perked up. “True. Energon can suffice as a temporary measure, provided one also sleeps. Personally, I do not intend to recharge tonight. I have paperwork.”

“Excellent idea.” Megatron said. “It is best to effect some control over this situation as quickly as possible.”

Magnus shot him a sharp glance. He was surprised at Megatron for so perfectly summarizing his motivations, and looked the bot up and down suspiciously.

“…Yes.” Magnus eventually acknowledged. “Exactly.”

They arrived at Magnus’ floor, and the doors slid open. Magnus swept out of the elevator and led the way down the hallway to his apartment. It was a while since he’d had company. What was the proper procedure for welcoming a guest? And what about when that guest was also effectively a political prisoner? There hadn’t been a Venn diagram covering this in the Autobot Code. At a loss, Magnus went with the former option.

Magnus opened the door and gestured for Megatron to step through.

“Welcome.” Magnus lied. “Please make yourself at home.”

He let Megatron enter before following, and locking the door behind them.

The entirety of the far wall was comprised of a giant panoramic window. The ambient lavender glow of the city night outside lit the room, and drops raced each other down the glass as the rain continued.

Two armchairs sat perpendicular to each other in the main area, beside a solitary, minimalist lamp. In a doorway visible to the left was Magnus’ study.

White walls and polished floors made for an environment so sterile it was almost intimidating. It looked like a display home – a construction of domesticity, a superficial edifice, something completely bare of personal affectations. There was no sign anyone lived in the apartment at all.

Magnus frowned at the disarray. He hadn’t had time to clean properly the morning before. Hopefully Megatron would not mind the mess.

But the bot had crossed the room immediately upon entering, and was now standing before the transparent outlook of the glowing city. Rain smeared the distant lights. Megatron raised a hand to the glass.

“This is incredible.” Megatron said. “How do you afford a view like this?”

“Budgeting, and a second source of income. ” Magnus snapped, then pointed at a hallway leading to the left of the entrance. “The bedroom is down the hallway, it’s a double berth and I prefer the left side charging station. I keep everything extremely tidy and I expect you to do the same.”

“Of course.” Megatron said. “Any other ground rules?”

Magnus counted them off on his fingers. “Don’t rearrange the furniture, use cooking utensils for their intended function, no parties whatsoever…” Magnus shook his head. “I’ll write you a memo. What’s your communication code?”

“I don’t have a memo-pad.” Megatron turned away from the window to look incredulously across the room at Magnus. “What kind of visitors have you had, that such rules are in effect?”

Magnus shook his head. “Rodimus. You’ll meet him, he’s your new captain – sorry, co-captain.”

“I cannot wait.” Megatron said, sarcastically.

“That’s not good.” Magnus frowned. “Around Rodimus, patience is a vital quality.”

“My statement was not serious, but thank you for the advice.”

Magnus began to reply, but stopped, and passed it off as clearing his throat. “Be ready to leave at 0500 hours, tomorrow. Not only do you have your speech, we have to purchase a memo-pad beforehand.”

“Noted.” Megatron said. “And – thank you.”

Magnus nodded to Megatron seriously, and left for the study. Wall to wall shelves were filled with books, files, and a thousand different forms of paperwork, all organized in perfect geometry. Even the work littered desk had everything at right angles. Outside, the rain fell in a cold, constant hiss.

Magnus sat down at the desk.

The digital clock to one side told him it was nearly two.

Magnus was exhausted. As much as he loved paperwork, he knew he would be unable to concentrate at a time like this.

“Magnus.”

Magnus yelped, his optics flared to life, and he jerked back in his chair. Megatron was standing hesitantly at the doorway, hands spread in a non-threatening manner.

“What?” Magnus asked. His voice was completely stable, yet his chair was balanced unsteadily on the back two legs. Hoping Megatron had not noticed Magnus slowly began to lower it back to the floor with casual nonchalance, as if nothing had happened.

“I’m sorry.”

Magnus stared at the stranger in his doorway for far too long.

“…What?”

“For invading your privacy. I know it was Optimus’ idea, but nevertheless, I apologize.”

Magnus did not answer. Megatron continued.

“No doubt this is intensely uncomfortable for you. Having to share your space with me would have been unexpected, and unwelcome, and I won’t pretend to have adjusted to it myself.”

Magnus wished he would stop talking. Megatron’s words were too accurate, too empathetic. Such a thing should not have been possible from the mouth of such a despicable person.

Megatron sighed. “I also apologize for putting you in danger. If the DJD track me down, you’ll-“

“I know that.” Magnus interrupted. “We’ll both have to deal with it. It’s useless to ruminate on the negatives of a situation we cannot change.”

Megatron hummed. “I don’t know. That kind of thinking can lead one to accept just about anything.”

Magnus paused. “I suppose.” He shook his head. “A conversation for another time.”

“It is late.” Megatron agreed. “I’ll leave you be.”

Megatron walked away and Magnus watched him go. He sighed and hung his head in relief at the sound of the bedroom door closing.

At a time like this, there was only one thing that could give him peace.

Very, very quietly, Magnus unlocked and opened the lowermost drawer of his desk. Carefully, he lifted free a compact stereo, a record player. He made sure to turn the volume to the lowest setting before inserting a disk and pressing play.

The music washed over him like warm water. Magnus relaxed at last.

The instrumentals, the melody and light gave him a certain sensation of weightlessness. It soothed the tangled struts of his stressed frame, sent shivers down his back that left peace in their wake, and rippled outwards from the warm feeling in his spark that resonated with the music.

Reluctantly, Magnus stopped the song, lifted the stereo, and carefully placed it back into its drawer. He was tired. Any more, and he might fall asleep before getting anything done.

Magnus briefly wondered how long Megatron would be staying, and worried a little. Optimus had not mentioned a time frame.

Magnus hoped it would not be long.

Chapter Text

Megatron stared at the early morning ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest.

Slowly, pale pink sunlight crept in through the window and covered it completely. The sight of it made Megatron physically ache. After another sleepless night, dawn had come, bringing with it the prospect of another draining day at the Lost Light help agency.

Megatron reluctantly sat up and unplugged himself from the recharging station. In doing so he noted the wall of books in the centre of the berth, dividing his side of the bed from the side in which Magnus rarely slept. Megatron would never dare reveal to Magnus that he was grateful for the barrier.

It was not that Ultra Magnus was a repulsive bot. It was simply that Megatron was uncomfortable with touch, and all too aware of the accidental contact that could result from close proximity to another bot. Say he turned over in his sleep – as ludicrous as the concept was – and accidentally rolled up against Magnus. While the bot might not shoot him, it was an understatement to say either of them would be displeased. A barrier prevented this. Truly, he owed Magnus his thanks.

But it was not as if the wall had ever had much cause to be used in the six months since Megatron had arrived.

In going out to the kitchen for his morning fuel, Megatron passed the entrance to the study, but something about the scene stopped him. He doubled back to see what had put him off.

Everything seemed normal. Warm golden sunlight illuminated the figure of Magnus, sitting up at his desk, at work on a file of some kind. But it took a moment for Megatron to realize the bot was not moving, and that upon closer inspection, his optics were offline and his head had fallen forward onto his chest. Even this amount of moderation was monumental. Megatron was a little stunned. How strange, to see Magnus not frowning. It was a shame, really; relaxed like this Magnus was not an unattractive bot.

Megatron froze as he realized what he was looking at. Magnus had fallen asleep at his desk.

He backed away as quietly as he could and ducked into the kitchen.

Magnus had made a longstanding habit of working late, no doubt to avoid sleeping with Megatron nearby, but perhaps it had gone on long enough. There was no way the other bot was getting the appropriate amount of rest.

Megatron was seated at the kitchen table with his fuel, waiting, when Magnus entered the kitchen.

“Megatron.” Magnus nodded and went about getting his breakfast. Usually, this was the extent of their morning conversation, but today things would have to change.

“Magnus.” Megatron addressed the bot uncomfortably. “We need to talk.”

Magnus sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. “Thank you. I hadn’t wanted to say anything. You never vacuum the gap between the skirting board and the floor, and truly, the dust is getting out of hand.”

“Uh.” Megatron said, eloquently.

Magnus continued. “But I will admit… it’s good you’re willing to acknowledge your mistakes. I would certainly be amenable to showing you the proper way to vacuum.”

“No. Magnus.” Megatron paused. “Although, do send me a memo about that later, I would hate to think I’m not doing my chores properly. The issue is simply that I feel responsible for you sleeping at your desk every night.”

Magnus grimaced and half turned in his chair to look out the window. He sipped his fuel before answering.

“That is a statistical error. It isn’t every night.”

“I apologize for exaggerating.” Megatron said. “My point still stands.”

Magnus’ shoulders tightened, and he raised a tense arm to rub at the scowl lines, which at this point, seemed to be permanently chiseled into his face.

“How I sleep, when, and where, are all things that do not concern you.” Magnus managed, and his voice grated roughly in suppressed anger.

“Yet I am concerned about you.” Megatron said.

“Stop it.” Magnus twisted his face up. “Stop being… just stop.”

But Megatron was tired of silence.

“What is your other job, that it requires you to work so late?” Megatron insisted. “Some nights, you come home so late that you don’t sleep at all. Indeed, it seems that for you, ‘waking up’ is merely an excuse to shower and refuel.”

“Enough.” Magnus raised his voice for the first time, and his engine growled menacingly. He seethed, steaming.

“My other job is not the issue here.” Magnus said, finally. “I would thank you not to bring it up again.”

Megatron looked aside. “You’re right. I went too far. I apologize for not keeping things…”

“Impersonal.” Magnus finished his fuel. “Yes. If you will excuse me.”

Magnus got up from the table, and after cleaning his empty glass, went to leave. He paused at the doorway, however.

“Just so we’re clear, I still intend to send you a memo about the vacuuming.”

Megatron nodded. “Good, good, thank you. I look forward to it.”

Magnus led the way into the Lost Light, and Megatron followed at a respectful distance behind. As they entered the main office, the surrounding bots almost subconsciously cleared a path.

“Excuse me.” Megatron waved farewell as he passed Magnus. “I have to go organize the DJD briefing. Attendance has been dismal these past few weeks.”

“Of course.” Magnus replied, nodded curtly, and left to make his way to his desk.

The agency office consisted of a large open area filled with rows of desks. Along one wall of the room was a row of windows. The window blinds used in the Lost Light help agency were comprised of horizontal slats, and sepia lines of sunlight striped the room. Magnus waved a hand over his face. Someone had been smoking.

Or no. Someone was smoking.

“Hey Mags.” Rodimus was leaning on Magnus’ desk, and he was on fire. A tray of papers next to his hand was a hazard waiting to happen. “I was burning off some excess fuel, trying to make my color scheme more realistic, but I for realsies cannot control it right now. So, extinguisher?”

Magnus sighed and tipped his head back in a long-suffering manner as he pulled out a fire extinguisher from nowhere. His expression did not change as he coated the flaming bot in white foam.

“May I ask why you haven’t been attending the DJD classes?” Magnus asked, once the flames were out. “You are part of the team, Rodimus. As such, it is your responsibility to set a good-“

“A-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup.” Rodimus held up a finger to stop Magnus. “Talk about that later. First. What is up with Megatron this morning?”

Magnus frowned sternly. “It is a minor tiff, between Megatron and myself. There is no need for you to get involved.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Rodimus rubbed his hands together, splattering Magnus with the foam. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to annoy him for ages. I have plans.”

Magnus cringed, and raised one arm. Stiffly, methodically, every last trace of the foam was flicked away.

“I strongly insist you do not put those plans into action.” Magnus reprimanded. “I remind you that he is your co-captain, and that antagonizing him would be-“

“Don’t worry.” Rodimus slapped Magnus on the shoulder and grinned. “You’ll thank me later.”

Magnus was momentarily distracted cleaning the foam off his shoulder, and when he looked up Rodimus had gone. Magnus frowned with no small amount of trepidation. The worst part was that he wished he could warn Megatron about it, but he was unsure as to if doing so would be appropriate after their earlier row.

Magnus looked across the room to where Megatron was scrubbing death threats off his desk, as he did every morning. Magnus had tried to bring the offenders to task, and Arcee had promised to look into it. So far nothing had changed. Magnus suspected that the entirety of the night shift was to blame.

“Magnus.” Someone asked from behind him. “Do you have a moment?”

Magnus turned away from Megatron to deal with the minibot.

“Of course, Rewind.” Magnus took a seat behind his desk. “If this is about the pool noodles in supply closet four, however, I have already told Brainstorm he can’t keep them there.”

Rewind was a small minibot with a red and black paintjob. He was one of those bots without facial features – a blue visor covered his optic lights, and a faceplate covered what would have been a mouth on another bot – yet despite this, he still managed to portray an unnerving amount of cheerfulness.

Magnus didn’t trust him. Anyone able to smile without a mouth was far too good a liar for him to feel comfortable in their presence.

“No, it’s not.” Rewind clasped his hands together demurely. “It’s about my husband. I’m worried about him – his side of the sparkbond isn’t responding properly.”

Magnus cut him off. “Please, there’s no need to share intimate details about your marriage. Has anything changed?”

“No.” Rewind smiled sweetly. “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing everything you can to get him back. That’s all.”

Magnus breathed out wearily and opened a thick folder. “I’m sorry Rewind. I’ve told you before, putting together a team to find Chromedome is up to Rodimus, not me. The last time I brought it up with him, he pretended to be dead to get out of the conversation.”

“Oh!” Rewind laughed. “Oh, that’s alright then, isn’t it?”

Magnus narrowed his eyes. “I detect the fact that you may not be serious.”

Rewind lost the friendly atmosphere instantly, and his visor flared as he glowered across the table at Magnus.

Rewind’s voice was deathly quiet. “Either you get Rodimus to put a team together, or I’ll show everyone that video of you. You know the one. Do you really think they’ll respect you as an authority after they see-“

“Shh!” Magnus twitched his head from side to side to check if anyone was listening to their conversation. There were a number of groups casually chatting far too close for Magnus’ comfort, and while they certainly seemed to be holding separate conversations, this was the Lost Light. You didn’t last long if you couldn’t learn to eavesdrop professionally.

“I’ll talk to Nightbeat, and look into it more in depth.” Magnus said firmly, but then dropped into an undertone. “You know, I have the authority to order you to delete that video.”

Rewind lost the menacing atmosphere. “Not while it’s in my database, you don’t! Of course, if I publish it, that’s another matter – but by then it will be too late, don’t you think? See you around, Magnus!”

Magnus did not groan as Rewind skipped away. To express his frustration in such a manner would have been rude and inappropriate, however satisfying. Instead, Magnus settled himself into his work for the day.

Megatron sat up from his creaky chair and shuffled out from behind his desk, barely fitting through the gap between desk and wall. It wobbled precariously as he did so. Through some miracle of engineering all four legs were unstable, and a different piece of cardboard was propped underneath all but one.

Both walls of the very back corner constricted Megatron’s desk, but at least it was situated under an open window. Every time the breeze blew, the window blinds tried to swing out over the desk, but Megatron had tied them in place with a small string and so they only rattled helplessly.

In front of it was a blast shield, mysteriously charred and blackened.

The doorway to the break room was only barely big enough for Megatron, but he was accustomed to ducking his head every time he walked in and out. Rodimus was sitting at the table as he entered, talking to Brainstorm, who was leaning back with his feet crossed on the table and his arms behind his head.

“So, you can make my hands turn into guns?” Rodimus was saying.

“Please.” Brainstorm scoffed. “I can make any part of the body. Why stop at hands?”

“You mean you could-“ Rodimus began to point at his crotch, but stopped when he saw Megatron. “Hey, Megs! What’s up?”

“Lunch.” Megatron answered shortly, and crossed the room to the fuel cabinet. As soon as he had entered, the room had fallen abruptly quiet, but now he pretended not to hear the muffled conversations behind him.

“Please, keep him distracted for five minutes. Just give me five minutes!” Rodimus hissed.

“Ugh, fine.” Brainstorm whispered in reply. “But I need permission to open a portal to another universe inside the Lost Light.”

“Okay, whatever, but that’s worth ten minutes.”

“Deal.”

Megatron had finished his fuel when Brainstorm came up beside him. He was facing the counter where, in theory, bots would mix energon and other kinds of fuel. At the present moment the entire space was taken up by what appeared to be a chemistry experiment.

“Let’s cut to the chase.” Megatron spoke before Brainstorm could say anything. “What is Rodimus planning?”

Brainstorm stalled mid-sentence. He leant against the counter and raised a finger to object, which would have looked casual and normal, had the bot not been making a long, drawn out sound.

“Uhhhhhhh.” Brainstorm said. It took the bot a moment before he realized what he was doing. Rather than stop and apologize, however, Brainstorm turned it into a song.

“Uhhhhhhh~” Brainstorm sung. “I don’t know what you’re talking about~”

Megatron held up a hand to block any further song. “You are not in trouble, I only have two questions. Is it harmful? And do you truly intend to open a portal to another universe inside the agency?”

Brainstorm stopped himself making the noise by physically batting at the side of his head, and shaking it from side to side quickly.

“Okay.” Brainstorm recovered. “I can answer that. The first one is a no.” He narrowed his optics. “Probably. And in regards to the other thing, well, who knows if it’ll work?”

Megatron sighed. “Please seal off the area for your experiment before trying something like that within the Lost Light.”

“Yes, Captain.” Brainstorm saluted poorly, but Megatron thought it not worth calling him out on it, as technically, both of them were on break.

“Will you be attending my DJD briefing today?” Megatron asked instead.

Brainstorm’s engine stuttered and stalled, and his face froze. The bot had a jet alt-mode, and at Megatron’s question, his wings had gone back in an unconscious defensive action.

“Nnno?” Brainstorm answered, uncertain. “I’ve already missed like, three lectures, and I already know all the stuff, so I’m good.”

“Which is it?” Megatron asked. “Are you too behind to catch up, or are you so ahead that you don’t need the class?”

“Trick question.” Brainstorm’s left optic flickered on and off in a nervous tic. “The class doesn’t matter!”

The break room conversations halted momentarily and then continued, a little too casual to be natural. Megatron was all too conscious of the weight that had been suddenly placed upon him. To lecture Brainstorm – whatever the reason – would look bad. He was in a position of authority, yes, but at the first sign of abusing that, Megatron knew the other bots assembled would not hesitate to report him to Optimus.

Brainstorm, in front of him, was clearly panicking. His wings were jittering uncontrollably and he had grasped the counter with one hand, so hard that his fingers were leaving white paint transfers. It was quite likely that the only reason he had not yet left was because of his ten-minute deal with Rodimus.

Which meant Megatron had nine minutes to defuse things.

“What about the class do you think isn’t useful?” Megatron spoke with care, as he had learned to when handling situations such as this. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“Um, okay, it’s not that it’s not useful. It probably is?” Brainstorm’s laugh sounded a little unbalanced. “But Primus, it is so hard to listen to like, the fiftieth terrible thing the DJD have done in the hope that it might help us catch them. It’s boring, and depressing, and what’s more? We have to hear it from you.”

Megatron blinked, surprised to be dealing with legitimate grievances. He had evidently underestimated Brainstorm’s maturity.

“I see.” Megatron nodded. “What would you suggest?”

“Oh.” Brainstorm blinked. “Seriously? You’d take my advice?”

“I did just ask you for it.” Megatron pointed out.

“Fair. Fair.” Brainstorm folded his arms, and tipped his head back. Megatron had the scientist as a desk neighbor, and so the action was familiar. It was a habit Megatron had seen him use when attempting to solve a problem, or figure out a particularly difficult solution in relation to an experiment.

Megatron felt a little uneasy upon remembering that most of those experiments tended to blow up at least once before succeeding. But he could not say he actually knew what Brainstorm was experimenting on half the time, nor what the parameters of success were. Perhaps explosions were the goal.

Brainstorm clicked his fingers. “Eureka!”

There was a clatter from the nearby table as surrounding bots ducked for cover.

“The problem is that your class is, to use the scientific term, soul-destroyingly boring.” Brainstorm nodded. “You have it early in the day, the first day of every week, and it’s just – it’s draining. If you move it to the afternoon, or to a time later in the week, that would be less…”

“Dull.” Megatron finished.

“I was going to say ‘mind-numbing’, but yes, ‘dull’ works.” Brainstorm’s face froze. “Oh frag. How long has it been?”

Megatron didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “Rodimus left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Okay, cool, cool, right.” Brainstorm wrung his hands in front of him. “Uh. Don’t fire me?”

Megatron shook his head. “Of course not. You were technically acting on orders. Thank you for the advice.”

“Right. Oh.” Brainstorm hesitantly held up a hand in farewell.

Megatron nodded and went to find out what had become of his workspace. As he left, he heard conversations start up again in earnest in his absence, and Brainstorm mutter something that might have been ‘well, that wasn’t so bad’.

His first clue towards whatever Rodimus had done was the crowd around his desk, blocking it from his view. His second was the snickering coming from said crowd. Whatever it was, it was evidently amusing.

The bots cleared a path all too graciously at Megatron’s approach, revealing Rodimus leaning on his desk casually, and the presence of something seated in his chair.

He counted to ten, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are those… pool noodles?” Megatron asked, once he had recovered his composure.

Rodimus gasped in mock horror. “How dare you! This is my dear co-captain. Megs, meet Megs Junior.”

Megatron took another look at the multicolored Styrofoam life-size model of himself.

“This is highly inappropriate.” Megatron eventually said, for lack of anything better to say.

Rodimus turned to the sculpture in an obvious aside. “He didn’t mean that.” Rodimus stage-whispered.

The spectators chuckled, and Megatron was reminded of their audience. Rather than engage Rodimus any further, Megatron walked to his desk and retrieved the stacks of paperwork and reports on the DJD that he had been working through.

Rodimus adjusted the way he was leaning on the table. The lack of attention evidently troubled him.

“Well?” Rodimus’ grin was a little strained. “Aren’t you going to compliment my artistry? It took quite a few practice goes to get a likeness this good. Aren’t you proud?”

“Proud?” Megatron paused in his packing to give Rodimus a disapproving look. “Of you?”

Rodimus’ grin shattered, even as it did not move.

“No.” He jerked his head in an aborted motion, as if trying to shake something off. “No. Why would I care what you think? I don’t.”

Megatron shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll clean up your… art project. Please leave before this becomes any more embarrassing.”

“Haha yeah, for you!” Rodimus snapped both hands into pistols, and pointed at Megatron.

Megatron ignored this, and rested the piled paperwork on Brainstorm’s nearby desk before returning to retrieve his stylus and other assorted documents. As he was doing so, a newspaper clipping caught his eye.

He was just about to pick it up when Brainstorm spoke from behind him.

“Rodimus?” The bot sounded extremely confused. “What did you do with my pool noodles? I needed those.”

Megatron narrowed his optics in bewilderment as he tried to determine what scientific purpose Brainstorm could possibly have had in mind for the Styrofoam noodles.

“Those were yours?” Rodimus sounded incredulous. “They were in that storage cupboard for like, weeks though.”

Megatron picked up the newspaper clipping. The phrase ‘making deals with the DJD’ jumped out at him, and he scanned the article quickly.

“I told him not to put them there.” Magnus’ deep rumble made Megatron turn around in surprise. The giant blue bot ignored him stolidly to look at Rodimus. “This is becoming quite the scene.”

“I was getting around to them.” Brainstorm muttered, vaguely.

Megatron waved a hand. “One moment. This newspaper article – it mentions a bot named Pharma having ties to Tarn. Could he have useful information pertaining to the DJD?”

“Possibly.” Magnus held out his hand, and Megatron passed him the article. “Yes. Well done. I know exactly who to ask about him.”

Megatron nodded seriously. Not only was it a relief that he and Magnus could still be professional in the workplace despite their troubles at home, but they were now one step closer to potentially learning something about Tarn – a weakness, perhaps, or the location of a secret meeting place.

Megatron internally suppressed the swell of hope that had risen within him. It would not do to overestimate their lead.

Rodimus scoffed and tossed his head in a circle carelessly. “Whatever.”

Megatron looked over at the irate bot, and did a double take. The crowd had also noticed and was slowly backing away from Megatron’s desk.

“Rodimus.” Magnus started.

“Whatever!” Rodimus threw his hands up in exasperation and several people ducked. “It’s not like you led the DJD for the entire war or anything. How? Seriously, how did we end up with you in charge?”

Magnus began to usher people away from the scene.

“Rodimus-“ Megatron said, carefully.

“Fragging Optimus!” Rodimus swore and kicked Megatron’s desk. “He doesn’t show a speck of interest for Primus knows how long, but as soon as he wants us to do something for him, he’s all ‘Rodimus, I need you to look after my ex-boyfriend’.“

Megatron halted. “Perhaps this is a conversation for another time – Prime and I were not together. Rodimus, seriously, behind you-“

“Yeah, haha!” Rodimus’ grin was a little too wide. “Because he’s fragging married to the city, isn’t he? Never! Has time! For anyone!”

With every exclamation, Rodimus kicked the table, and on the last outburst the leg snapped. Meanwhile, the flames guttering off his frame finally spread to the highly flammable foam effigy behind him, and set alight Megs Junior.

“My pool noodles!” Brainstorm cried out in distress.

“My desk!” Megatron cried out at the same time.

“Megs Junior!” Rodimus tried to put out the flaming effigy by hitting it, however as he was the source of the fire, this only made the matter worse. “Mags! Extinguisher!”

Magnus stomped forward to coat the entire area – Rodimus, desk, and effigy alike – in a thick coat of white, flameproof foam. When he had finished, the only sign of Rodimus was a foam tower that moved slightly.

“Told you you’d thank me.” The foam monster said, cockily.

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten.

Three hours later, Magnus finished lecturing Rodimus.

“…I expected better of you.” Magnus shook his head. “I really did. Throwing a temper tantrum at another bot’s desk? I thought you could be responsible about having a new co-captain, whoever that bot might be.”

“Yeah, well.” Rodimus tossed his head. “It’s not my fault we got Megatron.”

They had retired to the storage cupboard to avoid a public scene. This meant Magnus had to stand with his back somewhat hunched, a fact that grated against his internal imperative for perfect posture. This did not stop him from folding his arms and tapping one foot, however, in a weaponized version of ‘the silent treatment’. Rodimus broke.

“Fine.” Rodimus slumped in his seat. “I was going to clean it up anyway.”

“Thank you.” Magnus nodded to his captain, and then walked past him to open the cupboard door.

In doing so, he hit a bot in the nose.

“Hound.” Magnus frowned. “Are you alright? Why were you kneeling in the hallway?” He looked up. “What are the rest of you doing here? Megatron’s presentation begins in ten minutes. You are all going to be late.”

The crowd quickly dissipated, no doubt to make sure they arrived early. Magnus nodded in approval.

However, when Magnus walked into the briefing room he stopped short. He had thought attendance dismal before, but now, the room was completely empty but for Megatron, tacking pictures onto the pin-board. It was something of a sad picture, to see the bot still stubbornly preparing for his presentation, even with nobody else in the room.

Magnus should not have been so surprised. The number of lectures he had scheduled, the fifty-point presentations he had organized, only to have nobody show up; Magnus could relate to Megatron’s situation.

“You don’t have to do this.” Magnus said, sympathetically. “The point of this briefing is to inform the others of our progress. As they are not here, it would be worthless to continue.”

Megatron turned around, glanced briefly at the empty room, and then returned to his pin-board.

“No.” Megatron spoke with his back to Magnus. “Giving this presentation is part of my job, and I am going to do it. It makes no difference whether they are here or not.”

Magnus was impressed by the sentiment. Such dedication was extremely refreshing after dealing with Rodimus for so long. Yet Magnus could not help but frown. He knew all too well that putting genuine time into something yet feeling no sense of progress – having all one’s effort made ineffectual – it drained the spirit.

“I am not usually one to suggest this, but we can reschedule.” Magnus reiterated.

Megatron shook his head. “It is just as unlikely that anyone would turn up a second time.”

Magnus had to concede this fact, and he walked slowly to the front of the room to take a seat in the centre of the front row. As there was nobody else behind him, he had no reason to worry about blocking somebody’s view. Megatron finished with the pin-board and turned around.

“All right.” Megatron said. “Now. Let us-“

Magnus interrupted. “I admire your dedication, but sometimes it is better to save one’s energy for when it can be useful. Nobody is here. There’s no harm in admitting defeat.”

Megatron looked directly at Magnus. “I would normally agree. That is, if nobody had attended.”

Magnus frowned. “The room is empty.”

“That is not quite accurate, Ultra Magnus. Someone showed up.”

Magnus blinked, taken aback. Megatron’s words had knocked him silent, and he had trouble placing why. Was it such a shock that Megatron appreciated him? Was that what it was? Appreciation? It was disconcerting and new. Magnus had found no need for it in the past.

Yet the implication that this presentation was for Magnus alone – that if Magnus had not been there, Megatron would not have given it at all – it affected him deeply. Magnus cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table in front of him to hide it.

“Let us begin.” Megatron stepped up to the podium. “Up until this point, our only possible lead has been Tarn’s addiction. The bot is addicted to transforming, and burns through transformation cogs at an incredible rate. As time-consuming as it may be, we have had no other option but to go through all the records of black market t-cog deals in excruciating detail. However, recently we learned of a bot called ‘Pharma’ who may have ties to the DJD.”

Magnus pulled out his memo-pad to make notes.

Just as he was getting into it, an air horn blared, and Rodimus ran into the briefing room.

“Hey, what’s up?” Rodimus grinned and spread his arms. “I’m sure this is gonna be super boring or whatever, so before you start, I have something I’d like to say.”

Magnus watched as the rest of the Lost Light DJD team filed in behind Rodimus.

Megatron stepped out from behind the podium, frowning. “Rodimus, you are interrupting my presentation. If you are not going to attend, fine, but please don’t spoil things for those who actually care about saving the city.”

“Okay.” Rodimus bit his lip a little. “Minor dig at me, I get that. But here’s the thing, co-captain – I am here for the presentation. All of us are.”

Megatron folded his arms. “Really. What changed your mind?”

Rodimus jerked his head to the side. “Nothing. Stuff. I didn’t get lectured in a very real way, or anything.” He stepped up to Megatron’s side and pulled out a familiar golden object. “This is the true reason I am here. The true reason any of us are here. It is an honor for you, to have such a badge of-“

“Explain the bauble.” Megatron interrupted.

“It’s a Rodimus Star.” Rodimus held up the tiny golden badge, embossed with his face, and reverently placed on Megatron’s head. “I am bestowing it upon you for abandoning your evil ways. Til all are one!”

The assembled bots clapped. Megatron sought out Magnus in the crowd, and Magnus shared a commiserating look with him. The applause ended, and Rodimus vaulted over the front row desk next to Magnus, to sit upright with his hands on the table.

“Alright I’m done. You do your thing now. I promise I’ll focus and pay attention.”

Magnus, knowing Rodimus’ history and track record, could not help but be distrustful.

Megatron left the star on his head as he returned to standing behind the podium. He waited a moment. Rodimus nodded firmly, and pulled out the memo-pad Magnus had bought him ages ago, in an attempt to encourage the bot to be more responsible. He was finally using it. Magnus put a hand to his chest in pride.

“Alright.” Megatron checked once more to see if there would be any further interruptions. “Pharma was an Autobot of the Delphi clinic. Ratchet and his fellow doctors discovered that Pharma had been making deals with Tarn in order to secure the clinic’s safety in DJD territory. As of now, he is believed to be dead…”

Rodimus immediately groaned loudly and leant back on his chair. “Ugh this is so boring. Thank Primus there’s only twenty minutes left.”

Megatron halted, momentarily stupefied.

“Rodimus.” Magnus leant sideways to surreptitiously correct him. “This is a three hour lecture.”

“Right? That’s only four lots of twenty minutes. I can handle that. Sorry. Sorry.” Rodimus put up his hands and turned to address the rest of the room. “I’ll be good. Sorry. Continue.”

Three hours and eleven interruptions later, Magnus sat at the desk and waited for everyone else to file out. Megatron took the moment to reach up and take the Rodimus Star off the top of his head, and turn it over in his hands a couple of times.

“Ridiculous.” Megatron scoffed, still looking down at it. “Is this how he keeps up morale?”

Magnus shook his head. “I suggested jokes, but he did not appreciate my example suggestions.”

“Magnus, you’ve never struck me as a bot inclined to humor.” Megatron paused in his packing up of the presentation materials. “I apologize. I won’t ask you to share personal details about yourself.”

Magnus put away his memo pad. The day’s fiasco had perhaps been building up for some time – who was he to keep Rodimus in line? But the fact remained that the entire issue could have been prevented early on by a reasonable discussion. As much as Magnus detested the prospect of – shudder – opening up, he knew it was the only choice he could reasonably make. He busied himself by straightening the desk and chair before answering.

“Look, Megatron.” Magnus said, eventually. “If we’re going to live together, we need to be able to discuss…” Magnus trailed off. His eyes narrowed, and he turned a hand over in midair a couple of times to work himself up to the word.

“Personal matters.” Megatron came to his rescue.

“Yes.” Magnus raised a hand to his mouth and coughed awkwardly. “Today’s events were the result of a private tiff between you and I that Rodimus used as an excuse to act out. We need to take steps to prevent it happening again.”

“Agreed.” Megatron rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A set of ground rules would be a good place to start. Subjects we shouldn’t broach. Perhaps a sleeping schedule would also be useful, as I myself have nights where I do not sleep at all.”

Magnus sat back. He would not classify the feeling as relief, at hearing Megatron agree with him. He would not say that the prospect of a schedule filled him with something similar to joy, and he would deny until he died that the mention of rules had strengthened his trust in Megatron.

Magnus cleared his throat and pulled out his memo pad again.

“Alright. Rule one.” Magnus opened a new document. “Don’t ask me about my other job.”

Megatron pulled a chair from the side of the room and sat down opposite Magnus.

“Acceptable.” Megatron said. “Rule two. If I’m doing something wrong – cleaning, teaching, regressing to my former ways as a genocidal warlord – you have to tell me.”

Magnus typed this in with no small amount of satisfaction. “Indeed. I look forward to it. Rule three. We have to be honest with each other.”

Megatron nodded a couple of times more than was appropriate. “White lies?” He eventually prompted.

“No white lies.” Magnus cut a hand sideways through the air to emphasize his point. “I also distrust metaphors and sarcasm, but I’ll let them slide if need be.”

“Hm.” Megatron tapped two fingers together under his jaw. “Lies of omission?”

Magnus paused in his writing in of the addendums to this rule to look up suspiciously at Megatron. “If they are not harmful.”

Megatron leant back in his chair and gave Magnus a serious look.

“Alright. Let’s test it out.” Megatron flicked a hand towards himself. “Tell me one of your ‘jokes’.”

Magnus felt suddenly nervous at being put on the spot. Every joke he had ever come up with left his mind in an instant, and he stared blankly at Megatron for far longer than was normal.

Megatron laced his fingers together and nodded encouragingly.

“…Alright.” Magnus settled himself properly onto his chair. He placed his hands in fists on his knees, straightened his back, and made eye contact with Megatron.

“One of the most difficult things in life, along with public speaking and job interviews, is bravery; a concept which can be summarized as having the strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty.”

Megatron, to Magnus’ surprise, did not laugh. Not a chuckle. His face was as blank as stone.

The silence became painful.

Magnus felt ashamed. He had compared the definition to everyday concepts to give his audience the sensation of camaraderie, the joy of being ‘in’ on the joke, that union of shared experiences between two bots.

Yet here, as with everyone else, his humor had been met with awkward silence. At least this would give Megatron a good opportunity to practice brutal honesty in his no doubt devastating appraisal.

“My definition should have been more specific.” Magnus spoke quietly. “One might need courage to expose a corrupt authority in the face of retaliation, and it takes fortitude to be kind to others, even if they turn out to be untrustworthy. However, while driving blindfolded is also dangerous, scary, and difficult, it would be ridiculous of me to define that as brave.”

“Heh.” Megatron covered his mouth.

Magnus was sure he had misheard, and looked at Megatron in disbelief.

“Sorry, I know you didn’t mean it as a joke.” Megatron put up a hand in apology. “I simply found the idea both unexpected and ridiculous that ‘driving blind’ might be classified as brave.”

“No.” Magnus spoke in almost a hush. “You are correct. That was meant to be humor.”

“Hm.” Megatron nodded thoughtfully. “It was quite humorous.”

Magnus stared at him in awe, until Megatron began to shift in his chair for some reason.

“What is it?” Megatron said.

Magnus realized his gaze was making Megatron uncomfortable. He ducked back down to run through what he had written on his memo-pad so far. Without thinking, Magnus found that he had made the note ‘laughs at my jokes’. He erased it quickly.

“Nothing.” Magnus answered, and stood up. “I have work to do. Thank you for the presentation.”

Megatron clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Honesty, Magnus.”

Magnus stopped halfway to the doorway, and internally despaired. Never before had he made a decision, and found it confirmed so quickly afterwards to have been a mistake.

“I am grateful for the effort you put into these DJD presentations.” Magnus admitted. “No detail is too small; no report is not worth going over in the possibility of finding a lead. And today it paid off.” Magnus nodded. “Good work.”

Before Megatron could do more than stare blankly at him, Magnus escaped. He was going to regret rule number three. He just knew it.

Chapter Text

Magnus drove through the empty early city. It was strange to see the streets so quiet, those areas that would usually be busy at other times. He stopped at an intersection. Magnus checked both ways despite the lack of necessity, as it would not do to get into unsafe habits, and the NCA – Non-Cybertronian Automobile – curved smoothly around the corner as though it were on rails. Megatron did not so much as shift in the passenger seat.

The early morning sun, already so hot, reflected off the polished windows. The fresh sky was mirrored across the buildings, bright and getting bluer by the minute, and the sunlight was bounced from metallic surface to metallic surface. While there was still dew, everything shone.

“I won’t be long.” Magnus said, as he pulled up beside a newsagency.

Megatron nodded, but otherwise made no reply. Magnus got out of the vehicle to purchase the day’s newspaper. After some deliberation, he also bought an unsweetened energon bar, and then got back in the car.

“Would you mind reading me the headlines as I drive?” Magnus asked, and offered Megatron the newspaper.

“Not at all.” Megatron took the paper and Magnus drove off.

Beside him, Megatron shook out the newspaper and cleared his throat in preparation.

“Optimus Prime: From activist to icon.” There was a shuffling sound, as a few pages were turned, and then Megatron continued. “Infrastructure plan takes flight: Lord Starscream’s vision for the future.”

Magnus narrowed his optics. “Hm.”

“What is it?” Megatron asked.

“Starscream.” Magnus extrapolated. “The most prevalent issue right now is not infrastructure; it is rebuilding basic systems to support the health and security of the individual. Optimus understands that.”

Megatron folded the newspaper closed. “I object.” He said. “Optimus should not be opposing Starscream’s infrastructure plan. He should be supporting it.”

“What?” Magnus pressed a little too hard on the brake in his distraction, and the NCA jerked. “Would you care to explain why?”

They discussed the issue in depth for the rest of the drive, and the closed newspaper did not leave Megatron’s lap the entire time. The unnatural warmth stayed to promise a day of overheating and humidity for those bots with poor ventilation systems. The brilliant glow of the sunrise on the other hand, gradually faded, to Magnus’ relief. However dazzling, the glare had been hard to drive against.

“…No, I understand.” Magnus said as they entered the main office of the Lost Light. “But it still sounds as though you do not agree with Optimus.”

“Not at all, I think he’s absolutely right. The city sorely needs a system in place to support the individual. However, his opposition of Starscream at this time will only serve to create a power split, and confuse an already volatile populace recovering from a horrific sch-“

Megatron interrupted himself mid-sentence at the sight of the Lost Light main office.

The room had been divided into two halves, and the desks had been pushed out of the centre to make way for what appeared to be the pin-board from the breaking room. It acted as a wall, dividing one half from the other, and a line of tape made clear the boundary for the rest of the space.

“Schism.” Megatron finished.

“Language.” Magnus chastised.

“No – it means ‘split’ or ‘division.” Megatron explained.

“Ah, I misheard.” Magnus coughed awkwardly. “To be continued.” He bid farewell to Megatron, and crossed the room to Rodimus’ office. As he did so, he stepped over the line. Immediately Velocity appeared.

“Magnus, hey!” Velocity said, and walked up alongside him.

“Velocity.” Magnus stopped to acknowledge the teal medic. “I thought you were on the night-shift.”

“I am. Arcee’s got us helping this one politician, and it’s taking longer than we thought, whoops.” Velocity was standing a little too close for Magnus to feel comfortable, and so he drifted sideways. She followed, however, and in doing so drove him back onto the other side of the line.

Magnus stopped. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Of what?” Velocity blinked innocently, as though she had not just shepherded him back onto the other side of the room.

Magnus folded his arms sternly. “The divide, Velocity. Explain.”

The medic sighed. “Okay, okay. So, the rest of the night shift didn’t want you guys in our space – no offence – and Rodimus came up with this plan to keep everyone happy. It’s working!”

Magnus did not roll his optics. Such a gesture would have been irresponsible and immature, and Ultra Magnus was neither.

“Thank you, Velocity.” He said. “If you will excuse me.”

Magnus continued on his way to the captain’s office. As was protocol, he knocked twice on the doorframe before entering.

“Come in!” Rodimus called out. “Please, come in!”

Magnus entered, and found Arcee leaning across Rodimus’ desk in a threatening manner. Rodimus was leaning back to a respectful distance, out of sword range.

“Arcee. Rodimus.” Magnus greeted his captains. “Are you also discussing Starscream’s new infrastructure initiative?”

Rodimus grimaced in disgust. “What? No. What? Mags, stop thinking anyone else cares about your boring news stories. This is important. Look!”

Rodimus stood up and walked around the desk to urgently wave a pamphlet in Magnus’ face, both too fast and too close for Magnus to read the headline, and he pulled it out of Rodimus’ grasp to hold it at a more manageable distance. Magnus could not help but note the poor quality of paper and font choice used in the magazine. Flipping it over confirmed his suspicions. It was the ‘Lost Light Insider’, and the trashy paper was a good indicator as to the content within.

Magnus flipped back to the headline Rodimus had wanted him to read.

“Starscream catches possible cold. Optimus Prime, now Leader of Autobot City…” Magnus sighed and stopped reading any further. “Rodimus, please treat this with all the seriousness it deserves. None.”

“It could be cybercrosis, Magnus!” Rodimus pointed to the article emphatically. “Which means we’ll finally get a leader who cares about the people.”

“Frag that.” Arcee rolled her optics. “Even if it is cybercrosis, Starscream will get through it. I can’t believe you think Optimus will ever be in charge.”

Rodimus threw the magazine onto his desk and turned recklessly to face Arcee. “What have you got against Optimus?”

“He’s not a politician. He’s the Prime.” Arcee rolled her optics. “He shouldn’t have to deal with leading an entire city, he should be focusing on – I don’t know, whatever religious junk Primes deal with.”

“But Starscream’s terrible!” Rodimus retorted.

“He knows what he’s doing.” Arcee snapped back.

“Enough bickering.” Magnus stepped between them, and pressed a hand out on either side to keep them apart. Rodimus muttered something. Arcee’s engine growled in response.

Magnus attempted to defuse the situation with a distraction. “Rodimus, did you refuel this morning?”

Rodimus stood upright, confused by the subject change. “What? Uh, no, who has time?”

“That’s extremely unhealthy.” Magnus said. “The first refuel of the day is the most vital.”

Magnus pulled out the energon bar he had purchased, and handed it to Rodimus. He had chosen the brand specifically for their packaging – the silicon casing was impossible to open without a sharp implement. Rodimus, however, did not know this, and became fixated on trying to pry it open.

He turned to the pink bot. “Arcee, would you care to elaborate on our guest politician?”

Arcee pointed out the open doorway of the captain’s office at a red and blue bot with a highly advanced flight-frame. A jet. She was seated on the night-shift side of the main office, speaking to Megatron and Velocity. They were getting along well.

“Windblade. She’s a Cityspeaker.” Arcee put her hands on her hips and blew out a long vent of air. “She needs our help to fix a problem with Metroplex’s energon recycling.”

Magnus did not like the sound of that. “Could you be more specific?”

“There’s a sewerage drain blocked somewhere, and it’s stressing out the rest of his systems.”

Magnus pointed at the ground vaguely, disgusted. “I presume that the rest of the night-shift is still… searching?”

Arcee shuddered and finally relaxed out of the fighting stance she had fallen into in facing down Rodimus. “Yeah. It’s a dirty job. That’s why she came to the Lost Light.”

“You mean…?” Magnus screwed up his face, still fixated on the sewer situation. “In his recycling systems?”

Arcee made a similar expression, and mimed retching. “I know. Primus, ugh. But it’s not like we have to search the whole underground. We know the general area, just not the specific drain.”

“We’re here to help.” Magnus spoke as much to himself as to Arcee, and motioned for her to accompany him to the door. “We’re here to help.”

“Starscream’s has no idea what he’s doing.” Rodimus muttered at Arcee from behind Magnus as they left. Magnus scowled over his shoulder at the captain, but Rodimus only shrugged and grinned before returning to the energon packet. Magnus was prepared to mediate, to prevent anything from Arcee, but she did not react to Rodimus until they had left the room.

“Frag that boltsucker. Frag him on a cosmic scale – I hope his gears corrode into nothing, I hope he fragging rusts.” Arcee hunched her shoulders. Her vents blew out dark smoke, the physical indication of a suppressed engine, and she clenched her fists so hard Magnus heard the metal creak.

“There’s no call for that kind of profanity.” Magnus chastised.

“Don’t tell me not to swear. That’s an order.” Arcee barked out, and then looked around, ignoring him. “Where’s Whirl. I need someone who’s up for a spar.”

She stormed off. Magnus internally despaired at being given such an order, and made his way to Megatron’s new workspace, towards the politician Velocity had mentioned.

On a side note, it was a good thing that Rodimus had crisped the old one, since Megatron’s productivity had shown a definite increase since the purchase of a new desk. The window beside it hung open in a vain attempt to dispel the humidity building up, but only succeeded in letting more hot air in. As the day came into its own, the temperature climbed. In the break room whirred a solitary fan. Later, no doubt, it would prove extremely popular.

“Hi.” Windblade put out her hand. “I’m Windblade. I work for Starscream.”

“My name is Ultra Magnus.” Magnus nodded to the bot. “I hear there is a problem with Metroplex’s energon systems.”

Windblade left her arm out a moment more, before it became clear that Magnus would not shake her hand. She drew it back a little reproachfully.

“Yes.” Windblade said, and unconsciously drooped the wings of her altmode. “He can only divert drainage for so long…”

A large part of Autobot City was the titan Metroplex. As Cityspeaker, it was Windblade’s role to translate the language of the titan into something understandable. But the mind of a titan was vast, something huge and infinite, and for all that she spoke in a friendly manner, for all her honest grace and nervousness, there was an air of distraction to Windblade’s mannerisms that hinted at the link she had with that larger entity.

Magnus was distracted by a strange ringing sound. Velocity fumbled out a memo-pad, and the sound became louder.

“Hold on, I’m getting a call from Cyclonus.” Velocity held up a finger to excuse herself from the discussion. Magnus stayed quiet out of respect, and after an indistinct conversation, Velocity turned around and pressed the pad to her chest to muffle the speakers.

“Windblade?” She beckoned the politician over. “Cyclonus thinks he’s found the blockage. But… look, I’ll let him tell you.”

“What do we think it is?” Megatron asked, as Windblade walked away.

“There is insufficient evidence to point to one thing.” Magnus mused. “Statistically, it’s likely to be a sinkhole or some other kind of structural collapse.”

Megatron nodded, and fell silent. Windblade and Velocity stood at a distance and carried on their long-distance conversation with Cyclonus. Magnus surveyed the stacks of evidence and reports on Megatrons desk. There was enough there to sentence Tarn to prison for life, certainly – the problem was that he and the DJD were impossible to predict.

“Any progress in finding the DJD’s headquarters?” Magnus asked, after a lengthy silence.

Megatron followed his gaze to the files. “No. I trained Tarn thoroughly. Once he has left a place, he never returns.”

“Indeed. We would almost do better to keep tabs on the places he hasn’t been.” Magnus paused. “Of course, that would be impractical and a waste of resources.”

“Yes, I know.” Megatron said, and smiled. “Humour.”

Magnus looked out the window. White jet contrails criss-crossed the sky visible between the buildings. A thick warm breeze blew through, but due to the string Megatron had tied, the blinds did not swing across. The slats rattled and gave up. The surrounding buzz of conversation acted as white noise, and combined with the heat, caused Magnus to become drowsy.

“Magnus.”

Magnus jerked his head up from where it had begun to droop onto his chest. “What is it?”

Megatron was staring at him strangely. “I called your name twice. I just wanted to make sure we are still going to Ratchet’s clinic later. He was one of the doctors involved with the Delphi incident, was he not?”

Magnus gathered his focus to reply. “Pharma and Ratchet were friends, I believe. They knew each other before Delphi.”

“Hm. Thank you, that could be useful.” Megatron bent over the report he was working on.

Windblade and Velocity had hung up on Cyclonus, but were conducting a furtive low-volume conversation. Magnus felt awkward, standing around doing nothing, and sought out the window again.

The sound of passing traffic drifted up from the street outside, and within the noise, a faint stream of music drifted up. A busker on the corner was playing a distant tune for the morning commute.

Music. Magnus sighed. He was unaware, but his frown had relaxed to something almost tranquil.

“Magnus, are you alright?” Megatron was standing up at his desk, and had one hand hesitantly outstretched. Not touching. Reaching out in obligation, yet drawing back from contact. Magnus realised he had swayed to the left, and that his entire frame was leaning like a scaffold in the wind.

“It is likely that I am still recovering from sleep deprivation.” Magnus admitted reluctantly, as he righted himself.

“Go sit down.” Megatron pulled his hand back and rested it on the table. “I can take care of things here.”

Magnus’ initial reaction was to protest. “But Ratchet-!”

Megatron cut him off. “I will deal with the doctor. In the meantime, could you finish filing these reports for me? It is likely I’ll be quite busy with the night-shift situation.”

Magnus eyed the offered stack of paperwork, conflicted. On one hand: paperwork and the opportunity to take a rest. On the other was the possibility that this was all an elaborate ruse on Megatrons’ part, designed with evil purpose in mind.

Paperwork won out, however, and Magnus accepted the stack of files. Ruse or not, paperwork was paperwork – and Megatron had already had plenty of opportunities for subterfuge, and thus far had not made use of a single one. Perhaps the bot truly was changing.

But Magnus would not be so foolish as to trust him completely.

Megatron pulled up outside Ratchet’s clinic. Outside the air-conditioned interior of the vehicle, the hybrid-organic metallic trees had withered, their leaves gone brittle and dry, and in places on the pathway branches had fallen for no reason.

Lunch-going workers walked at careful speeds. No one wanted to stay exposed to the full glare of the vehement sun for too long, yet to walk faster would also cause a bot’s systems to overheat.

Inside the clinic it was far colder.

“I don’t know where he is.” Ratchet said, and folded his arms.

Megatron stood across from him in the main waiting area. There were two rows of seats either side of what was essentially a wide hallway, and they were all empty. Ratchet did not sit, and so neither did Megatron.

“Magnus told me that you and Pharma were friends, before Delphi.” Megatron pushed. “Could you say where you saw him last?”

Ratchet glared at Megatron coldly. “Lying on the ground, with a hole in his head. Pharma’s dead. He’s only listed as missing because they never retrieved the body.”

Megatron shook his head. “It is rather hard to interrogate a corpse – I mean, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sorry?” Ratchet’s optics went wide, and he laughed. “Oh, you don’t know what happened, do you? Trust me. No-one’s sorry.”

“I know that Pharma was killing his patients at Delphi.” Megatron said. “He needed their transformation cogs to feed Tarn’s addiction, or the DJD would have destroyed the clinic.”

“I’m referring to a later incident. We thought he had died at Delphi, but he came back. That’s when…” Ratchet trailed off, and was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook himself. “I have a photo of him you can use. If I give it to you, will you leave?”

Megatron suppressed his curiosity. “Yes. That would be helpful.”

“Let me go find it. But you are wasting your time, you know. He’s gone forever.”

Ratchet left. The medical office hadn’t changed since that rainy night when Megatron had made his deal with Optimus. Visible through a distant doorway was the tiny cramped room where his leg had been repaired.

An unfamiliar bot with the red and white paintjob of a medic opened the door on the other side of the hallway.

“-From two hundred metres. You’d think he’d be dead, and he certainly looks it, but he’s fine. He landed on his legs and nothing vital was- oh.”

The bot looked at Megatron, blinked, and then glared venomously. It was nothing new. Fear and hatred were the customary reactions Megatron had experienced upon being recognised – such expressions were common, expected, easy to deal with. It was harder on the rare occasion that a stranger would look at him with respect and admiration.

“I thought you were Ratchet.” The bot explained, bitterly. “I’m First Aid, his assistant. Why are you here?”

“I’m with the Lost Light.” Megatron said. “We’re trying to track down the DJD, and Ratchet has ties to someone we believe may be able to help us. What you were saying sounded important. Don’t let me distract you.”

First Aid froze in place, and without moving, his entire body tensed up until every part of his frame was taut and strained.

“This is about Pharma, isn’t it?” First Aid asked, and his engine rumbled deeply. It was the sound of an alt-mode settling into a higher gear.

Megatron nodded, optics wide. “Yes. Did you know him?”

“Oh yeah. I knew that psychopath. He killed my-“ First Aid’s vocaliser tightened around the words, cutting off the sentence. “He killed a friend of mine. Ambulon. We both used to work for him at Delphi.”

Megatron pulled out his memo-pad to make a note. “I was under the impression Pharma only killed the patients?”

“He did it as part of a competition.” First Aid’s visor flared in pain. He was lost in some dark memory, and seemed not to have heard Megatron’s question. “Ratchet and him. ‘Cut a mech in half and see who can fix him the quickest’. Lengthways. They rebuilt him with chainsaws for hands and he cut Ambulon in half lengthways.”

“Thank you.” Megatron tried to bring the medic back from his thoughts. “That’s very helpful.”

He jumped when First Aid punched the wall. The sound was more shocking than anything – a harsh metallic thud – but the dent left by the impact was intimidating.

“We thought he died at Delphi.” First Aid’s voice was like boiling water. “We thought he died later, too – I should know, I was the one to shoot him. But you know what? I don’t think he’s dead. And if you find him, I don’t want you to show mercy. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“He may be able to help us find the DJD. If we find him, we will act within the constraints of the law to ensure he gets what he deserves.” Megatron said. “Also, the patient you mentioned – are they alright? That sounded serious.”

First Aid backed down. The red and white bot raised his injured fist to rub absentmindedly at the knuckles.

“They’ll walk it off.” First Aid said in an offhand manner. The anger had left his frame, and taken with it all emotion. “And about the DJD. They’re ruthless killers. Ask any medic: we’ve all treated Decepticons who’ve begged us to kill them, rather than let them risk the wrath of Tarn. You won’t be able to arrest them non-violently.”

“We know.” Megatron said. “But thank you for the warning.”

First Aid blinked again, and looked at Megatron properly. Once more, hate overcame his expression.

“Oh yes. You’ll know all about them.”

First Aid stormed off, just as Ratchet returned. He looked back at his assistant for a second, waited for him to exit hearing range, and then whirled on Megatron.

“What did you say to him?” Ratchet hissed.

“He gave us useful information on Pharma and the DJD.” Megatron said.

Ratchet put a hand to his forehead and scrunched up his eyes. “Megatron. If your latest goal has been to give me a headache, you can rest assured of success. Now here. Your photo. As useless as it is.”

Ratchet flapped the photograph at Megatron, and he took it. It was of Ratchet, frowning grumpily. At his side stood a taller bot. The stranger – Pharma – had his red and blue jet-frame polished to an almost obscene degree, and one arm curled possessively around Ratchet’s shoulders.

“Magnus is right. He and I, we were friends once. But the Pharma I met after Delphi was a different bot entirely to the one I knew. Something in there changed him. Tarn. It could only have been Tarn…” Ratchet’s gaze became haunted. “If it so happens he didn’t die – which I doubt – ask him about me. It might buy you a few minutes.”

Megatron nodded. “Thankyou for your assistance. I’ll take my leave.”

“Good.” Ratchet waved a hand dismissively. “Next time, send someone else.”

Megatron walked out to the NCA. The dark vehicle had been sitting in full sunlight the entire time he had been inside, and so the interior was boiling. Megatron took his time getting in to allow the built up heat to disperse, and as he did so, his memo-pad beeped an alert. Megatron looked down at it, confused. Another function of the personal data apparatus was its ability to transmit sound based messages. The issue was the fact that it was Magnus calling him, as usually the bot merely chose to send him a memo.

Megatron accepted the call, a little worried.

“Hello? Is everything okay?”

“You were right.” Magnus said immediately, which did not lessen Megatron’s worry whatsoever.

“Could you elaborate?” Megatron asked.

“Of course. I apologize for not being more specific.” Magnus’ voice was clear, despite the underlying buzz of the speakers, and the crackle of the connection. “There has been a power split at the Lost Light, between Arcee and Rodimus. The closest description of the situation I can come to is-“

Magnus was interrupted by a loud noise from his side of the line. Megatron heard a background clatter; a mysterious ‘splat’, and then mingled cries and cheers. There was silence, and then Magnus returned.

“Schism.” Magnus sounded as serious as ever. “I tried to stop them, but they’re both captains, and ordered me not to intervene. I need you here. Take the back roads – there’s been an accident on the highway.”

“Noted.” Megatron replied. “Thank you.”

Magnus hung up. Megatron grasped the over-heated steering wheel and ignored the singe as he pulled out and drove off. The burn served to sharpen his sluggish thoughts. Little wonder Magnus had nearly collapsed that morning – the warmth was insidious.

Megatron scolded himself internally for not predicting and preventing the situation at the Lost Light. He should have known ever since walking into the main office, and seeing the split down the middle of the room, hearing Arcee and Rodimus fighting. The signs had been there from the beginning, but Megatron could not make a judgement on what had caused them. Was the division due to Rodimus’ irresponsibility? Arcee’s ruthlessness? Or perhaps the conflict between night and day was too entrenched to ever fully heal. Perhaps this was a sign of deeper issues.

Megatron did not want to contemplate what Windblade would think of the agency. He could only hope that the politician had left before things had escalated.

The first thing Megatron noticed upon arriving back at the Lost Light was the smell.

The rest of the night shift had come back from the sewers, and had brought back with them that distinctive sewer blend of unfiltered energon and machine waste. To this, Megatron could attribute the littered air fresheners, and disinfectant filled spray bottles that covered the hallway leading up to the main office. It could not explain the sound of a commotion.

He marched out without hesitation into the centre of the conflict, and at his entrance, the room froze.

Megatron surveyed the tableau before him.

Behind desks on opposite sides of the room, the Lost Light bots crouched, uncertain. They were armed with water pistols, bars of soap, spray bottles, and other cleaning supplies, and both sides had clearly borne the brunt of these tools. Soapsuds entirely covered the expanse of the main floor. The desks had been cleared from the centre of the room, along with the pin board – yet the tape on the floor still clearly marked the boundary.

Megatron knelt down, grasped the end of it, and pulled it off.

He walked up the length of the room, slowly, and heads turned to follow him. The sound of the tape tearing free followed him, and he bunched up the excess in his hands as he went. His stride was powerful and commanded attention. At the entrance of Rodimus’ office he stopped. He tossed the tape aside, turned around, and folded his arms behind his back.

“I appreciate that it is hard to share your space.” Megatron spoke calmly. “I know you are otherwise all highly capable bots. But the Lost Light exists to help people.”

He gave them a moment before continuing. “I want you to think about why you do this. Is it because you believe in helping others, in making a difference in the community? If so, do you believe that what you are doing now is helpful?”

The room shifted awkwardly, and more than a few water pistols were lowered.

“Captains, if you could join me in Rodimus’ office? I would be happy to listen to your accounts of how this came about.”

Megatron turned around and left the main office. There was a moment of uncertainty, where he wasn’t sure if his order would be obeyed, but then Arcee and Rodimus joined him.

“She started it!” Rodimus immediately pointed at Arcee. “The night shift came back, and they smelled, so I suggested they clean off-“

“You put disinfectant in a water pistol and squirted it at Whirl.” Arcee rode over the top of him. “This is very much your fault.”

Megatron shook his head and held up a hand. “I don’t want to know whose fault it was, or who started it. I called you in here so you could work it out. Can you do that, or do you need time to calm down?”

“I’m calm!” Rodimus protested. “Screw you!”

“Rodimus-“ Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly, repressing his poorer instincts. “I’ll talk to you later. Can you go help everyone else clean up? But when you do, perhaps it would be better if you didn’t help the night shift.”

“What?” Rodimus bristled rebelliously. “I can help whoever I want, co-captain.”

He stormed out, and Megatron watched him head immediately over to the night-shift side of the room, just as he had expected. At Rodimus’ example, some other bots from the day shift followed, and began to help wipe off the desks and walls. After a while, it became clear that fighting would not break out again.

Megatron turned back to Arcee. “Now. Can you tell me what happened?”

Arcee heaved herself up to sit on Rodimus’ desk, and pulled out a sword and a whetstone. Without flames, the black blade looked odd. She balanced it across her knees and began to sharpen it in harsh, threatening scrapes, her gaze not leaving Megatron.

“It started when Cyclonus came back with the ‘blockage’.” Arcee said. “It was a bot.”

“What?” Megatron was unable to hide his incredulity. “That’s impossible. How could a single bot have blocked a giant drainage pipe?”

Arcee rolled her optics. “Oh, the pipe was already unstable. Waspinator just caused a cave in, and got stuck. It took Cyclonus hours to get him free.” Arcee leaned across her sword with a dark expression. “You want to know why he was down there?”

Megatron blinked. “That would be relevant, yes.”

“He was drinking the energon.” Arcee’s mouth twisted up in disgust, and she shuddered. “He said it was free.”

Megatron frowned. “Ah.”

Arcee returned to her sword, and finished sharpening it with a determined finality. She slid the weapon onto her back and put away the whetstone. “Cyclonus brought him back, we cleaned him up, and then he left. It was shortly after that that the day shift started complaining about how much we smelled. Excuse us for retaliating, but we’ve had a long night, and a long day.”

Megatron nodded. “I understand. I’m not blaming you for feeling tired and irate. I appreciate the work you’ve done. The issue is that you let it escalate instead of sending everyone home, because of an earlier argument you had with Rodimus.”

“What?” Arcee got off the desk and pulled out her swords again. “You really think I’m that petty? That I’m just looking for any excuse to start a fight?”

Arcee advanced aggressively, swords at the ready. Megatron repressed the desire to point out how such an approach could be taken as the instigating act of an altercation, and put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture.

“I hate fighting. I hate it. I hate it. I’m fragging sick of it.” Arcee’s optics had misted over, and Megatron pretended not to see. “I’ll fragging kill anyone who tries to bring the war back. It’s done. It’s over. It should be over, right?”

Her face was screwed up in an ugly expression.

“But now Optimus and Starscream are at odds in the news, and it’s Autobots and Decepticons all over again. Even Metroplex is unstable. The whole fragging city’s gonna fall apart and I just-“

Her vents shuddered and coughed out dark smoke. Megatron wasn’t sure how to comfort her, at least, not without getting hurt.

“I apologize. I was under the impression you enjoyed fighting.” Megatron stated. He tried not to sound judgemental or disappointed. What Arcee needed now was not more emotion, not when she was still so turbulent.

“We were at war.” Arcee spat out the words, but her voice box caught and mangled them. “There’s fighting, and there’s fighting, you know? I need the outlet. I need it to express my anger. I need to know I’m good enough to protect myself. Because in the end, that’s all I’ll be able to rely on.”

“Believe me, I understand.” Megatron sighed. “However, you’re not alone.”

Arcee glared at him. “What would you know?”

“The night shift.” Megatron elaborated. “The night I was rescued, I saw you take down Tarn to defend them. You bought everyone enough time to escape.”

Arcee shrugged and turned to the side to look out at the main office. Megatron gave her time to cool off, and so she stayed that way for a while.

“That’s part of it.” Arcee said eventually. “How can I protect them from the war starting up again? Something like that is too big. Intangible. Beyond me.”

Megatron looked out at the office, at a loss of what to say to comfort her, when he agreed so wholeheartedly with the points she was making. As he did so, he noticed Windblade, once again talking to Velocity.

“You don’t need to.” Megatron said, quietly.

“What?” Arcee snapped her head to face Megatron. “Speak up.”

“You don’t need to face it alone. Velocity will listen. The night shift will listen. Windblade is a politician – she would be well worth talking to about it.”

After a moment, Arcee sighed. “Are we done here?” She asked.

“Yes.” Megatron stood up. “Remember, you do have friends who-“

“Frag off.” Arcee growled out, and left. Megatron sat back down. Her final reaction was disheartening, but at least her obscenity hadn’t had its usual force, which suggested that Arcee was at least thinking about the discussion.

Megatron tried not to let what she had said get to him, about the city falling apart, and the war starting up again. These were things that haunted him as well.

“Megatron?” Magnus knocked twice at the doorway. “I just spoke with Rodimus. He is suitably repentant, and is now leading both shifts to clean up the main office.”

Megatron sighed. “Thank you. Did you get that paperwork done?”

“Yes.” Magnus’ deep, toneless voice was a welcome change from Arcee’s raw emotionality. “How did things go with Ratchet?”

Megatron pulled out the photo Ratchet had given him, and handed it to Magnus. “He gave us a photo we can use to track down Pharma, and the advice that if we find him, we should mention Ratchet to get him to listen.”

“That’s very helpful.” Magnus said. “I would appreciate a full report, however.”

“Of course.” Megatron said, but he didn’t immediately move to go fill it out. “Magnus – I want your opinion on something.”

“Of course.” Magnus sat down in the other chair across from Rodimus’ desk, beside Megatron. “Is it about the article this morning?”

Megatron looked at him in surprise, and then chuckled. The morning seemed so long ago, after the events of the day – Windblade, Ratchet, Arcee – that to be reminded of it now was strange. But it wasn’t unpleasant – it made him feel lighter, for some reason.

“You remembered.” Megatron sighed the last of his laughter. He balanced his elbows on the arms of the chair to fold his hands in his lap. “It’s just – if you could choose, would you rather have Starscream in charge of Autobot City, or Optimus?”

Magnus did not answer immediately, for which Megatron was grateful. It showed that the bot was contemplating the question seriously.

“Interesting.” Magnus nodded thoughtfully. “Optimus would do whatever he thought was right for the city, no matter what. He is unfailingly selfless. Starscream is the opposite – he cares for no one and nothing but himself. For that reason, I would say Optimus.”

Megatron nodded. “Thank you. Now, say the rest of the city disagreed with you, and put Starscream in charge. He wants to keep his power, so he would listen to his people, lest they choose not to re-elect him. But if Optimus were in charge, would he listen? Or would he try to do the right thing, no matter what?”

Magnus looked at the far wall and narrowed his eyes. Megatron wondered as to his thoughts, but did not let impatience fester. He breathed deeply and calmly as he waited for Magnus to reply.

“Ask me whether I think fixing the city’s infrastructure is more important than ensuring the security of the individual.” Magnus said. “I can give you statistics, evidence to support my points. But I cannot say whether one person would act a certain way in a particular situation. People are unpredictable, and always changing – as you would know.”

It was Megatron’s turn to fall silent.

He would not let on how deeply Magnus had struck him with his words. They implied that not only was Megatron changing, that he had changed. Who was he now? And who had he been, that such a transformation was obvious? The idea filled him with fear. He had not been in control of the change; he had no way of knowing whether it was for the better. There was no frame of reference for him to measure himself against.

“Very well then.” Megatron said, lost for anything else to say, and genuinely curious. “Do you think fixing the city’s infrastructure is more important than the security of the individual?”

Magnus sat up even straighter. “Oh, trust me, I would love to tell you my thoughts on the matter. However, I’m aware of how long I go on in regards to such things, and we simply don’t have time right now.”

“A shame.” Megatron sighed, and got up to leave. “Tonight, then.”

Magnus spoke hesitantly. “That would give me more time to work on the accompanying presentation, I suppose…”

“I am looking forward to it.” Megatron said.

It would be a relief, after the bedlam of a usual day at the Lost Light, to go home to something uneventful and mundane. But at his words, Magnus glowered at him seriously, and wagged a finger in a chastising manner.

“Rule number three, Megatron.” Magnus said, sternly.

Megatron wavered, half out of the doorway and half inside. He frowned, confused, and a little hurt. “It was not a lie.”

“Oh.” Magnus blinked, and then became unable to meet his gaze. “Tonight is amenable, then.”

“Very well.” Megatron hovered a moment longer. “I have to go talk to Windblade about today’s events. And fill out that report.”

“Yes.” Magnus likewise did not move.

Megatron stayed, unsure of how to end the conversation, and the air became tenser and tenser.

“Well, I’ll see you later.” Megatron said awkwardly.

“Goodbye.” Magnus replied, stiffly, and they went their separate ways.

Crossing the wide office, Megatron sighed heavily. He agreed with Magnus as to the necessity of guidelines – yet it seemed personal things would remain complicated, rules or not.

Chapter Text

Megatron wondered how Magnus was doing, back at the Lost Light. With Rodimus gone, no doubt the agency would be quiet. Peaceful. Megatron was jealous of him.

Rodimus had suggested this excursion as part of the Lost Light’s ongoing quest. Megatron had agreed, as his co-captain was exquisitely incompetent, and he had assumed Rodimus to be asking for his assistance. However, a search to find clues to ‘the Knights of Cybertron’ had somehow led them on a tour of Autobot City’s attractions.

Now, they were at a racetrack.

On either side of him, Rodimus and Getaway revved their engines. Megatron’s alt-mode being a tank, he felt distinctly out of place in the line-up of cars, but it was too late to back out now.

“Ready, set…” At the side of the track, Rewind cut a hand swiftly through the air. “Go!”

Rodimus and the others gunned their engines and tore away, and Megatron did the best he could to keep up. The others whirled around him, kicking up dust under their wheels, and in general making nuisances of themselves. Megatron was fairly sure they were not even racing, but were merely running circles around him. He had no clue where they got their energy.

On the sides of the racetrack, in the stands, Brainstorm and Rewind cheered on his harassers. Had Megatron been able, he would have shaken his head, but he was too focused on simply not dying. The summer sun was so hot he felt dizzy. How could Rodimus and the others stand it?

Megatron transformed as soon as he crossed the finish line, and leant over to brace his hands on his knees. His circuits burned. Megatron felt as though he was about to catch fire, and his vents harshly whirred to dispel the heat weakening his internal mechanisms. He was embarrassed at how loud his fans were.

“Not doing so good, Megs?” Rodimus drifted to a stop in front of Megatron, skidding over the track gravel.

“Fine.” Megatron put a hand to his chest and gasped again for air. “This nonsense body…”

“Oh, no, it was a rhetorical question.” Rodimus transformed and held up a hand to stop Megatron. “I didn’t actually want to know, or anything.”

“You know, this racing thing isn’t so hard.” Skids said. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“I thought you’d never done it before?” Getaway said, who had lost to Skids in the past three races. “You told me you’ve never done it before. Of course, I’ve been going easy on you. Haha.”

“Haha.” Rodimus said as well, who had only beaten Skids in the previous races by a slim margin.

“I’m a super-learner.” Skids shrugged. “It doesn’t take me long to get the hang of anything. I go through hobbies like Brainstorm goes through desks.”

“Hey!” Brainstorm called across from the sidelines. “You’re not wrong, but still, hey!”

Megatron attempted to get the search back on track. “So, did anyone find the Knights of Cybertron?”

“No.” Getaway rolled his optics. “We didn’t.”

Rodimus didn’t look annoyed in the slightest. “Damn!” He said, with mock despair. “That’s awful!”

“Oh, are you looking for the Knights of Cybertron?” A stranger said.

Megatron searched for the source of the voice. A giant Autobot was walking across the racetrack towards them, yet somehow, Megatron did not feel threatened. The bot, for all his size, radiated an honest friendliness.

Rodimus saw him approaching and turned away in disgust.

“Hi, Thunderclash.” Skids smiled goofily and waved at the bot until Getaway nudged him into stopping. Thunderclash smiled back at Skids with every sign of genuine affection, and Megatron winced. The bot was simply too nice. It was obscene.

The fact that Megatron had tried to kill him a couple of times did not help, either.

“I can help, if you’d like.” Thunderclash addressed Rodimus. “I’ve actually been having these visions about the Knights. I believe them to be prophetic omens, sent by Primus-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Rodimus sneered and folded his arms. “I’ve got it sorted, thanks. We don’t need your help.”

“We might, though.” Skids wandered closer. “I mean, visions. That sounds pretty cool.”

“It’s fine.” Thunderclash shook his head good-naturedly. “Rodimus is the captain. I’m sure he has the quest under control.”

Rodimus snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’d like to hear about these visions of yours…” Skids coughed suddenly as Getaway elbowed him in the stomach.

“Pack it in, buddy.” Getaway muttered.

“Oh, really?” Thunderclash had a very attractive smile. “Well, I’ll be in ‘Visages’ later tonight. You should come by, the ambience is really quite lovely.”

“Where do you think we should look next, Rodimus?” Getaway asked, loudly.

“The beach!” Rodimus bounced up and down. “Let’s go!”

He transformed, and did a couple of donuts before speeding toward the exit.

Thunderclash blinked at the sudden cloud of dust rising in front of him, and at the tyre tracks on the ground. The bot shrugged, seemingly incapable of taking offence, and walked off.

“Visages.” Thunderclash pointed at Skids as he was leaving. “I’ll see you there.”

Skids waited until Thunderclash had passed out of hearing range before collapsing on top of Getaway.

“’I’ll see you there’.” Skids said. “Did you hear him? ‘I’ll see you there’.”

Getaway pushed him off. “I heard him, Primus. Let’s go already.”

Getaway transformed and headed for the exit after Rodimus. Rewind jumped onto the back of Skids alt-mode, and they followed. Megatron was irked at the prospect of more driving, but he transformed along with the others. This frustrating day would not be ending anytime soon, it seemed.

Magnus stood in the empty hallway, and hesitated to knock on the dark door in front of him. There were no windows in this part of the Lost Light. It was the inner part of the agency building, the older part, and this was reflected in the architecture and interiors. Needless decoration ornamented the doorframe. If Magnus had been in charge of redesigning it, he would have gotten rid of the extraneous lines carved into the metal. They looked as though they would be extremely frustrating to keep free of dust.

From behind the door came the sound of a low voice. It was for this reason that Magnus hesitated. He had made sure to check the detective’s schedule beforehand, and he had made sure to turn up on a day when he had nothing. He hadn’t expected Nightbeat to have company.

“Magnus?” A bot passing in the hallway had witnessed his indecision. “I’m sorry if you had a meeting with Nightbeat right now. I simply thought he would be free, and I had a question for him.”

Magnus turned around. Behind him stood a red bot, with a blue visor over his left optic.

“Perceptor.” Magnus greeted him. “I did not organize a meeting, no. But Nightbeat shouldn’t be busy. His schedule is free.”

Perceptor nodded coolly. “You would know.”

The voice inside the room cut off suddenly.

“Come in!” Nightbeat called, muffled.

Magnus pushed open the door to Nightbeat’s office. He frowned at the disorganized filing cabinets boxing the room in on all sides, and at the papers littered across the floor. In the centre was a small, drab desk, with two office chairs on the side closest to the entry. Behind it stood Nightbeat, facing a pin-board that covered the entirety of the far wall.

“Hello Magnus, Perceptor.” Nightbeat said, with his back still to the door. “Of all the offices in this city, you walk into mine…”

Magnus searched the empty room for a second occupant, and found no one. “Who were you talking to?”

Nightbeat stopped poring over the pin-board, and turned around. He held up a hand-held recorder, and wiggled it a little awkwardly. “I was, uh. Making notes to myself. Perceptor, why don’t you go first?”

Perceptor glanced at Magnus in an almost challenging manner, before sitting down behind the desk. Magnus shrugged off the feeling that he had lost the interaction, and took the other seat.

“Well.” Perceptor began. “I came back to my lab last night, and I found that yet another of my microscopes has gone missing. Now I have to buy a new one.”

Nightbeat sat down at the desk and tapped the table. “Who else has access to your lab?”

“Oh, I apologize.” Perceptor waved a hand dismissively. “I already know who’s stealing them. It’s Brainstorm. I just need you to find evidence so I can file a complaint.”

Nightbeat’s optics dulled. “Oh. No offence, but that’s really boring, and I’m not interested. Just ask Brainstorm for it back.”

Perceptor drew back in affront. “I don’t want it after he’s used it! Who knows what kind of tests he’s subjected it to? I would never be able to trust it again. Well, it’s fine.” He drew himself up regally. “I can take care of it myself.”

Magnus winced at the slam of the office door. The sound of Perceptor striding off in a huff faded away, and Nightbeat sighed.

“Alright, Magnus.” Nightbeat spoke wearily. “Please tell me you have a good mystery for me.”

“It’s about Chromedome.” Magnus said. “And Drift, I suppose. I need you to tell me everything you know about the Mederi Hotel.”

At his words, Nightbeat’s visor gleamed. Magnus flinched as the other bot hit the desk suddenly and stood up.

“You came to the right person.” Nightbeat said, in a heavy tone.

Nightbeat made an ominous picture in the darkened room, leaning on the desk, looking down at Magnus.

Magnus hoped he was not waiting for further information. He was reluctant to extrapolate further, lest Nightbeat deduce all of the secrets that he worked so hard to keep hidden. The bot loved unexplained things, loved unraveling the clues, but cared little for those involved and how they might be affected. He cared only for the solving of the mystery.

But then Nightbeat stalked over to the surrounding filing cabinets without saying anything more, and began to rummage through the messy drawers. Magnus was quietly relieved.

Nightbeat’s pin-board dominated the entire wall. It was covered in articles, photos, linked in an almost haphazard manner by a trailing length of red string. While Magnus waited for Nightbeat to return, he examined some of them.

“Missing Mechs Pile Up.” Magnus read an article title aloud. “The infamous Mederi Hotel has claimed another victim, the Decepticon cassette, Ravage. The cat-former never returned from an infiltration mission, and is dearly missed by his symbiont, Soundwave…”

“By day, it’s an empty building.” Nightbeat said. “But at night, people disappear. Chromedome, Drift, Ravage…” He paused in his frantic searching.

“And Nautica.” Nightbeat finished softly, a deep pain and sadness in his voice. “I can’t find the connection.”

He pulled out a stack of folders from a cabinet drawer, shut it, and crossed the room determinedly. He slammed the stack to the table. Stray papers leaked everywhere.

Magnus leaned back as Nightbeat advanced far too close into Magnus’ personal space. “So. Has Rodimus finally agreed to put a team together, to rescue them?” Nightbeat tilted his head to the side. “Or did Rewind put you up to this?”

Magnus had no idea how Nightbeat had known. It wasn’t worth attempting to lie, either – Nightbeat could spot them with an uncanny ease. Magnus stared at the folders on the desk.

“The latter.” Magnus admitted.

“I thought so.” Nightbeat leaned back and pulled the folder towards himself. The messiness had been beginning to irritate Magnus, and so he was relieved when Nightbeat tapped the stack against the table, and straightened out all the files inside. “He’s come to me about this before. He saw a flicker, in one of the top windows. Chromedome was his husband, so I’d put it down to grief – except there have been other sightings. Ghosts, perhaps. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Magnus asked.

“Ghosts don’t cut people into pieces.” Nightbeat handed Magnus a report. “Look at this. A police team stayed overnight, and in the morning, they were…”

Magnus blanched at the gruesome accompanying photos. “Oh dear.”

Nightbeat slid another report across the table. “And here’s every recorded image I could find of the ‘ghost’. It’s all the same bot. But read the police report. They sent out constant updates, all night. Most of it is confusing and nonsensical, but there is a common description of a ‘growling monster’ that followed them around the building…”

Magnus tuned out Nightbeat’s explanation. He was too shocked by the photos of the ‘ghost’. All of them were snapshots, security footage, and blurry images that had clearly been cropped out of a larger photo. The clearest one showed a bot passing by a window, and although the sunlight reflected off the glass and obscured most of his face, Magnus recognized him.

Nightbeat was pacing, talking into his hand-recorder. “Why does the hotel kill some bots, but not others? Why haven’t the missing bots come back? Why is it, when they search it during daytime, the entire place is empty? I’m going to find out. And I’m going to rescue-”

“Nightbeat.” Magnus cut him off. “I know who this is, and I’m afraid you’re wrong. He is a ghost.”

Nightbeat halted and his visor flared. “What did you say?”

Magnus pulled out the photo Megatron had given him the other week, after the night shift schism, and handed it across. Nightbeat pulled out a magnifying glass from his desk to look it over.

“His name is Pharma.” Magnus continued. “According to Megatron’s report on the matter he was a doctor who became involved with the DJD. This caused him to become unbalanced, and apparently he started murdering his patients and coworkers.”

“That’s terrible.” Nightbeat snapped his head up. “Tell me everything. We can use this as part of your ‘DJD investigation’. You need this bot, right?”

Magnus nodded. “He may have useful information, yes.”

Nightbeat gave Magnus back the photo, put the magnifying glass to one side, and picked up a pad of yellow notes and a stylus from his desk. “We can use that as an excuse to send a team into Mederi, and rescue everyone else while you’re looking for…” Nightbeat paused with the pen hovering over the paper pad. “What was his name again?”

“Pharma.”

Nightbeat wrote it down, and then spun around and tacked the entire pad into the centre of the pin-board with stunning violence. All of the other photos and articles rattled. Magnus’ optics widened.

“Right.” Nightbeat swiveled his head to the side. “I’ll need everything you have so far on this ‘Pharma’.”

The curve of the beach stretched away. The glare of the sand hurt Megatron’s optics at first, and he raised a hand to shield them. Rodimus didn’t hesitate, but ran straight down to the water. Megatron hung back and let the others follow as he waited for the light to become less blinding.

“Come on.” Rewind walked past him. “The water will be cooler.”

Megatron allowed the smaller bot to lead him down to the ocean’s edge. Rewind had been right – the waves that swirled around his legs went a long way in alleviating the stifling heat, and the background crash and hush of the incessant waves pummeling the shore was actually quite soothing.

Brainstorm waded deeper, past Megatron. Rewind had seated himself onto the larger bots shoulders.

“I’m going to get him back.” Rewind said, looking out over the blue. “No matter what. No matter how long, or what I have to do. I’m going to get him back.”

“I understand.” Brainstorm was serious, for once, and holding onto Rewind’s knees as he waded out. “And I will do anything – literally anything – to help you.”

“Anything?” Rewind folded his arms on Brainstorm’s helm. “Would you… eat unfiltered energon?”

“Ew! But yeah, duh.”

“Would you interface with an NCA?”

Brainstorm laughed. “How? But yes.”

He kept walking until the water was around his waist. He and Rewind were slowly passing out of hearing range, but Megatron still caught the last of their conversation.

“Would you blackmail someone?” Rewind asked, faintly. “Steal something? Would you sacrifice yourself to get him back?”

“Uh, yes, yes, and…” Brainstorm paused. “Nothing beyond grievous bodily harm.”

“Hm.” Rewind nodded, and rested his chin on his folded arms. “Good enough.”

The sound of the sea drowned out anything else they might have said. Rodimus, Skids, and Getaway had begun to race each other on the hard flat expanse of sand, just between where the waves were breaking and the ground grew unstable. Long sheets of white water flew up in their wake and shimmered rainbow in the sunlight.

It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the beach like this. In fact, as Megatron scanned his memory, he realized he had never enjoyed the beach like this. During the war there had been no time, and his life before the war had been dark, to say the least. It was strange that only now, after everything had ended, he had been given the opportunity.

“Hey, Megs, heads up!”

Megatron turned around and Rodimus splashed him from head to foot. He stood there, scowling and dripping water. He was briefly tempted to retaliate – to splash Rodimus back – but quickly he saw there would no longer be any need. He stepped back.

As Rodimus was distracted laughing, he did not see the gigantic wave building up behind him. He was hit from behind by the wall of water and sent head over heels. The others cried out.

“Oh, frag!”

“Rodimus, are you alright?”

“Primus, where’d he go?”

Megatron smirked to himself, but then realized what he was doing; enjoying the misfortune of another bot. He questioned the emotion. Was his amusement simply due to Rodimus being annoying and irritating? Or was this the first sign of his old cruelty, raising its head again?

Megatron pushed the thought away firmly. If it were, he would not give in to it.

He found where the bot had tumbled, and offered Rodimus a hand up. Rodimus looked at the offered hand, and then at Megatron, and his optics narrowed. He knocked it aside.

“I don’t need your help.” Rodimus snapped out, indignant. “I can get up on my own.”

Megatron took his hand back. “Very well.”

“Hey, guys!” Rodimus got up and called out to the others. “Did anyone find the Knights of Cybertron?”

“No, we didn’t!” Skids looked devastated. “But they might still be here, can’t we keep looking?”

“No, we’re done.” Rodimus said firmly. “Any ideas where we should go next?”

Skids did not answer, but grumbled something to himself as he headed away from the water. Getaway glared at Rodimus before jogging after Skids, and slinging an arm around the other bot’s shoulders. Skids leant into it, and Megatron heard him mutter his complaints a little softer, sharing them with Getaway alone.

“We’re leaving?” Brainstorm asked as he walked out of the ocean, and let Rewind down from his shoulders. “Already?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an awesome idea.” Rodimus told him. “It’s gonna be great, just wait for it.”

Megatron turned away without making an issue. They had already wasted enough of the day, and he wanted to get back to the Lost Light, at least if only for the afternoon.

“Ohh. I get it.” Brainstorm grinned as they approached the beach ramp.

Megatron didn’t know what he meant, until he saw another pair of bots with a pressure hose on the area of pavement just beyond the exit. One of them screamed and giggled under the water, and the other laughed at their discomfort. Megatron was appalled.

“Who wants to go first?” Rodimus asked. Behind him, a smiling Brainstorm handed him the hose.

“No.” Megatron said vehemently. “No.”

Rodimus was grinning wide enough to split his face in half. “Do you want to go around with sand and salt in your plating?”

Megatron groaned. “Fine. But let me do it myself- Eurgh!”

His protest came too late to stop Rodimus spraying him with the intense jet of water. The hose stream stung, and the force of it almost knocked him back, but it was also extremely effective in blasting away the tiny little grains of sand.

On the other end of the stream, Rodimus handed the hose to Getaway, who immediately directed it at Megatron’s face. He closed his eyes firmly.

“You know, this is quite therapeutic.” Megatron heard someone say. He was unable to tell who they were, as Rodimus was laughing like a maniac over the top of everything else.

“Alright, alright, my go. Spray me.” Skids put a hand in the cold water, and Getaway switched direction to spray the other bot.

Megatron was unable to move for a moment after the pressure left him. Slowly he lowered his shoulders from where they had been hunched up defensively, and opened his eyes. Rodimus had fallen to the ground cackling. The red and yellow bot gasped for breath and fell back to bask on the hot wet pavement.

“Frag, I love you guys.” Rodimus sighed, and punched the air. “His face.” His voice grew high and he started laughing again. He saw Megatron looking at him disapprovingly, and he only snorted. “You should have seen your fragging face.”

“I would rather have done it myself.” Megatron reiterated.

Rodimus waved a hand. “Whatever.” He flipped up onto his feet. “Hey, how about laser-tag next?”

Megatron spared a moment to accept that there was no longer even the pretense of looking for the ‘Knights of Cybertron’. He then appraised Rodimus’ suggestion. A dimly lit environment with a multitude of flashing lights, being shot at by Autobots, and shooting Autobots.

Megatron did not answer. He merely transformed to shake off the excess water drops, and drove away. The heat of the sun was already drying his plating.

Aware of how he would look driving along the public roads; he took the quieter route back to the Lost Light agency. If he, Megatron, had rolled down the main highway towards the inner city in tank mode – it would have been a catastrophe waiting to happen.

It was ridiculous. Just how had a bot like Rodimus been made captain? Megatron fumed all the way back to the Lost Light.

As soon as he entered the main office, Megatron sat down heavily in the chair opposite Magnus’ desk. Magnus looked up at his arrival, but when Megatron didn’t say anything, he returned to his work.

“I have work tonight. Short-term notice.” Magnus said. “You can use the bed if you like.”

Megatron took a moment to let his anger disperse before speaking. He also held back from mentioning Magnus’ tiredness, and whether the bot was suited to working. Such a question would be verging too close to breaking rule number one: ‘don’t ask about Magnus’ job’.

“No, it’s not that.” Megatron shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “Although, thank you for informing me beforehand.”

“Hm.” Magnus made a noncommittal noise and bowed back over the report he was writing out. “There has been a lead on the DJD case. We now know where Pharma is.”

“Really?” Megatron sat up. “Excellent, let’s go.”

“I wish it was that simple.” Magnus finished his report and put it to the side. Immediately, he pulled another sheet of paper off the stack next to him and began to fill it out. “He is in a… unique location.”

“Ah.” Megatron sat back again. “Uniquely dangerous, you mean?”

“It is all too likely.” Magnus flicked his gaze up to Megatron. He did not smile, as Magnus never smiled, but his frown did lessen briefly. Megatron took it as a sign of good humor anyway.

Laughter echoed from somewhere else in the warm building. Golden evening sunlight shone through the lines of the blinds on the windows, casting an intimate yellow glow over the office. It mellowed Megatron’s mood. He settled himself into the chair soundly, and sighed.

“It’s Rodimus.” Megatron told Magnus. “He dragged me around all day searching for ‘the Knights of Cybertron’ in frankly ridiculous places. The beach, the racetrack – I left when he suggested laser-tag.”

“Yes, that would have been unwise for you.” Magnus spoke without taking his attention away from his report.

“He wasted my time. He wasted his own time.” Megatron hit the side of one hand into his other palm to emphasize each point he was making. “The whole endeavor felt like an excuse to test my patience.”

Magnus stopped writing slowly. He tapped his pen, then put it down and looked up to press the tips of his fingers together in a steeple.

“It probably was.” Magnus freely agreed. “Rodimus is irresponsible and reckless, and rather self-absorbed – but he is not stupid. Have you considered the fact that Rodimus may also be attempting, in his own way, to… what is the word? Decrease animosity?”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “Bond?”

“Yes.” Magnus picked up the pen and pointed it at Megatron. “Treat it as a bonding exercise.”

Megatron contemplated his words. “I must believe the best of him, I suppose.” He said. “To do otherwise would be hypocrisy of the highest caliber.”

“Quite.” Magnus said, scanned the report in front of him to find where he had left off, and then went back to writing. “Could you help me compile everything we have on Pharma so far? Nightbeat requires it.”

Megatron stood up. “Of course.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Megatron set about compiling his work on the bot. There was little to be found other than what Ratchet and First Aid had already told them. A clinician in DJD territory harvesting organs from his patients to keep Tarn happy – that was all there was to the story.

Rodimus and the others returned when the sky was pink, and nearly everyone else had gone home. Rodimus was walking with Skids and Getaway, and behind them, Rewind was once again sitting on Brainstorm’s shoulders. Megatron was reminded of the conversation he had overheard.

He picked up the last of his reports, and walked across the room to Magnus’ desk.

“Forgive me if this is an insensitive question.” Megatron spoke in a low voice. “But has Rewind lost someone recently?”

Magnus had tensed as soon as Megatron had spoken, but was now calmer. “Yes, his husband. Chromedome. He went missing before you arrived, along with Rodimus’ second in command, Drift. I am not worried, however.” Magnus’ gaze became distant. “Rewind is more accustomed to a lost lover than some.”

Megatron frowned in confusion. “What? Is this not the first time Rewind has had his husband go missing?”

Magnus shook his head. “This would be, tragically, the second time.”

Before Megatron could ask what had happened the first time, he felt something bounce off the back of his head. He turned around.

“Oi, Megs!” Rodimus was tossing a pen up and down in one hand, across the room. “You want to come out for drinks with us?”

Getaway punched him on the shoulder, and Rodimus cried out, annoyed. He punched the other bot in return, and said something in an undertone that made Getaway back down. Megatron could easily deduce that this was yet another ruse to torment him.

He turned back around to face Magnus, and found the other bot frowning at him.

“You should make an effort to bond with them.” Magnus said. “You are their captain, after all.”

“Co-captain.” Megatron corrected.

“I think we both know Optimus made up that title.”

Megatron smiled wryly, and turned back around to Rodimus to signal his agreement. The smiles on their faces filled him with apprehension. Megatron resigned himself to the experience.

“I will see you back at the apartment.” Magnus said, approvingly.

Megatron nodded. “Indeed. I’ll see you later.”

The exact nature of Rodimus’ plan to torment him was still unclear, as they were stopped immediately outside the bar by the bouncer. He folded his arms, and stood in the doorway to block the group from entering.

“Ten.” The bouncer said. He was a giant of a bot, an eye-less behemoth, and so far had only said one word.

Megatron turned to Rewind, who was nearest. “Why is he talking like that?”

Rewind shrugged. “His name’s Ten, and that’s all he says.”

“Ten.” The bouncer confirmed, and then leaned inside the bar. “Ten!”

“What? What is it?” A dark blue bot appeared in the doorway. “I don’t have time to deal with every- oh. You.”

“Hi Mirage.” Skids waved. “Is Thunderclash inside?”

Mirage sneered. “No, not you. Him.” Megatron found himself the object of attention, as the bartender, Mirage, pointed at him accusingly. “You want me to let that psychopath inside my bar?”

“It’s all of us, or none of us.” Rodimus put his hands on his hips and grinned.

Mirage rolled his optics. “Ugh. Fine. You and your companions can come in. But I have conditions.”

“Excellent idea.” Rodimus said.

Mirage glared at Megatron, and jabbed his finger at him aggressively. “First condition. You, shut up. In fact, you’re not allowed to talk for the rest of the night.”

In the background, Rodimus fist-pumped, and the exact nature of his plan to torment Megatron became all too evident.

Megatron nodded silently, reluctantly, and Mirage smirked.

“Hm, I like it. If I see you talking, you get kicked out, okay?” Mirage smiled sweetly and ushered Ten aside. “And as for the rest of you, don’t go upstairs, or the same applies. But have fun!”

Rodimus led them to a table up the back. Skids dragged his feet past the staircase, and looked hopefully up it, but then Ten appeared out of nowhere to block his path. Skids casually kept walking as though he had never paused in the first place.

“I bet Thunderclash is upstairs.” Skids sighed, as they sat down. “Just my luck.”

“Of course Thunderclash goes to ‘Visages’.” Rodimus muttered. “Alright! Who wants to get a round with me?”

Suddenly, a warm, sweet sound filled the air. Megatron looked around for the source of the music, but could see nothing. It was familiar, but Megatron could not place where he had heard it before. Unfortunately, it was all too likely he had heard the singer’s voice sometime during his reign of terror as leader of the Decepticons, and it was all too likely they had been an enemy Autobot on the battlefield. Such a revelation was unpleasant. Megatron tried to stifle his unease.

The familiarity persisted, so soft, and so sweet; a low melody that plucked at his spark and made him feel melancholy. The voice smoothly rose a couple of notes, and Megatron closed his eyes and tilted his head upward, as if to follow it.

“Uh, Megatron?” Rodimus could not have sounded more judgmental if he’d tried. “What are you doing?”

Megatron realized how odd he must have appeared. He couldn’t see the singer anywhere, however, and so he gestured to indicate the surrounding music as best he could. Rodimus shook his head in exasperation, and sat down with the drinks.

“Use words. Oh wait! You can’t.” Rodimus propped his chin in his hands. “So. You and Mags are living together, huh? Give us the deets. How long does he take in the shower? Does he snore? Is he a morning person? Are you two sleeping together?”

“No way they’re sleeping together.” Getaway shook his head mockingly. “Magnus is already in a relationship – him, and the stick up his-“

Megatron grit his teeth and closed his eyes against the incessant stream of questions. He focused on breathing deeply. He would not respond to such childish provocations.

“Speaking of relationships.” Brainstorm said, swirling his drink. “What I really want to know: when is Perceptor going to notice how amazing I am?”

Megatron searched his memory. If he recalled correctly, Perceptor was the night shift’s science officer, much the same as Brainstorm was the scientist of the day shift.

“Oh, here we go.” Rodimus tipped back his glass. “Look, it’s easy. Just ask him out, but with science.”

“I’ve tried that.” Brainstorm slumped. “But he’s so obtuse. I told him he was made of copper and tellurium – Cu, Te – but he listed all the elements he was actually made of. I’ve called him a cutie Pi – three point one four zero – but he chastised me for rounding down. Most recently, I built a machine that invited him to dinner. Not only did he decline, but he called the machine ‘needlessly complicated’.” Brainstorm threw up his hands. “That was the point!”

Megatron blinked at the tirade.

Rewind sighed and patted Brainstorm on the shoulder. “You are a bit hard to take seriously. Maybe he thinks you’re joking?”

“Maybe.” Brainstorm slumped again, and this time his head hit the table. His voice was muffled. “I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong.”

Mirage had silenced him, so Megatron felt helpless, unable to offer any platitudes. But what would he have said, anyway? In this, the bartender had done him a favor, as Megatron had no idea how to comfort poor Brainstorm.

The conversation continued on around him like white noise. There was an odd disconnect between him and the other Lost Light bots.

How strange. It had been a long time since Megatron had felt – Primus forbid – lonely. He could scarcely believe it, yet that was the only word that described the pain inside him. He wanted to talk to someone. At the same time, however, the desire made him feel ashamed of himself. He was Megatron. He’d led the Decepticons for most of the war. He’d commanded armies. Of course, he was slowly realizing the pain and destruction he’d caused had not been worth his goal, but surely it had not all been for nothing?

Every day brought another revelation of a past horror, and deepened the guilt inside him. And with every revelation came fear. What else had he done, what else was he doing, that he did not yet feel guilty for?

He wanted to talk to someone about it. The cycle began anew, and Megatron was tired. It had been a long day. He got up, and a drunken Rodimus glared at the air to the left of Megatron’s head.

“You know, Megatron.” Rodimus words were a little slurred. “Today was fun. It was just an excuse to annoy you, sure, but I had a good time. These guys had a good time. Right?”

He raised his drink, and the other bots did so as well, but Megatron was not sure any of them had actually been listening to Rodimus.

“Right.” Rodimus turned back to Megatron, and then blinked. “What was I saying?”

Megatron pointed to himself, and then towards the door.

Rodimus scrunched his face up in confusion. “Oh! You can’t talk!” He grinned and clicked his fingers. “And you’re leaving because you can’t talk! Gotcha. Well, say goodnight to Magnus for us.”

As Megatron passed the stairwell on his way to the exit, the sound returned. He stopped. The singer was evidently upstairs.

Megatron basked in the music. It fit the ambience of the establishment perfectly, and whoever was singing clearly had a deep appreciation for harmonies. Megatron was disappointed to hear that they were accompanied by a recorded backing track, however, as he had no doubt they would have sounded even better with a live accompaniment. The song, by the sounds of things, was a serenade – something slow, and relaxed, and surprisingly emotional.

Ten was nowhere to be seen. Technically, Megatron had not been forbidden from the upstairs area, yet he still furtively looked around for Mirage before slipping into the stairwell.

The upstairs layout of the bar was as much the same as downstairs. As Skids had suspected, Thunderclash was seated in a far corner, surrounded by a large horde of adoring bots.

Megatron scanned the rest of the space. At the other end of the room, he finally spotted the edge of a small stage, half hidden around the other side of the bar. That voice sounded out once more, familiar and bittersweet. Megatron walked slowly across the crowded bar towards it.

On the stage was a small stranger, a green and white minibot. His moustache put Megatron in mind of the famous campaigner, Dominus Ambus – perhaps that was why he felt he recognized them? But then the bot begun to sing again, and the thought was shaken from his mind.

“At long last love has arrived,

And I thank god I’m alive.

You’re just too good to be true,

Can’t take my eyes off you.”

His voice rang out in a mellow tenor that seemed to envelop the room in a fond embrace. Megatron felt his spark blaze fiercely, and he pressed a hand to his chest, as if to contain it. Even if he had been allowed to, he doubted he would have been able to speak.

Upon closer inspection of the bot’s face, Megatron noticed he had his optics turned off. He wasn’t even looking at the bar. When he finished the song, Megatron stepped forward.

“Excuse me.” Megatron said. “But what is your name?”

The singer’s optics flared online, and he recoiled sharply back, shocked. The bot did not answer his question, but stared in evident horror. Megatron idly noted that his optics were red.

“Out!” Mirage had spotted Megatron from behind the bar. “Leave! We had a deal!”

Megatron smiled sadly. “Oh well. I simply wanted to thank you for a captivating performance – you have an exquisite voice.”

The bot scowled, but at the same time, he blushed, and held one hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to cover it.

“That’s twice, now out!”

“Goodnight.” Megatron said, and left before Ten could forcibly evict him from the premises.

The night outside was hot and humid, home to that comforting summer darkness, the kind that soothed and allowed one to forget about appearances. Megatron stood on the opposite side of the street outside, and looked up at the lights of ‘Visages’. He turned off his optics. If he concentrated, he could still hear, drifting in between the buzz of conversation and clink of glasses, the bar performer…

He became aware of how he looked standing alone on the sidewalk. Feeling rather foolish, Megatron transformed and drove away.

Chapter Text

Magnus saw Megatron enter the main office of the Lost Light, and ducked into the break room to hide.

He was too large to be disguised as part of a crowd. Indeed, most of the Lost Light doorways barely accommodated his height. He had already exhausted most of his options for avoiding Megatron – scheduling meetings for whenever Megatron was free, fleeing the room whenever Megatron entered, and as a last resort, inviting Rodimus along as an intimacy buffer whenever things seemed to be getting too personal. Now, he would have to get creative.

Across the room, Magnus saw Megatron spot him, and begin walking in his direction. It was too late to hide. Magnus searched frantically for an excuse to postpone the interaction, and his gaze fell upon the homemade chemistry station spread out over the break room kitchen.

Beakers, test tubes – the contraption had been there for as long as Magnus could remember. Brainstorm had gotten permission to use the space back when the scientist had not had access to a lab, and that permission had never been revoked, otherwise Magnus would have ordered him to clean it up before now.

Megatron was fast approaching. It occurred to Magnus that the ex-Decepticon had arrived after Brainstorm and Perceptor had become lab-partners. He would not know Brainstorm had been given permission to use the space – outdated, yes, but permission nevertheless.

Magnus quickly faced the kitchen counter, and pretended to be surveying the chemistry station. He pulled out his memo-pad just as Megatron entered.

“Magnus, there you are.” Megatron said. “Nightbeat says he’s finally ready for me to organize a team for the Mederi operation, and he wants everyone to meet in the briefing room in an hour.”

“Only an hour?” Magnus frowned. “That’s rather short notice.”

Megatron folded his arms. “He told me this morning, but I’ve been looking for you everywhere, and it took longer than I had anticipated.”

Magnus pretended to be completely absorbed in writing something on his memo-pad. He hadn’t expected to feel so guilty.

“I’ve been busy.” Magnus deflected. It was a lie of omission; technically, as Magnus had neglected to mention that he had occupied himself with a multitude of unimportant matters to make himself busy. But it was not harmful, and so Magnus was not breaking rule number three.

“Hm.” Megatron narrowed his optics. “Are you busy now?”

“Yes.” Magnus gestured to the chemistry station. “I need to talk to Brainstorm about this mess. I’ll meet you in the briefing room in an hour.”

Megatron tapped a finger in the crook of his forearm, where his arms were folded, and looked skeptically from the chemistry station to Magnus, and back to the chemistry station again.

“Very well.” Megatron agreed, suddenly, and with no trace of suspicion. “I’ll see you there. If you ask me, Brainstorm has had a perfectly functional lab for eight months and four days – it’s about time his permission was revoked.”

“How did you-?” Magnus cut off before he could incriminate himself further.

Megatron finished his sentence. “…Know Brainstorm had permission to use this space?” He appeared honestly confused. “You sent me a memo about it. Did you forget?”

Magnus uncharacteristically stumbled over the words for a moment before replying. “I- you- what? No. No I didn’t forget, I… You- you read it?”

“I replied.” Megatron frowned.

“Yes, I saw, but I didn’t think you’d actually…” Magnus trailed off, disconcerted. “Please excuse me. I have to go track down Brainstorm. He’s not at his desk.”

Megatron moved to the side easily, and Magnus fled the scene.

He was unable to bear the expression of sympathy on Megatron’s face. He didn’t need it. Could Magnus be blamed for expecting the ex-Decepticon to ignore his memo, as Rodimus had ignored his memos, as everyone else did?

Of course Megatron had read that report. Of course his reply had been a genuine courtesy, instead of an attempt to appease Magnus’ pestering. ‘Noted, with thanks’, indeed.

Magnus flushed in mortification, and halfway to Brainstorm’s lab, had to duck into a broom closet and quietly recover his composure.

And of course, Megatron had found his secret second job. Magnus could never allow anyone else at the Lost Light to find out about that shame, and yet Megatron had stumbled upon it by accident.

For Ultra Magnus had a second identity – inside his armor, he was actually a small, green and white bot, called Minimus Ambus.

But how to keep Megatron quiet? It would only take Megatron a single offhand mention of the mustachioed bot he had seen in ‘Visages’, and everyone else at the Lost Light would immediately recognize his description of Minimus.

Magnus supposed he could allow Megatron to speak freely, yet this would risk the bot accidentally outing Magnus’ second job. Or, he could bid Megatron not to speak of the event, and in doing so, reveal his identity.

Magnus was trapped between two options: the possibility of everyone finding out his secret, or the certainty of Megatron knowing it.

He put a hand to his chest and vented deeply. Why had Megatron approached him that night? How could he have been there, when Mirage had promised Magnus so fervently that no one from the Lost Light would ever be allowed upstairs? Was Ten to blame? But no. Magnus shook his head – Ten would never betray him in such a manner.

Ten. The bouncer could tell Megatron to keep silent. Magnus felt the tension in his chest dissipate. That way, there would be no risk of Magnus being found out. He gathered himself, and breathed out slowly. It would all be fine. He pushed open the closet door.

Magnus continued on his way to Brainstorm’s lab, slightly less agitated. The relative peace was short-lived, however, as in entering the lab Magnus found himself witness to the tail end of a frightening row.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to talk your way out of this.”

“It’s not my fault you leave them lying on my side of the room!”

“This is the third time this month, I swear Brainstorm, if you don’t stop stealing my equipment-“

“Well if you’d put them away when you were done with them-“

“-We won’t be lab partners anymore!”

“…Wait, what?”

Magnus surveyed the frozen scene. Perceptor noticed his presence and stormed out.

Brainstorm started after him, stopped. The jet glared at Magnus.

“Get out.” Brainstorm spat.

“Your chemistry station-“

“Not now, Magnus!”

Something so unrefined as ‘fleeing’ was beneath Ultra Magnus. His swift exit from the scene was merely a tactical retreat.

Megatron drummed his fingers against the podium. Although it was early, it was close enough to the hour that bots had begun to show up, and the briefing room was nearly full. Nightbeat had specified noon. Megatron checked the time on his memo-pad – it was fifty minutes past eleven. While he was at it, he opened his messages, but found no new memos. He put the memo-pad away.

Megatron had expected Rodimus to be late. He had planned for it: as far as Rodimus was aware, the presentation had started half an hour ago. As such, when the bot eventually turned up half an hour late, he would be exactly on time.

Brainstorm too, was not a surprise. But Perceptor was here, so Megatron could not find it within himself to be unduly bothered. Indeed, if he had been forced to choose between the scientists, Megatron would have found Perceptor to be the more responsible and reliable of the two. Whether Brainstorm turned up or not was no great loss.

But Magnus? Usually, the bot was unfailingly early. But now, it seemed he would merely be on time. Not that Megatron was worried about him. It was simply uncharacteristic of the other bot.

It wasn’t the first such event that week, however. At the Lost Light it seemed Magnus was never in the same room as Megatron.

Ultra Magnus was a bot with a lot of responsibility, true, but of late he had been overwhelmed. And there had even been instances at home when Megatron had tried to engage Magnus in conversation – nothing too personal, simply an article he had read – and the bot had responded only coldly.

Megatron wasn’t worried about him. He purely missed the simple, easy discussions they used to have; about the weather, or the news, or the latest ridiculous thing Rodimus had done. But perhaps Megatron had taken them for granted.

It was two minutes until the hour when Magnus ducked inside the room, with Rodimus close behind. The fear that had clutched at Megatron’s spark let go. Once again he breathed easily.

“Alright, that’s basically everybody.” Nightbeat said. “Megatron, just start already.”

“You all need to know three things going in.” Megatron said, and paced back and forth. “First. It will be strange in the Mederi Hotel, so the team will need people easily able to adapt to new situations.”

“I’m going in.” Rodimus spoke up boldly. “I owe it to Drift. Also – I’m the captain.”

Skids waved from up the back. “I’ll go too. I’m very adaptable.”

Megatron pointed at each of them individually. “Great. Good. Now, for the second thing: nobody has ever returned alive from the Mederi Hotel. Anyone going in has to accept that as a risk.”

Silence fell like a guillotine. Megatron tried to make eye contact with the gathered bots, but they all found more interesting things to observe; for example, the wall. The ceiling. Never before had the floor been examined so thoroughly. In the quiet, Getaway put his hand up.

“Everyone else that went in – how did they try to get out?”

Megatron shuffled through the papers he had piled up on the podium. “Most teams were split up immediately upon entering, but regrouped and made their way back downstairs, to the exit.”

Getaway leaned forward in his chair. “Okay. So is there a second exit? A fire escape, a rooftop helipad…”

“Yes.” Nightbeat answered, from the front row. “There’s a helipad.”

“Boom.” Getaway put his arms behind his head in a self-satisfied manner. “There’s your escape. Abseil, get someone with a jet alt-mode to carry you away, or even just climb down if you need to. Trust me – I know all about escaping.”

Megatron nodded. “You’d both be good additions to the team, then. Now, Whirl and Cyclonus of the night shift have flight-based alt-modes, as does Brainstorm. Who else here has a flight-based alt-mode?”

No one answered.

“A jet? A helicopter? Nothing?”

Skids waved meekly. “I have a grappling hook.”

“A grappling hook.” Megatron raised his eyes to the ceiling and breathed out heavily. “It’s not ideal. Perceptor, can you ask Brainstorm if he-“

“Brainstorm is busy working on a delicate experiment at the moment.” Magnus interrupted. Megatron blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly, and then noticed the way Perceptor had gone rigid. There was evidently a story there. Megatron made a mental note to ask Magnus about it later.

“I see. I’ll talk to him myself. His scientific expertise would be a useful addition to the operation.” Megatron cleared his throat to command the room’s attention, and braced his arms on the podium. “Now, the final thing you need to know going in: this is not just a mission to track down Pharma. It is also a rescue mission. Chromedome. Drift. Nautica. Lost Light bots, trapped inside. They need our help.”

It was silent, but an invisible feeling filled the room, a union of purpose. No one was looking at the floor now.

Someone spoke up from the crowd. “So that’s it? That’s everyone?”

Megatron looked around for the source of the voice, and finally looked down. Standing behind the podium, so short that Megatron had overlooked him, was Rewind. The small minibot was glaring at Megatron. His blue visor was bright white with resolve.

“I’m joining the team.” Rewind spoke calmly, politely, but without a trace of uncertainty. “That’s my husband in there, and I’m going to get him back.”

Megatron didn’t know how to dissuade the bot from his purpose. “…You’re a non-combatant.” He said, as gently as he could.

Rewind made a vague head motion, neither acknowledging nor refuting Megatron’s words.

“So?” Rewind said, deceptively sweetly. “I’m going. You might need my database. You might need a minibot!”

Megatron sighed and walked around the side of the podium. Standing behind it he felt like a dictator again, which was not the right way to deal with the situation. Better that he be calm. Better that he be empathetic.

“Rewind.” Megatron spoke softly. “I’m sorry, but I was rather hoping for the final team member to be a bot with a bit more… firepower.”

“You don’t get it.” Rewind shook his head, and his visor flared with pain. “I have to. I have to! I was too late the last time. Do you understand?”

“What?” Megatron frowned. “The last time…?”

“Too late?” Magnus moved forward from up the back. The motion was perfectly coordinated, almost unduly so, and yet Megatron got the impression Magnus had not intended it at all.

Megatron took in the gawking crowd, and scowled. “Everyone not directly involved with the Mederi operation, please leave.”

The gathered bots began to file out. Only those who Megatron had given permission to join the operation remained – Rodimus, Skids, Getaway, and Nightbeat. Magnus had also stayed for some reason.

“Rewind, explain. ‘Too late’?” Ultra Magnus had one knee to the ground, so that he might speak directly to Rewind. His voice was lowered. But as this was Magnus, it was still a toneless bass rumble, and easily audible by everyone.

Rewind ignored the looming bot, and turned back to face down Megatron.

“When Dominus went missing, I looked for him for years.” Rewind told him. “I searched morgues, smelting pits, I watched snuff films. Anywhere a dead body might have been, anywhere to find some kind of confirmation.”

Megatron’s optics widened at the dark turn the conversation had taken. He was suddenly very glad he had sent everyone else out.

Rewind shrugged helplessly. “But I never really believed he was dead, you know? We were sparkbonded. Connected. It faded, after he left, but there was still a tiny thread, a link I hadn’t known was still there…”

“Dominus… your first husband?” Megatron asked.

“Dominus Ambus.” Rewind nodded. “And now Chromedome’s missing – but this time, I know where he is. All I have to do is go in after him.” His visor began to flicker erratically, and his voice became raw. “And not you, or anyone or anything is going to stop me.”

Megatron held his hands up in a gesture of peace. “I understand you love Chromedome, and that you want him to return swiftly. But he would not want you to put yourself in danger-“

“You don’t get it.” Rewind had raised his voice. “You don’t get it! I was too late, I won’t let that happen again-“

“What do you mean, too late?” Magnus thundered.

“I felt him die, Magnus!”

Rewind whirled on the larger bot. Magnus’ face went rigid, and every limb locked up with the screech of grinding metal. Megatron had never seen him so distraught.

Rewind advanced on him ruthlessly.

“I felt his spark fade! I felt oblivion, like a hole inside my chest! The void, nothing, forever and ever. Death, Magnus! I know you cut him off long before he went missing-“

“Stop.” Magnus said, weakly.

“-But I never lost hope! And then, on a night like any other – when I was at home, helpless – his soul was torn away from mine.” Rewind shook his head slowly. “If you’ve never lost a sparkmate, you cannot possibly imagine it.”

The surrounding bots stood in mute witness to the moment. Magnus opened his mouth, as if to reply, but was only able to make a low, feeble sound. It was physically painful for Megatron to hear.

“Enough.” Megatron said, sternly.

But Rewind continued, and leaned into Magnus’ personal space. “Although, of course, you would have no idea what that feels like.”

Magnus choked as if he had just been stabbed.

“Rewind.” Megatron fought against the growl threatening to rise in his voice. “Even if you had not been far too close to this mission, your actions are highly unconducive to a team operation. But you are clearly recovering from an extreme personal loss. Perhaps it would be best if you took some time off to recover-”

“Recover?” Rewind snapped his head to face Megatron, and started to storm across the room towards him. “I’ll give you something to recover from-“

There was a click, the building shook, and then everything went pitch black.

Magnus came back to himself. In the darkness of the room, voices buzzed, indistinct. The ringing sound dissipated and he slowly became able to distinguish them as different people.

“Light switch isn’t working. Power’s out.” That had been Getaway.

“Let go of me!” Rewind.

“I’m not touching you.” Rodimus said. “I just handcuffed us together to stop you doing something crazy.”

The building shook again. Magnus was knocked to the ground. He waited for the rumbling to stop, and braced himself against the floor. Getting up seemed impossible. There was a hissing noise, like a gas pipe leaking, and something whipped through the air above him. Getaway screamed.

“Getaway!” Skids cried out.

“Everybody down!” Megatron roared.

There was a metallic clatter across the room, and somebody landed on top of Magnus. The hissing noise continued for a moment. Something large flailed around in the darkness. It hit the wall, and the room rattled.

Then it was gone. They all stayed down, unsure as to if it was safe. The tension slowly left, and after an eternity, Megatron spoke.

“Who’s still here?”

“Me.” Rewind said, from somewhere nearby.

“Me.” Rodimus said. “I landed on top of a box, I think. There’s a lot of sharp edges on this thing.”

“That’s me.” Magnus said. “Get off.”

“Oops, sorry Mags.”

Magnus put up with it as Rodimus clambered upright. He stepped on him as he did so, but it was not Rodimus’ fault he couldn’t see, and so it wasn’t fair of Magnus to be irritated at him. This did not stop Magnus from feeling irritated, however.

“I’m here too.” Nightbeat said.

“Skids? Getaway?” Megatron asked.

There was no reply.

“It tried to grab me.” Rewind said, after a while.

“I felt it, yeah.” Rodimus answered. “These cuffs hurt when you pull on them.”

“We can use that.” Nightbeat said. “If we all handcuff ourselves together, it won’t be able to drag any of us away.“

Rodimus scoffed. “I am not being handcuffed to him.”

“Fine.” Megatron said. “Nightbeat, go with Rodimus and Rewind. Magnus and I will be a pair. At least, if Magnus doesn’t mind?”

The thought was not as horrifying as Magnus had expected it to be. “No.” He replied, shortly.

“Good. Rodimus, I’ll need a pair of those cuffs.”

The energy chains of the handcuffs seemed to float in the gloom, as Rodimus pulled them out of nowhere, and held them out to the void. They glowed dimly. Not much brighter than a pair of optic lights. Not enough to light the way.

This was not completely debilitating, as all Cybertronians had an advanced spatial awareness. It was more heightened when one was in alt-mode, but even in root mode it, it would allow one to get a feel for the space; how wide the expanse, how many others were there as well. It was not, however, particularly capable when it came to detecting the finer details of an environment.

For example, desks.

There was a painful sounding bang. Nightbeat swore. Magnus bit back a chastising statement on ‘profanity’.

“Over here, Nightbeat. Follow my voice.” Rodimus said.

Nightbeat promptly stepped on Magnus, and they both yelped in pain.

“I tripped over something…” Nightbeat muttered.

“Me again.” Magnus said. “I apologize.”

“Primus, Magnus.” Rodimus huffed impatiently. “Get up already! Are you going to hold us back like this?”

The joints of Magnus’ left arm creaked and he strained and managed, through momentous effort, to shift his left hand. Little by little, joint-by-joint, he regained control of his body and sat up. There he had to stop, and rest.

The others’ voices fluttered about like moths, casting about for each other, for a light in the darkness.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Touch. Magnus’ spark pulsed erratically in his chest at even the idea of it; a coiling mess of fear, hesitation, distress. It was a familiar aversion. Usually, Magnus did not even shake hands with others if he could help it.

“Magnus.” Rewind said, quietly, and gripped him as he did so. “I-“

“Magnus, there you are. Here’s your end of the handcuff. ” Megatron interrupted, and Rewind let go. “Rodimus, if you’re ready, perhaps you could check to see if anyone else is out in the hallway. Magnus and I will follow in a moment.”

Magnus took the proffered bracelet, and fastened it around one wrist with a click. Rewind had been forced to leave with Rodimus. It was just Megatron and Magnus now, alone. What was it about the absence of light that transformed a space? The empty chamber had not changed, and yet it felt like a different room.

“Magnus.” Megatron said, quietly. “Can you get up?”

Magnus contemplated standing. It seemed like the hardest thing in the world.

“In a moment.” Magnus promised.

Megatron did not rush him. The dim light cast by the handcuffs turned the foggy darkness grey. In the murkiness, Magnus saw Megatron’s silhouette sit down next to him, and he heard him sigh.

After a moment, Megatron spoke uncertainly. “Your eyes…”

“What about them?” Magnus asked.

“You’re crying.” Megatron said. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“No.” Magnus answered. “It is merely that I have been busy of late, and I am somewhat stressed.”

Megatron hummed. “Do you mind if I talk?”

“…No.”

“What happened between Perceptor and Brainstorm earlier?” Megatron asked.

“Ah. That.” Magnus put his head back. ““Perceptor told Brainstorm that if he continued to disrespect his boundaries, he would no longer be his lab partner, and well… are you aware that Brainstorm is something of a Perceptor fanboy?”

“I know he’s infatuated, if that’s what you mean.” Megatron said.

Megatron attempted to move his hand. Rodimus had been right; the handcuffs hurt when pulled on without warning. Magnus’ optics flared, but he made no sound.

Megatron noticed his discomfort anyway. “Magnus? Are you-“

“The handcuffs are designed to resist force.” Magnus snapped. “Whenever either one of us pulls…”

“Oh, it’s doing it to you as well? I apologize.” Megatron said.

Magnus felt even more ashamed at the implication that Megatron had been quietly putting up with the discomfort. Embarrassment gave him the energy he had been lacking, and Magnus was finally able to stand up.

“We should move.” Magnus said, curtly.

Out in the corridor, they found that Rodimus and the others had already left without them. Further down into the darkness, they found Perceptor. He was standing in the centre of the hallway, facing away from them, and pointing a sniper rifle into the darkness.

“Perceptor?” Megatron asked. “What are you doing?”

“Shh.” Perceptor said. He had not even flinched, which led Magnus to assume he had heard them coming.

“The scope of my rifle has night vision.” Perceptor whispered. “I’m checking the hallway ahead.”

“Did you see what grabbed the others?” Megatron asked.

“A giant tentacle, as thick as my waist.” Perceptor said. “A shifting mass of impossible angles. It changes every time I catch sight of it. There’s no doubt about it – this is Brainstorm’s fault. He’s unleashed something on the Lost Light again.”

“Very well.” Megatron sighed. “Let’s go down to Brainstorm’s lab and-“

Perceptor fired a rapid number of shots into the darkness, cutting him off. Something screeched. The building rumbled ominously, and the floor rolled beneath their feet.

Perceptor was pulled into darkness with a barely a cry.

The handcuffs tightened painfully as Megatron was also dragged into the void, but Magnus hissed and braced himself on the tossing ground to prevent them sliding any further down the hall.

And then, as soon as it had come, the thing left.

Magnus was now pulling on nothing, and without warning, he stumbled backwards. Megatron crashed into him and knocked him over.

There was a moment of apprehensiveness, where Magnus dared not move lest the thing return. But then thankfully, the quiet stayed.

“This isn’t working.” Megatron said, and pushed himself up off Magnus. “We need a new strategy.”

Magnus tried standing up. It was harder in the dark, having to rely completely on his natural balance. Magnus allowed his body-memory to take over, straightened up, and knocked his head against a doorway.

“I agree.” Magnus said, as his optics watered. “This is quite frustrating.”

Magnus looked down at the glowing energy coil linking him to Megatron. He was still staring at the link, contemplating, when he saw Megatron turn his hand over slowly, with his palm open. An invitation.

Magnus blanched.

It was true that holding hands would prevent the handcuffs tightening. Magnus could appreciate the reasoning behind the proposal, but that did not mean he was comfortable with it.

“I’m sorry.“ Magnus began. “I-“

“Magnus.” Megatron cut him off. “There is no need to apologize. You have legitimate reasons not to trust me, and an inherent dislike of touch. I empathize completely. It was only a suggestion.”

Megatron walked off, slowly, and Magnus followed close beside.

Magnus hadn’t the words for how this made him feel. Irritated was the least of it, frustration that Megatron was able to read him so completely. And then, buried deeper – to Magnus’ unparalleled annoyance – a seed of fondness. It was nice to have Megatron understand why Magnus was reluctant, without the need for him to explain. He tried to crush the feeling, but it resisted stubbornly, burrowed deeper. Magnus realized he had clenched his hands into fists. He made a conscious effort to relax them.

Delayed, Magnus processed what Megatron had said, and frowned.

“Wait. Infatuated?”

“Brainstorm? Completely.” Megatron chuckled. “But to be fair, I only know because he told everyone at ‘Visages’.”

Magnus screwed up his face at the memory, and at his own incompetence. “Here I am, telling you to bond with the crew, when if I had gone out with them only once…”

“What’s stopping you?” Megatron asked, quietly. He spoke with a solemn gravity that captured Magnus’ attention completely. Magnus found himself answering despite his better judgment.

“Well I’m… not exactly a popular bot to be around.” Magnus admitted, quietly, in case someone else was listening. He regretted the divulgence immediately.

“I disagree.” Megatron said. “I find you highly pleasant company.”

Magnus glared at Megatron, or where he thought he was, anyway. In the dim light it was rather hard to tell.

“It’s bad enough that you mock me.” He said, angrily. “But to break rules as well-“

“I am not lying.” Megatron said, forcefully. “In fact I…” It was Megatron’s turn to be hesitant. “I’ve rather missed you, of late.”

Magnus narrowed his optics in confusion. “We live together.”

“Our discussions!” Megatron hurriedly reiterated. “I’ve missed our discussions.”

The awkwardness became painful.

Magnus cleared his throat. “I’ve missed them as well.” Without thinking, he tried to cover his mouth, a nervous gesture. The energy bracelet tightened painfully on his wrist.

He made the decision to let Megatron hold his hand. It would not do to force him to put up with the chafe, the discomfort, simply because Magnus was embarrassed.

Yet having made the decision, he was unsure how to put it into practice. How did one go about instigating contact? The fact that he had already refused once did not help matters. Magnus was a proud bot.

Magnus emotionally prepared himself for the action. He would reach out. Soon. After he had worked himself up to it a little more. He would nudge Megatron casually, or cough, or something, to signal his consent to the touch. Any moment now.

Megatron stopped at a crossroads. Hesitantly, slowly, Magnus reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Megatron’s.

Megatron jumped. “Ah, sorry.” He said, and moved away.

Magnus felt like hitting his head against a wall in frustration. He huffed, annoyed, and decisively slid his hand underneath Megatron’s palm.

“Oh.” Megatron’s optics flared in realization. “Are you sure-?”

“Shut up.”

The fact that Megatron was now holding his hand – contact, touch – should have bothered him, but Magnus was too irritated at how long it had taken. The anticipation had been infinitely worse than this.

In fact, this wasn’t that bad at all. If Magnus had been forced to describe it, he might have even called it ‘nice’.

The floor shook. Magnus lowered himself into a solid stance, prepared for a fight. Megatron did likewise, and tightened his grip on their clasped hands.

The rumbling stopped. The darkness covered everything like a thick blanket, blinded Magnus. There was no sound but the air in their vents.

Magnus waited in suspense a moment more, before easing his stance somewhat. There was no sign of any further danger from the eerie empty space in front of them.

And then a screaming, roiling pressure hit Magnus full in the chest.

It had enough force to carry him off his feet, and the noise and force stunned him, stopped him from immediately fighting back. A crushing, non-Cybertronian thing folded around his midsection. It had him. It was going to drag him away.

The handcuff tightened on his wrist, and Megatron gripped his arm.

It was not worth both of them being taken.

Magnus tried to think of a way to sever the cuffs. He had no scissors, no energy weapons, and all the artillery built into his frame would have been too risky in such a close environment.

But then, before he could make a decision, a second thing hurtled out of the nothingness and took hold of Megatron as well.

They were pulled down hallway after hallway, so fast Magnus felt sick, and then were dumped to the floor in a red-lit room. Blinking lights on all sides illuminated Brainstorm’s laboratory, and before them, impossible, was the beast.

Perceptor had been right. The thing changed every time Magnus looked away from it. It was a faceless many-limbed monstrosity, with rows of teeth lining its throat. It was an upside down pyramid with a dark phrase carved onto its side in an ancient language.

“Hiya.” It said, in a terrible voice, like the tolling of a bell. “I’m like, super lost right now.”

“Uh.” Magnus said. “Why did you grab us?”

“My bad. I asked Ax to find you, Magnus.” Brainstorm said, from behind it. He was poring over a screen attached to a strange contraption. “I need to know where the backup generator is, so I can send them home.”

“It’s in the basement, across from the morgue.” Magnus answered, and then frowned in confusion. “Wait. Why did it grab everyone else as well?”

“It’s not my fault all you Cybertronians look the same.” The thing sniffed. “Also, I have a name.”

It screeched something no vocalizer could ever hope to replicate.

“Axrostylisgth for short.” They said, sheepishly.

“Ax, get over here.” Brainstorm said. “Does this look like your dimension?”

The thing moved, a shifting cacophony of angles, and peered at the screen over Brainstorm’s shoulder.

“Yep, that’s it.” Ax said, in an unholy drone. “Want me to whip a cord down to the generator, hook us up?”

“Yes please.” Brainstorm hefted a gigantic coil of looped electrical cord towards the creature, and it grasped it with a claw, with a shadow-limb, and sent it away out the door in a lengthy tendril.

“Fascinating.” Perceptor was calmly investigating the machine on Brainstorm’s desk. “You do realize you’ve opened a portal to another dimension, don’t you?”

“I… yeah.” Brainstorm blinked, distracted. “That was the point. So does this mean you want to stay lab partners?”

“Definitely not.” Perceptor said, primly. “This event has rendered all of my ongoing experiments useless. I’ll need to start over.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Brainstorm slumped. Ax patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“However…” Perceptor paused in his investigation. “I would not be adverse to collaborating on something in the future. Using a photonic crystal to stabilize the link – genius.”

Brainstorm brightened, and his jet-mode wings fluttered. “Huh. Awesome. And yeah, the photonic crystal is there to…”

The conversation veered sharply sideways into a mess of scientific jargon. No matter how Magnus tried, he could only grasp the occasional term or concept, and so he tuned out. At his side, Megatron seemed equally lost.

On the other side of the room, for some reason, was Rewind. One half of a broken handcuff hung from his wrist. Magnus approached the minibot slowly and Megatron, still linked to him, was compelled to follow.

“Where are the others?” Magnus asked him.

“They ran off as soon as they saw that thing. Good instincts.” Rewind lowered his voice so that Megatron might not hear. “You’re going to get me on that team, alright? And then we’re square. I’ll delete the video.”

Magnus sighed. “No. That would be an abuse of my authority.”

“Yes.” Rewind insisted. “Nightbeat’s going in for Nautica. Rodimus is going in for Drift. There’s precedent.”

Magnus shook his head. “No. Megatron is right. You are emotionally compromised. Show everyone the video if you wish, I’ve faced worse than mere embarrassment.”

He turned and stepped away from Rewind. As he did so, Megatron squeezed where they were still holding hands. Magnus did not know what the gesture was meant to signify, but he found it comforting, and so returned the pressure.

The lights flicked on, stopping Brainstorm and Perceptor’s conversation.

“Generator’s online.” Brainstorm sighed. He ran a hand over the control panel, and grasped a large switch built into the centre. “You ready to go, Ax?”

“Yeah, just let me say some stuff.”

Ax floated across the room to Magnus. They took the form of a star-shaped metallic flower with red petals, unfurled like a spark casing around a glowing centre. Magnus looked away from the borderline indecency.

“Don’t grieve yet. You’ll get to say goodbye.” Ax said. “And also – loosen up! The next time you’re invited out, socialize! You only live once, you know.”

Magnus flushed, mortified. Rewind snorted. The creature turned to the minibot.

“Your lover does not want you in danger.” Ax told Rewind. “An entire summer’s worth of rain will pour down, but you will see him again, alive.”

Rewind didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away, either, not even when the beast took a briny organic form that looked more like a mix of bone and organs than an actual body.

“Perceptor.” The thing grew a head to nod at the scientist. “Fear not your depths. When the heart is troubled, that will be the time. Strike like a thunderbolt from afar to defend what you hold dear.”

“What?” Perceptor frowned. “What is a ‘heart’?”

The eldritch thing moved on, they became a mass of flaming tentacles.

“Megatron.” Ax said. “I see what weighs on you. Rest easy. You will only take the life of one more bot before you die, and besides, it will be freely offered.”

“Tarn?” Megatron asked, and then shook his head. “No. Don’t tell me. I shape my own future.”

Ax nodded mysteriously, and then shifted one last time.

“Goodbye, Brainstorm.” Ax hugged him with far too many arms. “Remember what I said about that oblivious dumbass colleague of yours.”

Brainstorm sniffed, a little weepy. “I’ll never forget it.” But then his entire demeanor changed in an instant, and he grinned cheerfully. “See you!”

“Bye!” Ax replied in the same tone, and Brainstorm flipped the switch.

The monstrosity disappeared with a disgusting sucking sound, like something being dragged down a drain, and the air rippled in their absence.

It took most of the afternoon to clean up the mess Axrostylisgth had made of the Lost Light, and the entire time Megatron only wanted to go home and sleep.

The portal to the other universe had to be closed, reports had to be made on all the broken parts of the agency, and later, the power bill would have to be contended with. It took no small amount of energy to summon something from another dimension, and twice that amount to send them back.

He pulled out his memo-pad to find five new messages from Magnus. All over five hundred words, with diagrams, and all sent within five minutes of each other. Megatron replied to every single one.

From a room nearby, he heard the beep of an alert. Megatron slowed his step.

“I’m sorry I threatened to blackmail you.” Rewind was saying, from within. “I’ll delete the video. I know how hard you work to keep that job a secret. And I’m sorry for what I said.”

“You were right.” Magnus spoke. Megatron was surprised to hear him speak with something approaching emotion. “I’ve never experienced that meaningful connection between sparkmates. It was insensitive of me-“

“No, I went too far.” Rewind was sympathetic. “I spoke with intention to hurt you, and I apologize. Just, please join the Mederi operation. Bring him home for me.”

“Of course.” Magnus replied. “Part of the mission is also to find Pharma. They’ll need someone stable to keep them in line. And like you said – if there is need for a minibot…”

Rewind chuckled for some reason, and there was a charged silence.

“So, he’s dead then.” Magnus said.

“Yes.” Rewind said. “I’m sorry you had to find out like you did.”

Megatron backed away and walked back the way he had come. It would be an invasion of privacy to eavesdrop any further.

Chapter Text

The Mederi Hotel was an unassuming building.

Magnus transformed and landed on the footpath. He had left the NCA behind. Megatron would need it to drive home, alone. Whenever the ex-Decepticon drove anywhere in his alt-mode, there was always the possibility he would be recognized – and as such, the possibility he would face public hostility. For his own safety, it was better that he went in disguise.

Mederi was on the southern side of the city, between the ocean and the acid wastes. Acid rain had streaked down in the past, evident in the faded metal sign, and the rust staining the wall beneath it. The smell of salt hung in the air.

The sky was dark and ominous – thunder was building in the atmosphere like a dam before a flood. There was a sense that any second something would break.

Magnus walked down the footpath to where he could see Nightbeat waiting ahead. The streets on this side of town were empty under the storm clouds. Nobody wanted to be outside when the acid rain finally arrived.

“Half an hour early.” Magnus nodded to Nightbeat as he approached. “I approve.”

Nightbeat did not look at him, but continued observing the hotel on the other side of the street. “I’ve figured it out.” He said, distractedly. “Temporal uncertainty. That’s why the hotel is empty by day – it’s a quantum mechanics theory. Nautica would know more about it…”

As the Mederi Hotel was empty by day, a necessity of the operation was that the Lost Light team entered at night. The sunset cut between the sea horizon and the rolling storm clouds like a wound. For a few minutes the world was energon-blood pink, and the waves and clouds curled endlessly, harsh and fiery in the afternoon light.

The hotel stared down at them with dark window eyes.

Rodimus and the others arrived on the hour. They had not even transformed before Nightbeat was moving forward to brief them.

“The thing about the Mederi Hotel,” Nightbeat said. “It has split up every other team, as soon as they passed the entrance. So, Brainstorm, did you bring that rope?”

“Here.” Brainstorm said, and held up a shimmering metallic length of cord. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’ll extend forever, and it’s practically unbreakable.”

He tied the end of the cord around his waist and passed it along to Getaway.

“Good idea.” Getaway said. “If we get split up, it’ll help us find each other again. However, if that doesn’t happen, are we meeting on the roof?”

Skids took the cord off Getaway. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. And I have a grappling hook for if Brainstorm can’t carry us all.”

“Remember: it will get weird. Don’t get distracted by anything you might see.” Nightbeat tied the cord around one wrist, and passed it along to Rodimus. “Don’t trust anything.”

“Please.” Rodimus scoffed. “We see weird stuff every day at the Lost Light. We’ve practically trained for this.”

“While rescuing the Lost Light bots is important, I remind everyone, however, that another part of the mission is also to find Pharma.” Magnus rumbled, as he tied the end of the cord around his waist. “He may have vital information on the whereabouts of the DJD.”

“Right.” Rodimus clapped his hands. “Okay, are we ready? Til all are one!”

Nightbeat pulled out a blaster, nodded firmly, and led the way. Upon jogging up to the entrance, the automatic doors slid open before them invitingly.

The foyer inside was clearly visible. There was nothing supernatural or eerie about it – it was simply dark and dusty. The smell that wafted out was of someone else’s soap, impersonal, yet reminiscent of something well known. The staircase was so close. It was visible, just across the room, next to the out-of-order elevator.

“On my mark.” Rodimus said. He looked far too eager.

Behind them, the sun melted into the ocean. A chill wind blew through in the sudden shadow.

“Now.” Rodimus said, and followed by Magnus and the others, strode decisively into the hotel.

Magnus blinked and looked around. He was alone in a yellow sunlit garden, leafy with brilliant green trees – not the hybrid purple kind that grew over most of Autobot City, but the pure organic kind. The foliage-framed path was dappled with shadow. The sky above was unbelievably blue.

He knew this place. The garden had been a precious outing before the civil war had escalated. Magnus remembered it fondly; Autobot City had survived the war, but gardens like these were long gone.

He had been here before, one time, with-

“Hello, brother.” A familiar voice said, from behind him. Magnus spun.

“Dominus?”

A turbofox was standing underneath the vegetation on the other side of the path. The canine transformed into a small bot. He bore the same facial insignia as Minimus; he bore the same serious expression, and was otherwise nearly identical in appearance except that his paintjob was the dark and pale blue of his turbofox beast-mode.

“Walk with me.” Dominus said, and turned away.

For some reason, there was a loop of cord around Magnus’ waist. He could not remember how it had gotten there, but as it was doing no harm, he let it be and followed Dominus.

The path beneath them was overgrown with moss, cool and green, and Magnus wondered how the gardener had let it get so out of hand.

“Minimus, no doubt you are wondering why I have invited you here.” Dominus said, as they walked. “My campaigns have kept me busy, but I wanted to talk with you. We have been growing apart of late…”

Magnus wasn’t paying attention. He looked around, transfixed by the trees passing by. There was something he was forgetting, he knew, but every time he tried to remember it slipped away. The rope had something to do with it, he was certain.

“I agree.” Magnus’ mouth said, without him. “How have you been? Last I heard, the test to determine sentience in mechanical life-forms had been named after you.”

“The Ambus Test, they’re calling it.” Dominus agreed. “The test itself is rather too strict, but we have to start somewhere.”

“Your writings as well, are starting quite a number of important conversations.” Magnus said.

“Oh well, you know.” Dominus shrugged. “I only wish to pursue the truth. If I can inspire others to do the same, hopefully the world will be a better place because of it.”

“And your classical singing, your philosophies – how are your architectural designs coming along?” Magnus asked.

“Oh, I never have time these days for such distractions.” Dominus shook his head. “But I did not call you here today to talk about me.”

They walked along the never-ending path in silence for a moment, and as they came upon a bench, Dominus invited Magnus to sit beside him. To either side, the rustling path curved infinite and strange. Something was wrong. This wasn’t how the conversation had gone, before…

Magnus put a hand to the loop of rope around his waist. He untied the end and held it in his hand. It had served a purpose, once. What had it been?

Dominus turned to him. “There’s something I always wanted to ask you, Minimus.”

Magnus looked down at him. “What?”

“Did you hate me?” Dominus’ expression was pained, and Magnus felt uncomfortable with the blatant emotion on display.

“Why would I hate you?” Magnus asked.

“For everything. For the way I always put you second. For the way I overshadowed you. For never taking the time to care, before I…” Dominus trailed off.

Magnus waited for him to continue, but Dominus did not. “Before what?”

“Nothing.” Dominus said, his expression sad. “At any rate, it’s no excuse for not spending more time with my loved ones. I sacrificed too much, perhaps.”

“No, brother.” Magnus wrung the rope between his hands unconsciously. “I never hated you. Not even when you left, I-“

Magnus cut off. His hands froze.

“You left.” He whispered, shell-shocked. “You died.”

Dominus was dead. The bot beside him on the bench was not Dominus.

“I’m sorry.” The lookalike said. “I kept so much from you, and I’m so sorry. I just want you to know: your appointment as the Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, your stewardship of the Lost Light – and whatever you do, wherever you go – I’ll be cheering you on.”

Magnus stopped halfway through standing up. Despite his suspicion, he could not help but pause at the imposter’s words. These were the words he had always wanted to hear from Dominus, and to hear them now – even if only from his shadow – was incomparable.

“Minimus. Magnus. Brother.” Dominus said. “I am so, so proud of you.”

The sunlight watered in his vision. Magnus blinked away the glare, but the green world was still blurry. It wrecked him to stand up and to scan about for the exit. He tied the rope back around his waist.

One last time, he knelt back down.

“Goodbye, Dominus.” Magnus said. He could feel something stabbing at the back of his throat. “Not a day goes by where I don’t think about you.”

Dominus put a hand on his forearm, it being the highest part of Magnus he could reach.

“Goodbye.” Dominus said, and smiled. “I’ll always love you.”

Magnus shut his eyes and swallowed, nodded. “And I you.” It came out weakly, but Dominus patted his arm in acknowledgement.

Magnus swiftly turned away and followed the rope into the garden. It trailed off back the way he had come from, through the green and gold trees, and underneath a dark green door in the side of the garden fence. The paint was peeling off it.

Magnus turned the knob, opened it, and stumbled through onto a dusty purple hallway.

Lavender.

That was the colour of the corridor. A trail of circular purple ceiling lights led the eye to the elevator at the end of the hall, and beside it, the stairs. On the landing below, a broken broom lay where it had fallen, next to an ironically dirty cleaning bucket. The door Magnus had come out of was the same faded décor as the rest of the hotel, but inside the room he could still see sunlight, could still feel a breeze. He shut the door behind him lest he be tempted back inside.

Magnus waited for his vision to adjust to the low light. The dust in the hallway had gotten into his optics. He wiped it away and looked around.

The rope ran across the hallway and underneath the door in front of him, and then back out and down the length of the hallway to the stairs. Magnus was about to enter the first room when he heard shouts from within, and the door swung open on its own.

“Magnus!” Rodimus fell out into the hallway with Nightbeat and a small black cat Magnus did not recognise. “Great! Now we can begin looking for the others, and get out of here.”

“How did you get free?” Magnus inquired, delicately.

“Ravage.” Rodimus turned towards Magnus to reveal a scratch across the bridge of his nose. “He helped me snap myself out of it.”

The beast-mech cat snickered. “He was the captain of a mighty spaceship, soaring through the stars. Quite the fantasy.”

“Hey!” Rodimus said. “That’s private!”

“The visions… they function based on fantasies?” Magnus asked. “Or memories?”

“Excellent question, Magnus.” Nightbeat’s visor was flickering erratically with glee. “It seems to make real what it thinks will keep you here. For me, it gave me the opportunity to solve Rung’s alt-mode, but I discovered the illusion before I got absorbed.”

“Yeah, yeah, get off your high horse.” Ravage sneered. “Just because the rest of us aren’t constantly questioning reality. Magnus though… aren’t you that guy that used to work for Tyrest?”

“I was Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.” Magnus said. “Yes.”

“Huh.” Ravage narrowed his optics up at Magnus. “No offence, but I hate your old boss.”

“Trash-talk later?” Rodimus said. “Let’s move!”

Rodimus moved down the hallway away from the staircase. He banged loudly on each door and shouted. Some doors swung open onto ordinary rooms. Some held stranger visions. They peered into these as they passed them, but found only the withered husks of sparkless bots, long lost to old memories.

They came to the end of the hallway and followed the rope up the next staircase. Halfway to the landing, they heard the sound of something hitting the floor on the level they had just left.

“I thought we checked all the doors?” Nightbeat asked.

“The illusions can’t leave the rooms.” Ravage said. He had his hackles raised and was edging away, up the staircase. “We checked all the rooms. There’s nothing alive down there.”

Rodimus synthesised a raspberry noise. “Primus, you guys sound dumb. Ghosts aren’t real.”

Something else made a loud clang, and Rodimus jumped.

“That’s cool. We’re cool. Aren’t we guys?” Rodimus was muttering to himself as he backed up on the staircase. “We’re cool cool cool cool cool.”

“We have a mission.” Magnus said. “What are we waiting for?”

This spurred everyone into leaping up the staircase, away from the mysterious and terrifying noises coming from below. The next levels were approached with more caution and quiet. Instead of hitting every door loudly, Rodimus carefully pushed them open. The four of them also moved with more speed, as for every level they went up, they would hear movement coming from the level below.

Something was following them.

The rope led them up countless empty levels, but on the second to last floor from the top, it stopped. The length trailed in and out of the doors of the penultimate hallway, it crisscrossed the floor, and it did not continue up the last staircase.

“Jackpot.” Rodimus whispered. “Okay, we’ll split up. Nightbeat and Ravage, you take the left hand side. Me and Magnus will take the doors on the right. Meet back here in ten minutes.”

“Magnus and I.” Magnus corrected.

“Yeah, that.” Rodimus opened the first door on the right and immediately blanched. “Oh, damn.”

Magnus looked over his shoulder. At restaurant inside, the hollowed out shell of a bot was seated at a luxurious mauve table. But the energon on the table was long stale. The bot’s frame was the faded gunmetal grey of death, once-bright eyes were now dark optic-holes in his face, and his grin was frozen into a cruel rictus.

Rodimus closed the door and swallowed.

“Let’s hurry, yeah?” Rodimus said, with a weak grin. Ravage and Nightbeat nodded, and moved off swiftly and silently.

Magnus moved to the next door along from Rodimus.

The first thing that struck Magnus was the vastness of the space inside. He was standing on a balcony, and both above and below him were a thousand floors of library shelves. Orange lamps illuminated walls and walls of books, and just near the entrance, a purple bot was browsing. She wandered away from Magnus, up a staircase, and he ducked inside the room to follow her.

“Excuse me.” Magnus addressed the bot. “My name is Ultra Magnus. This library is an illusion, and you are in danger. Please come with me.”

“Nautica. Hi. And yeah, I know.” The bot waved a hand at Magnus without looking up from her book. “Just give me a moment.”

Magnus blinked. “I’m sorry, did you not hear? You’re in danger. If you stay too long, you’ll-“

“Look!” Nautica interrupted and held up the cover of the book she was reading. “’The Primal Prophecies: A New Interpretation’. In mint condition! And look, there-“ She waved a hand along the warmly lit shelf in front of her. “’Wreckers: Declassified’. Every single datalog Ironfist ever sent. And beside you-“

Magnus picked up the novel she was pointing at and read the title. “’After the Ark: Nominus Prime and the Illusion of Progress’. Huh.” Magnus flipped it open without thinking. “I have been unable to find an uncensored copy of this…”

“This place has everything.” Nautica’s voice dropped into a reverential tone. “The Samizdat Writings. The Ascetic Cybertronian. Towards Peace. Maybe I’m in danger, sure, but there’s novels here I’ve only read novels about. I need to stay. Just for a little bit longer…”

“I apologize in advance for this.” Magnus said. “But we are in a bit of a hurry.”

Nautica protested against being bodily picked up, but not unduly, and indeed her greater priority was grabbing books from the shelves as Magnus carried her physically out of the room. As soon as they were in the hallway, everything she had tried to carry with her flickered out of existence. Nautica slumped underneath Magnus’ arm.

“Put me down.” She said, sadly. “I’m fine now.”

Magnus did so, and immediately Rodimus appeared.

“Where the hell were you?” The red and yellow bot was looking rather anxious. One optic was twitching. “I’ve had time to check all the doors on this side of the hallway. There’s nobody else here.”

“I could not have been gone longer than three minutes.” Magnus frowned.

Rodimus laughed. “Try half an hour. Nightbeat and Ravage went into a room a while ago too, but they haven’t come out yet.”

“Slow-cells.” Nautica sounded ecstatic. “Amazing. But I wonder how the designers of this place managed to create a temporal dilation field? I thought it couldn’t be done.”

“What?” Rodimus frowned. “So, it’s a magic hotel?”

“Time passes faster when you’re inside the rooms.” Nautica explained.

“Magic hotel. Got it.” Rodimus gave Nautica double thumbs up. “Let’s go save our friends!”

Nightbeat and Ravage were in an eclectic yellow room with Skids. Luckily, they were close by the door – close enough to touch – close enough that Rodimus merely reached in and pulled them out one by one.

Skids flailed, disoriented, and fell over almost instantly. “Hey! I was learning how to mix drinks.” His gaze grew wistful. “And after that I was going to learn law, and after that I was going to learn quilting, and then I was going to learn who I was-“

Ravage hushed him. “Shh!” The small beast-mech said. “Nobody. Move.”

Something scraped loudly around the corner of the darkened hallway. They flinched at the whine of tortured metal.

“Into the next room. Follow the rope.” Rodimus breathed.

There was a sudden roar, closer this time. It climbed sharply, and then petered out into a low, rattling growl.

“Run.” Rodimus hissed.

They ran until Magnus’ spark hammered and his throat ached. He’d already been tired when leaving his hotel room, and climbing all those flights of stairs had not done wonders to help his situation. He followed the others inside the next room, and as soon as they were inside, stooped over to recover his energy.

“Okay.” Rodimus whispered. “What say we forget about the mission, get everyone, and just get the frag out of here as fast as possible?”

“But the DJD.” Magnus said. “Pharma.”

“All due respect, Mags, but who gives a sh-“

“Shh!” Ravage hushed them again.

They froze in the entrance of the room. From down the far end of the corridor came the sound of something walking closer.

Rodimus closed the door. Like most hotel doors, there was a thin chain on the inside, which Rodimus locked before cracking the door open again so that they might see the hallway outside.

Petrified, they could only watch through the small gap as a dark figure walked past. It jittered like a video sped up, flickering too fast for Magnus to see details, but what was clear were the monster’s unnaturally long malformed arms, which swayed stiffly with every slow step the silhouette took.

It vanished in a blink.

“I’m not curious.” Nightbeat lied, his visor twitching. “I can totally prioritize safety over finding out whatever that thing was. Totally.”

“Eurgh…” Nautica lifted up her feet. “What are we standing in? Whose room is this?”

Magnus turned around. The room inside was as if a chapel architect had attempted to construct a bathroom. It was regal, as if made for a larger bot, and columns reflected off gleaming tiles.

But Magnus soon realised this was only the entrance hall, however, and there was an even larger antechamber visible through the far arches. It was from there that something had flooded, and the rust-red lights of the entrance hall glimmered on the liquid floor.

And beyond that was a door with a golden glowing light. Magnus peered at it. It was hard to determine the distant details, but it almost appeared as though the last, tiny door opened onto clouds.

There was a clatter from an adjacent chamber, a little confessional, and they braced themselves for a fight. Magnus took a ready stance, Nightbeat raised his blaster, and Skids armed his integrated weaponry.

“Oh, it’s just you guys.” Getaway walked out of the small door, carrying an impressive array of weaponry. “I was just getting ready, for if we needed to fight whatever that thing was.”

“Oh. Getaway.” Skids rushed over to his friend and hugged him carefully, avoiding the sharp metal. “You nearly gave us a spark attack.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Getaway laughed. “I was hiding. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Wait…” Nightbeat was kneeling in the puddle covering the floor. “This is energon.”

“Really? Ew.” Getaway grimaced. “Let’s get out of-“

There was a boom, and the left hand wall of the hotel room exploded into rubble. Getaway dropped his weapons. From the neighbouring room spilled pink smoke and sparks, and Magnus backed away as something stumbled out of the fresh gap in the wall, coughing and wheezing.

“Who goes there?” It said in an ominous, scratchy voice, and then coughed and spoke normally. “Hey, who goes there?”

Magnus recognised them. “Brainstorm.” He said, relieved. “I never thought the day would come when I would say this, but your poor safety protocols are to be commended.”

“Oh no.” Brainstorm said. “I blew that up on purpose. Have you seen the tech in this place?”

Brainstorm took two careful steps over the rubble and reached into the wall, spurting snapped wires and twisted machinery. Carelessly, as though it was not an exercise in certain death, Brainstorm reached into the ripped up tangle of machinery and pulled loose a strange box.

As soon as he tore it free, the pink smoke of the room behind him evaporated, and beyond him an ordinary hotel room became visible.

“There’s one of these in every room. This tech really is perfect for my-“ Brainstorm cleared his throat and furtively packed the electrical box into his briefcase. “Nevermind. But now we only have Chromedome and Drift to find!”

“Oh, we found Chromedome.” Nightbeat said. “But he didn’t respond to anything we said, and we couldn’t carry him away.”

“I scratched him. Hard.” Ravage said. “He didn’t even move. He didn’t even look up…”

Brainstorm walked into the red-lit room. “We probably don’t need the rope now, seeing as we’re all together.” He still seemed distracted, examining the floors and walls of the Primal hall. “And as for Chromedome, leave him to me.”

Magnus followed suit in untying the length of cord. It had served its purpose. They were all together – now their true goals could be put into action.

Rodimus checked the hallway carefully before leading them out into the purple light. Nightbeat helped him lead the way, followed by Ravage, Nautica, and Brainstorm. Magnus moved slower, more cautiously, and Getaway and Skids brought up the rear, to look constantly behind them. None of them had forgotten the mysterious monster that had barely passed them by.

Rodimus kept his voice low. “Nightbeat, how long do we have before dawn?”

“That’s the thing.” Nightbeat said. “Look out the windows. There’s just blackness. It’s not night it’s just… nothing. There’s no way to tell.”

“Shh.” Brainstorm said, as they arrived at the last room. “I’m gonna get Chromedome out. You guys watch my back.”

Ravage turned his back on Brainstorm haughtily, but Magnus noted that the cat still watched the hallway end unflinchingly. The tip of his tail flicked from side to side occasionally. He narrowed red optics at the darkness, and Magnus turned away to see how Brainstorm was doing.

The last room was deeply sombre. Four bots were sitting on a far bench, in a line, before another door. The walls were indigo blue, and a solitary florescent light glared down on the scene. Not one of the bots looked up as Brainstorm crouched down in front of the orange bot in the centre.

Brainstorm spoke to Chromedome quietly. The whisper carried in the dead air.

“Rewind.” Brainstorm said. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Re…wind…” Chromedome croaked. “Who’s that?”

Brainstorm grasped Chromedome in horror. “Your sparkmate. Your husband. Oh, Chromedome, don’t tell me you forgot?”

Chromedome, like Rewind, was one of those bots with both visor and mask. He should have been extremely hard to read, but his utter silence combined with the dim glow of his yellow visor went a long way to communicating his expression. Here was a bot that had gone beyond feeling, beyond emotion. Magnus looked away in the face of a pain greater than comprehension.

“Who?” Chromedome said, the sound all but gone. “Rewind…”

Brainstorm leaned in. “You remember now, don’t you?”

“Rewind.” Chromedome’s visor flared so sharply that it blinded Magnus, and the bot leapt to his feet. Brainstorm was knocked back.

“Rewind!” Chromedome cried out, anguished, took two unsteady steps and tumbled to the ground again. “I have to reach him. I have to go home – oh, how could I forget?”

“This place makes you forget.” Brainstorm reached to loop Chromedome’s arm around his shoulders, and carried him upwards. “Don’t worry. I promised I’d bring you home to him.”

On the other side of the open door, Ravage’s form wavered where he was prowling back and forth. The cat was agitated about something.

“That thing is back.” Ravage said, as soon as they were free of Chromedome’s room. There was a screech, as of metal on metal, from further down the hall.

Rodimus nodded. “The other rooms on this floor are all free. Drift must be in the penthouse. We have to move now.”

Magnus leapt up the final staircase without having to be asked twice. It was far too early to be celebrating, yet Magnus felt hopeful. Drift was all that remained. They were near the roof. And even if they did not find any sign of Pharma, at least all of them had survived the Mederi Hotel.

The stairs were quite taxing to Magnus’ overworked ventilation system. He looked down at the ground and focused on the rythmn of putting one foot in front of the other.

They arrived at the penthouse suite. It was a short hall, and a single door, like a dead end. Rodimus beckoned Magnus to follow, turned the door handle, and entered.

Magnus found himself on a glowing podium. It seemed to hang in the middle of the sky, a vague cloudy void, and it was surrounded on all sides by five enormous bots. Rodimus was hunched over Drift, who was curled on his knees with his face pressed to the ground, muttering in the middle of the podium. Rodimus patted him, urging.

“Come on Drift, it’s me, Rodimus. Come with me buddy.”

Magnus took a second glance at the imposing giants. It was only when he saw the leader, tall and noble, that he understood.

“Primus.” The kneeling mech sobbed. “Forgive me, forgive me, I’m so sorry…”

The giant bot hummed, a bass rumble that shook the podium they were standing on.

“Deadlock. Drift.” Primus said. His voice reverberated in Magnus’ very core. “You do not deserve to be cast out forever. The fact that you are kneeling now, the fact that your actions weigh on you so heavily: this is proof enough that you deserve a second chance.”

Drift trembled, genuflecting. “I won’t let you down, I promise, I’ll make amends…”

Rodimus grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Come on bro. Get up, you idiot, please let’s go.”

The titanic rumble of Primus sounded again. “You are worthy even if you fail. What matters is that you have chosen to try again…”

“Come on.” Rodimus said, gave up on the gentle approach, and stood up. “Sorry about this in advance, bud.”

Magnus flinched as he kicked the kneeling bot in the stomach and sent him flying. Drift cried out, and the forms of the giant gods wavered. Rodimus helped him up. Drift stumbled, tried to turn around, but Rodimus dragged him out the door without remorse.

“Got him!” Rodimus said, and foisted the limp Drift into Magnus’ arms. “Here. Carry. Let’s go!”

They ran for the stairwell. Something roared again behind them, roared and faded to a rolling grumble. Mechanical sputters interrupted the growl, like a cough, and then it started up again.

Rodimus kicked open the door to the roof and they piled outside. Immediately Magnus felt a stinging burn all over his plating. Acid rain was pelting them hard from the side, and the wind was howling like a hungry thing.

“We made it!” Rodimus had to yell to be heard over the deluge. Magnus was sure he heard him whooping as well. “Skids, Brainstorm, get us out of here! Not today, Primus. Not today!”

Brainstorm grabbed Drift and Chromedome and flew away to carry them to the ground. Skids lowered Nightbeat, Getaway and Ravage down the side of the building using the looped end of his grappling hook. The loop whipped up, light and empty.

There was a boom of thunder. Magnus shook an arm, and some of the colour slid away to reveal the bare metal underneath. His paint was starting to melt off under the constant pressure of the acid storm.

“Magnus, Nautica.” Rodimus said. “You’re next!”

Suddenly, something else rumbled underneath the thunder. Magnus spun around. Silhouetted in the hotel exit was a tall, demonic form. It growled again and raised its incredibly long arms.

Magnus finally recognised the sound from earlier. It was a chainsaw.

“Pharma.” Magnus said, but nobody heard him but the rain.

Pharma lunged forwards. The time-lapse trails of his blue optics traced a line in the air across Magnus’ vision. He saw only a bright grin before the growl and rattle of Pharma’s long chainsaw arms sounded. There was the horrific noise of tearing metal. Skids screamed and clutched the stump of his severed arm. Pharma quickly picked up the arm and threw it off the roof. The grappling hook, attached, sailed after it.

“It seems my fame precedes me.” Pharma said. His voice was silky smooth and professional. It was all too easy to remember he had once been a doctor. Each step was light and confident – he walked like he was on a tightrope.

“Brainstorm, get Skids out of here!” Rodimus said, and squared up to Pharma.

“Aww.” Pharma chuckled, and raised the buzzing blades. “You’re so heroic.”

Magnus didn’t even have time to yell. Lightning struck, once, illuminated a freeze frame of a rushing Rodimus. In the next flash, Pharma had impaled Rodimus through the chest.

“It’s cute.” Pharma said, and pulled out the chainsaw. Pink energon spurted from the gaping hole in Rodimus’ chest, his wet choking was faintly audible in the hiss of the rain, and the terrifying blue glimmer of his spark was visible in the leaking mess. Pharma’s arms were splattered pink to the shoulders.

“Pharma, let’s talk.” Magnus said, soothingly. “Do you want something?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.” Pharma shrugged. “I have a lovely job where I get to watch bots slowly dying, and dice up the occasional intruder. Speaking of-“

He stomped on Rodimus’ chest to pin him there, raised one chainsaw, and transformed it. A normal hand emerged from the rapidly shifting metal.

Without pause he reached into the wound and pulled out Rodimus’ spark, still attached to his chest by his umbilical main fuel line.

Magnus’ fuel tanks squirmed at the sight. He resisted the urge to lunge forward; he knew he was too slow. Pharma moved like quicksilver.

“We heard you have experience dealing with Tarn and the DJD.” Magnus said, quickly. “We believe you may know more than us.”

“Tarn?” Pharma froze. Rodimus’ spark dropped with a wet thunk back into the metal-flesh of his open chest. And then Pharma laughed. It was a little weary, but in general it was a nice laugh, a friendly laugh.

“You don’t deal with Tarn.” He said, with a wry smile. “You fend him off.”

Nautica took the opening to drag Rodimus away. The rain had washed off both of their paint, and the bare metal bore an uncanny resemblance to the faded paint of the dead. Behind Pharma, Brainstorm transformed and landed. He too, was washed grey by the rain.

“You know Ratchet, correct?” Magnus began, but Pharma was no longer listening. He sped toward the others in a meteoric dash.

Brainstorm wasted no time. He grabbed both Nautica and Rodimus and jumped off the side of the building. Magnus heard him transform, the high powerful guttering of jet engines, and then a solid crash.

Pharma stood on the edge of the building, his leg propped up on the side. He turned his head back to Magnus.

“Pardon me, what did you say?” He said, politely.

“Ratchet. Do you know him? We need help.” Magnus said in a similar tone, and backed away. “Is there anywhere the DJD might be hiding? We want to eliminate them.”

“I tried that.” Pharma said. “My advice? Don’t leave it to others. If you want someone killed right, kill them yourself.”

“If you wanted to kill Tarn,” Magnus asked. “Where would you wait for him?”

Pharma paused in his approach. Magnus was backed up against the side of the building. He knew, and Pharma knew, that a fall from this height would be risking death as surely as a chainsaw to the spark.

“I’d wait for him in my home, happy and content: the perfect target. And when he came knocking? ” Pharma grinned, and for the first time it was unsettling. “I’d behead him and tear out his spark.”

“Why?” Magnus prompted, desperate to keep him talking.

“Hold still.” Pharma said. “This might sting a little.”

In a split second Magnus glimpsed him swinging a chainsaw up and over his head. He raised an arm and stepped back.

Magnus was blinded by the pain in his arm, and knelt involuntarily. It filled his world. Distantly, there was Pharma, and he was still saying something.

“Tarn forced me to make harsh choices. What he did-“ Pharma punctuated the end of the sentence with a savage slash that split Magnus’ arm from his shoulder. The scream caught in his throat.

“Well. I’m not going to seek him out. If he comes after me again, though… I’ll eviscerate him.” Pharma sneered.

In his mind Magnus could not make the words make sense. They were far off and unimportant, happening somewhere else. Worse than the pain though was the confusion that came with it. It wasn’t anything intelligent; rather, it was a base desire to make the pain stop, and a complete lack of knowledge on how to do so.

“Help us.” Magnus gasped. “You and Ratchet. Were you friends? For his sake.”

Pharma laughed. “Oh, Ratchet.”

The chainsaw rattled as it came down on Magnus head. His armor helmet was split in two, and he was suddenly restricted, entombed within the control harness of the armor. Minimus himself was small enough to have avoided the blow, but his vision now was of oppressive darkness. Acid leaked in from the gaping hole at his shoulder, trickled down to lick at the gaps of his plating.

Outside his shell, he heard Pharma.

“I have to thank you, Magnus. You reminded me of what’s really important…”

The rain had melted the soft inner wires of the armor, and the metal was dripping onto Minimus’ shoulder. Where it landed, it stayed, and it burned.

Minimus screamed.

Pharma yelped. “Oh Primus, you’re still alive?”

In the compressed blind space Minimus had no warning but the rising growl before Pharma stabbed a chainsaw through the front of the armor. Had Magnus been a true mech, it would have pierced his spark, but Minimus inside was only impaled in the shoulder.

The force of it toppled the Magnus armor backwards, over the edge of the building, and the chainsaw slid free. To Minimus however, there was only a sickening, tumbling vertigo, and an unbearable pain. His spark flickered in his chest, once, twice.

He fell into the dark.

Megatron got the call in the early hours of the morning; a full week after Rodimus and Magnus had disappeared on the Mederi operation. The rain outside pelted down against the far window and hushed his memo-pad, ringing, ringing. Megatron picked up.

The team – they’re back.” Ratchet’s gruff voice crackled through the line. “Magnus is here, at the clinic, and he’s in a bad way. Rodimus too. Come quick.”

Ratchet hung up. Megatron looked at the wall for a moment, and slowly put his memo-pad away.

He barely processed the drive there. The rain flooding the windshield, the blurry road, slamming the NCA door to rush inside the clinic – these brief moments were all he would remember later.

The waiting area was filled with gunmetal grey occupants. It took Megatron a moment to realize it was because their paint had been washed off. Not dying. Not dead.

First Aid was at the reception desk.

“Ah, Megatron.” The doctor was unnervingly calm. “In the event that both Magnus and Rodimus die, you will be in charge at the Lost Light help agency. In particular if Magnus dies, your living situation will have to-”

Megatron interrupted. “What happened? Why is the team only returning now? I need a full report.”

First Aid’s reply was interrupted by the sound of the storm. Behind Megatron, the automatic door swung open.

Rewind ran past.

A waiting grey bot snapped his head up, and Rewind ran towards him, leapt into his arms. The bot tumbled sideways off his chair but didn’t let go. Rewind buried his face into Chromedome’s neck.

“…Dominus all over again… hurt, so much…” Megatron caught from Rewind’s muffled sobs. Chromedome cupped the back of his head and held him close, visor offline, filled with a deep and powerful silence.

“I love you.” Rewind said. “I thought I’d never get to tell you again. I love you, I love you…”

“I love you too.” Chromedome answered, and Rewind sobbed harder, stayed curled with his cheek pressed to Chromedome’s chest. He was listening to his lover’s spark, Megatron realized. He was assuring himself Chromedome wasn’t dead.

He looked away from the interaction. It was so decidedly intimate, so open and bare: watching it felt like an invasion of privacy.

First Aid scoffed. “So, Megatron. That’s really your priority? A report?”

“Yes.” Megatron insisted. “Now is the best time.”

First Aid scowled. “Fine. But be gentle.”

Megatron did not let himself contemplate the possibility that Magnus would not make it. He was afraid to even think it, as if by doing so, somehow, that would make it happen. He tried to tell himself it was merely clinical, professional worry – but deep down he knew the answer was embarrassingly sentimental.

Megatron cared about Magnus. When had that happened?

He pushed the revelation from his mind, pulled out his memo-pad, and set about questioning the grey bots littered about the room. If Magnus – when Magnus recovered, Megatron was certain: the bot would want an extensive and thorough recount of events.

Chapter Text

Minimus surveyed the medibay. He approved of the clocks on every corner digitally reminding him of the time – thirteen past eleven – but found the painting on the wall shallow and uninspiring. In his opinion, Ten could have done far better.

Rodimus lay back in the next berth. It did not only have a recharging outlet, but also a jumpstart cable – First Aid’s addition – and a spark monitor. Rodimus was plugged into none of these. He was fully healed.

“So. You’re leaving now, then?” Rodimus asked. “Me, I’m waiting until the last possible moment.” The red bot shuffled, getting comfortable, and crossed one leg over the other. “But frag, who am I talking to? Of course you want to get back to work.”

“Language.” Minimus said. The correction was automatic. “No harm in going early.”

“Ah.” Brainstorm let out a satisfied sound from a berth further down the line. His hands were busy prying apart the electrical box he had pulled from the wall of the Mederi hotel. “I know why you’re in such a hurry.”

“You do?” Minimus frowned. 

“They’re cleaning up the Lost Light today.” Brainstorm said, with the air of one who had cracked the secrets of the universe. “You don’t want to miss out.”

“Oh.” Minimus brightened. “I had quite forgotten. Thank you, yes, I am rather looking forward to that. But I do also have to run damage control at the Lost Light.”

Rodimus groaned. “Primus, Minimus, it’s fine. We both get Megatron’s memos – you know he’s handling things. I mean, not that people like him, but still.”

Minimus was unwilling to acknowledge this. He had heard as much countless times – from Ratchet, from Rodimus’ many visitors, and from the very memos he had received – but Minimus knew he would still need to see it for himself.

His only real worry was the lack of Magnus armor.

First Aid, down the length of the medibay, was working on the hulking mass laid out on a slab. The armor was still grey and ruined in places. It looked like a corpse, and in a way, it was – the soul, Minimus, had been taken out of it. Now it was no more than a colossal golem empty of words, empty of anything sentient at all.

“This won’t be fixed for a while. Pharma really tried to cut you up.” First Aids sharp blue gaze softened, and he looked at Minimus, a rare expression of open concern on his blank faceplates. But in the next moment, the expression had been shut down and locked away. First Aid turned back to the armor. “Still. You’re well enough that I can’t stop you leaving. Just don’t transform, don’t try any strenuous physical activity, and sleep in a proper recharging station. Don’t think I missed that stress in your frame.”

“Very well.” Minimus conceded, but then paused. “Ah. Does-?”

“No, Minimus, paperwork does not count as strenuous physical activity.” First Aid waved a hand good-naturedly. “You sure you don’t want to wait until the afternoon, though? Or, you know, go home? And actually rest, maybe?”

Minimus tilted his head back to examine the ceiling. The paneling was uneven. The rivets were out of place, the lighting was too harsh. It grated heavily on his nerves.

Home.

With what he had faced in the Mederi hotel, Minimus found it strange that the thought of going home filled him with such trepidation. Had he not been through worse? Had he not rescued those trapped in Mederi, faced down Pharma, had he not bid Dominus farewell? Minimus felt ashamed. It seemed a betrayal, that the thought of explaining his smaller form to Megatron bothered him more than the recent reminder of his loss. But Dominus was an old wound, a weight he had grown accustomed to.

The uneven ceiling was too much. Minimus wished for his own ceiling: perfectly clean and blank, free of imperfections and distractions. He wished for his own berth. Nevermind the necessity of sharing with Megatron – thank Primus for the wall of books in the middle – despite everything, Minimus wanted to go home.

“I cannot rest until I am sure the Lost Light is running smoothly.” Minimus said firmly, and left the clinic.

He felt naked, unprotected, on the sidewalk without his armor. He kept a wide distance from all passing bots. He pulled out an undamaged memo-pad and dialed a specific number.

“Ten?”

Minimus felt a sharp pang of guilt at the worry in Ten’s voice; at least the Lost Light bots had been given an explanation for his absence. Ten would have had no other alternative but to wait out Minimus’ disappearance. He would not have even been able to ask where Minimus had gone.

“It is Minimus.” Minimus quickly assured him. “I am fine, but rather in need of a ride. Can you pick me up from Ratchet’s clinic?”

“Ten.”

Minimus dithered, uncertain. “It is hard to talk to you like this. Is that… is that a ‘yes’?”

“Ten.” Ten said, emphatically.

“Right, right, I apologize.” Minimus said. “In that case, I have paperwork already filled out for such an eventuality. Drop by the Lost Light. They should allow you to borrow an Non-Cybertronian Automobile.”

Ten said his name once more and hung up. Minimus sighed. It seemed Ten was just one more person he owed an explanation to, and Minimus could wait around no longer. He steeled himself as though he were going into battle.

He had lost the respect of more important bots than Megatron before. He would get the matter over with as quickly as possible, and deal with the aftermath.

Cold dust choked the air of the Lost Light office. The open windows did little to clear it, and merely filled the room with an autumn wind. Megatron did not shiver – he did not show weakness – but the plating of the surrounding crowd rattled and chattered with the chill.

Megatron considered this a waste of energy. He put all his effort into scrubbing a black charred tabletop – his portion of the cleanup effort.

“C-captain.” Someone was trying to get his attention. “Megatron. Is this Brainstorm’s desk?”

Megatron turned, and found Perceptor holding a box full of scientific equipment and strange devices. One such apparatus began to slip, and Perceptor hurriedly caught it and placed it into a more secure position in the stack.

“It is.” Megatron said, and hid his judgment – Perceptor could easily have deduced as much himself.

The desk legs were shaky, held together by a few stray atoms. A history of explosions and chemical spills had turned the tabletop surface into a topographical map of the acid wastes. And the neighboring desks, Megatron’s included, were protected by blast-shields.

“I was just making sure.” Perceptor said coolly, tried to put the box down on the desk, and promptly dropped everything everywhere.

Megatron huffed an irritated sigh and helped him to gather the spilled equipment. He picked up something that looked like an overlarge megaphone, and examined the handwritten description on the side.

“Matter-duplicator gun.” Megatron read aloud. “You’re returning Brainstorm’s inventions?”

“Cleaning out my lab. Yes.” Perceptor took the megaphone off him, almost fumbling it again with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

“Perceptor, forgive me saying so, but you don’t seem yourself.” Megatron said.

Perceptor sighed and put the box, containing the remainder of the inventions, on the charcoaled desk. “Brainstorm’s coming back this afternoon. I need everything to be in its place, that way, there will be less chance of… accidents while he’s readjusting.”

“That’s very professional of you.” Megatron said.

“Yes!” Perceptor agreed with excessive eagerness. “Yes. My interest in his wellbeing is simply professional. That’s what it is.”

Nightbeat, passing by, snorted.

Perceptor drew himself up regally from the scattered inventions. “Is something funny?”

“No, no.” The detective shook his head and laughed. He was huddled in on himself against the wind. “No, sure. Definitely professional. I’ll tell Brainstorm that. Anyway, Megs, are the DJD classes still on this afternoon?”

“No.” Megatron turned his head away. “I need time to rethink our strategy. After our failure to glean any useful information from Pharma…”

“What?” Nightbeat groaned, and shivered. “But I’ve been working on the Mederi mystery. I need a captive audience for my theories!”

“You can subject us to your theories later.” Megatron said, and continued his futile attempt to purge the ingrained charcoal off the surface of the desk.

Nightbeat examined Perceptor’s mess. “What’s this do?”

Perceptor slapped a curious hand away from his megaphone. “It’s a matter-duplicator. What do you think it does?” Nightbeat nodded, but Perceptor was already dedicated to explaining. “It makes infinite copies of any object. That is a faux-vocalizer. And those two boxes over there are impromptu panic rooms. Just press the button on the top and it grows to a larger size. Mass-displacement, you know.”

Nightbeat held up something that looked very much like a calculator. “And this?”

“A calculator.” Perceptor said.

Nightbeat flipped it over. “Then why does it say ‘area freshener’ on the back?”

Perceptor snatched it out of his hand and read the scrawled words. “I… have no idea. This is quite worrying.”

“Cool, so, can I borrow that?” Nightbeat pointed to the megaphone. “It’s not for me, it’s for Nautica.”

Megatron and Perceptor were briefly united in disbelief and disapproval.

“You want to… clone her?” Megatron hazarded a guess.

“Absolutely not.” Perceptor clutched the invention to his chest protectively. “Leave the morally dubious experiments to Brainstorm, please. At least he knows what he’s doing.”

“No, no, no!” Nightbeat waved his hands in refusal, at least until the biting cold forced him to hug himself again. “No. I have this really rare library volume on loan until tomorrow. If I could make a copy – just one – that would be a great ‘welcome back’ gift.”

Perceptor lessened his grip on the megaphone. “Duplicating a book to give her – very thoughtful. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“So can I use it?”

“It belongs to Brainstorm.” Perceptor snapped, made tetchy by the cold. “Ask him when they get back.”

Nightbeat grimaced, and rather rudely, took over the cleaning of Brainstorm’s desk in order to bicker with Perceptor.

Megatron abandoned them to their arguing. He strolled through the open office area, and dust cloaked his path. Everywhere Megatron looked he saw bots getting distracted by old photos or objects. Bots bustled everywhere - clients, Lost Light employees, said employees' procrastinating friends - it was no easy feat to clean upwards of fifty desks at once: that was for sure.

Megatron passed by Rewind and Chromedome’s desks. The two had barely stopped holding hands since Chromedome’s return. Normally, Megatron made a point to seat bots away from their friends – to discourage conversation, and therefore increase productivity – but he had found himself unable to do so with Chromedome and Rewind, reluctant to begrudge them their comfort.

Their client was a tall and hulking purple bot. Megatron recognized Cyclonus of the night shift.

According to modern Cybertronian beauty standards, Cyclonus was monstrous. He had both horns and claws as part of his anatomy. But most horrifying of all: his face had no soft metal-flesh. His red optics glowed in the sockets of what was, effectively, his skull.

“So could you describe this missing person for us?” Rewind spread out a form on Chromedome’s desk and seated himself into the taller bot’s lap.

“Tailgate.” Cyclonus said. The dust in the air choked him up momentarily. “White faceplate. Blue visor. Curvy. Here – I have a photo.” Cyclonus slid an image of a blue and white minibot across the table. Megatron leaned over Rewind’s shoulder to look at it: Tailgate was making a peace sign with one hand. Beside him, Cyclonus wasn’t scowling – and for the dour bot, this was practically a smile.

“Oh, Tailgate.” Rewind shook his head. “Oh dear. Sorry, I have to ask – it’s procedure – has he ever had any health or medical problems?”

“Yes. Two years ago he contracted cybercrosis and nearly died. I… to save his life, I had to sparkshare with him. As such, I know he’s not dead.”

Rewind paused and his pen hovered over the form. “Were you two…?”

“Together? No.” Cyclonus’ face was unfathomable, and he was silent. Then he took a deep breath and spoke in a raspy voice. “I last saw him near our apartment. I’ll write you the address.”

Rewind passed the form across the table to Cyclonus, and he took the pen delicately between two vicious talons.

“Why not go to the night-shift about this?” Chromedome asked.

“I did.” Cyclonus handed the form back. “I’ve searched everywhere he usually frequents. There’s no sign of him. I don’t know what…” Cyclonus shook his head, expression dark. “Nevermind. If you find anything, let me know.”

Cyclonus stood up, and walked away at a slow and refined pace.

“Oh dear.” Rewind shivered. Chromedome wrapped his arms around the minibot against the chill. “Poor Tailgate. I hope he’s alright.”

“Ask Nightbeat to help you look for him.” Megatron advised. Rewind jumped – he and Chromedome had been too absorbed to even notice his arrival. “With the DJD investigation on hold, he has plenty of free time.”

Megatron continued his patrol, inspiring bots into guilty productivity with his mere presence. The chaotic spread of half-cleaned desks and Lost Light clients was terrible to behold. He winced internally – what would Magnus think, to come back to an agency in such disarray?

Megatron had put together two large binders. In content they were identical: both were full of all the reports of the previous week. The only difference between them was that one was blue, and the other was black. As of now, they were back on his desk, in preparation for Magnus’ return.

Yet again Megatron second-guessed the color choice. Magnus’ apartment and furniture were all muted shades of grey, black, and white. Would blue have been too festive? But then again, Magnus himself was predominantly blue. Perhaps he liked the color. But no – black was safer.

Megatron knew the indecision was born of that irrepressible seed of affection that he nurtured for the other bot. But Magnus was his roommate. There was bound to be some personal attachment there.

Of course, it was unlikely Magnus held any resemblance of the same sentiment for him.

Caught up in his thoughts, Megatron bumped into a tall bot. He looked up, and then up again, and finally craned his head back to examine the entirety of the colossal orange bot.

“Ten.” Said Ten, and waved cheerfully.

Megatron smiled in recognition. “Ah. How can I help you, Ten?”

Megatron followed in Ten’s wake down into the Lost Light parking bays. The NCAs stood in neat rows, but there were gaps where the cars had been borrowed. Each one was made of black, polished metal. Ten strode across the concrete and patted one on the hood.

“Of course.” Megatron said. “What do you need it for?”

To his surprise, Ten pulled out a thick sheaf of paperwork. Megatron flipped through it. Each sheet was filled out to an obscenely high standard. In triplicate. There was evidence of months of work, weeks of planning; all to ensure that if ever Ten needed an NCA he would face no resistance or questioning.

“Er.” Megatron said, as he surveyed it. “You wouldn’t happen to know Ultra Magnus, by any chance?”

Ten nodded aggressively. Megatron looked down again; the handwriting on the forms was familiar. Those geometrical lines, letters cut into perfect right angles. A thought occurred to Megatron as Ten was getting into the car.

“One moment.” Megatron called. “Ten, you know Magnus, yes? You’re friends?”

“Ten ten ten ten ten.” The bouncer looked to the side and put a hand over his mouth.

“Wonderful.” Megatron nodded firmly. “What would you say is his favorite color? It is for… work-related reasons.”

Ten stopped and stared at him in confusion. The giant bot had no eyes, and no visor, so this was quite an accomplishment.

“Ten?” He shrugged and tapped the – black – metal of the NCA.

“I thought the same.” Megatron nodded. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you.”

“Ten.” Ten said, and opened the vehicle door. It was almost a marvel that the large bot managed to fit inside.

Megatron stood on the tarmac while Ten drove away, and left another vacancy in the lines of NCAs. He was alone in the empty parking lot, now. Megatron came to recognize the disquiet in the atmosphere; the silence was too silent. It didn’t echo in a way that was decidedly ominous.

Another bot might have called him paranoid, but after a planet-shaking war, it would have been hard to find such a bot. Mostly because the cautious bots were the only ones still alive.

“You’re probably expecting me to attack you, right?” A voice said from behind him. Megatron turned easily.

Whirl had backwards-facing knees, like a bird, and they gave him an odd method of movement. He took a couple of steps forward. Only Whirl could have bounced in a predatory way.

“Based on previous experience, that would be the logical assumption.” Megatron said, dryly. “I have some questions for you, though. About Tailgate.”

“Yeah.” Whirl’s optic shrunk to a tiny pinprick in the hollow of his head. “Yeah, that’s the only reason I’m not punching you in the face right this second.” He tilted his head to the side. “I still might.” He said, thoughtfully.

“Do you know where Tailgate is?” Megatron distracted him.

Whirl snapped one claw together a couple of times. “Nope.” He drew it out into two syllables, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word. “And while I suspect I know who does, I’m not gonna tell you, because they’ll hurt him if I do.”

“So he was kidnapped.”

“Of course he was!” Whirl rolled his optic, but since it was permanently ensconced in his cylinder of a face, he simply rolled his entire head. “They need him.”

“How do you know this?” Megatron asked. “Are you working with them?”

Whirl threw his head back and laughed for far too long.

“I was.” He said, finally. “Not anymore. They put Tailgate and Cyclonus in danger, which is like, the biggest no-no in my books.”

“Is that why you’re telling me all this?” Megatron said.

Whirl grew suddenly serious. “This is a warning. You can leave Tailgate with the people who have him, and it’ll be fine. You can let Cyclonus fragging boil over with anxiety for a month if you want, and it won’t do anyone else harm. But if you let these kidnappers get away with what they’re planning?” Whirl’s optic was a neon pinprick. “It’ll end in flames for everybody. I’m telling you right now.”

“Noted.” Megatron said, as he walked away. “I’ll need a full report of everything you can tell me about Tailgate and Cyclonus by the end of the week.”

Megatron made his way back up the stairs to the main office of the Lost Light help agency and nodded to those passing by.

In the crowd of faces, Getaway was nowhere to be seen, but this was not a surprise; he rarely turned up when Skids was absent. And without Rodimus – without Brainstorm – the agency was quiet.

Yet Brainstorm was not altogether absent, as Megatron discovered on his return to the main office.

“Turn it off!” Nightbeat was yelling. “Stop it!”

“I can’t! You idiot, I told you not to use it-”

In the hallway ahead of Megatron, a steady stream of books was spilling out of the main office entrance. They covered the floor. As Megatron watched, more joined their number. He delicately carved a path through the growing puddle of literature to get to the source of the problem.

Inside the main office, black books were piled up on Brainstorm’s shaky desk. The structure shook under the weight, and after a moment of consideration, gave up. The legs crashed under the ever-increasing weight of books, books, books, streaming from the gullet of the matter-duplicator.

“Oh no, they’re going out the windows…” Nightbeat moaned.

“Good!” Someone shouted, vehemently. “We can finally shut the bloody things, it’s fragging freezing in here!”

There was a general cheer of approval. Megatron sighed. As odd as it was, this at least was more familiar. After all, what was a day at the Lost Light without some strange emergency?

Driving through Autobot City with Ten was peculiar for a number of reasons.

Firstly, Minimus was unaccustomed to being in the passenger seat. He did not care for it: he would much rather have been the one in control. Second, it was uncommon for him to drive as Minimus. Ultra Magnus was a far taller bot. Last, Ten was excellent company. But he did not have the same way with words that Megatron did.

“Have you applied to a gallery, as I suggested?” Minimus asked.

Ten shook his head and shrugged. “Ten.”

“You should.” Minimus insisted. “You have great potential – Ratchet’s clinic in particular could benefit from some of your work.”

"Ten."

“I am sorry you were not informed of what happened to me.” Minimus said, muted. “I will take measures to prevent this in the future.”

“Ten.” Ten let go of the wheel to wave one hand dismissively, good-naturedly, and every single one of Minimus’ internal gears and mechanisms locked up in terror. He silently begged Ten to turn his attention back to the road.

When Ten dropped Minimus outside the Lost Light, Minimus had not expected a welcome party. He was early, after all, and had warned no one of his arrival. But the Lost Light was completely empty of bots, welcoming or otherwise.

On the ground outside books were littered about, for some reason. Minimus picked one up. A stamp on the black back cover revealed it to be a library volume. How despicable – not only littering, but also the littering of public property. Minimus narrowed his optics up at the Lost Light help agency and put the book down. He would find the culprit responsible.

But when Minimus attempted to enter the agency his way was barred by books so numerous they practically reached the ceiling. A path had been carved through the middle of the mountain, leading up the stairs, and Minimus followed it with mounting curiosity.

The closer he got to the main office, the more books there were.

He winced every time he accidentally stepped on the occasional delicate spine, or cover, or page. There was something precious about the tomes of captured words. Hurting them felt almost like a sin.

From the main office ahead, he heard Perceptor speaking.

“…sure nobody’s in the hallways?” Perceptor asked. Minimus froze on his way towards the sound. “Brainstorm is fond of an electropulse frequency in his radioactive inventions. Ah, that is, we can use the calculator to get rid of all the copies in the area, but anyone caught in the pulse will probably suffer side-effects.”

“I made sure. I also had Blaster announce it over the PA system.” Megatron’s voice was unmistakable. “Start the timer quickly, before anyone leaves the rooms. They should stay put for another half an hour, but best not to tempt disaster. Have you got those – well, they’re more boxes than rooms, aren’t they – panic rooms ready?”

An ominous beeping noise echoed down the hallway from the main office. Minimus looked around quickly for a closet, or anything, that he might get out of the corridor, but the books blocked the walls on all sides.

In doing so, he accidentally made a noise, and there was a grumble from within the main office.

“I was just asking for something to happen, wasn’t I…?” Megatron sighed. There was the sound of footsteps coming towards Minimus.

Minimus felt the last shreds of his bravery desert him. He had thought himself ready. He had thought he would be able to stand the confrontation, the confusion, and the inevitable loss of respect. But he had been wrong. The timer beeped, and Minimus was overcome with the desire to run. He wasn’t ready.

But Megatron strode out into the hallway anyway. It was too late.

“…I gave very clear instructions.” Megatron was mid-lecture. His optics were trained to the floor, and he carefully picked his way through the books to avoid stepping on them. “For your own safety, I said, everyone vacate the halls. Did you not hear? Or were you just-“

The moment was obvious when Megatron looked up. He stopped dead.

“Oh.” Megatron said, very, very quietly. “You.”

Minimus felt every one of his circuits die a tiny death. He felt as though he were going to faint – Megatron had not moved, was still staring at him – and the beeping in the background continued. The pressure built in the corridor and pressed on Minimus’ voice box. Even if he wanted to, he felt he would not have been able to speak.

Instead, he nodded curtly. This shook Megatron out of his immobility, and the bot whipped his head around, searching, like Minimus, for a door.

Megatron beckoned to Minimus. “Quick, follow me.”

He led the way into what was fundamentally a cave of books. All that remained of the open area of the Lost Light office was a small clearing of bare ground. In the centre of the hollow, for some reason, was a calculator. It was making a beeping noise and counting down.

Perceptor had not yet seen Minimus enter. He tossed two tiny black boxes onto the floor, and Minimus’ optics widened as they grew suddenly in size.

Perceptor turned around. “I’ll take the left one, you take the – oh dear.”

His gaze flicked from Minimus to Megatron in ashen indecision. Minimus glanced to make sure Megatron wasn’t looking, then put a finger over his lips. Perceptor nodded, almost as if he was unaware of doing so.

“Yes.” The scientist sounded very far away. “Yes, I see. Megatron, will you excuse me for a moment? I need to speak with our… guest.”

“We don’t have much time.” Megatron said, warningly.

“We won’t be long.” Perceptor was not so crass as to drag Minimus aside, but he did usher him quite forcefully into the corner farthest from Megatron.

“What can I mention?” Perceptor hissed immediately. “Are we telling him who you are? Are we not? What’s our lie?”

Minimus examined the nearest book wall. In doing so, he noticed they were all the same – a volume of collected poetry. Even the library code on the back was the same for each one.

“No lies.” Minimus said, still facing away. “Through unfortunate circumstance, he knows about ‘Visages’. If you could ask him not to mention it, that would be best.”

“He knows?” Perceptor had a brief moment of stunned surprise, but quickly recovered his usual cool and composed manner. “Well, didn’t I tell you?”

“Please be more specific.”

Perceptor tilted his head onto one shoulder. “Didn’t I say the attention deflectors in your armor wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny? It’s all very well for the audience at ‘Visages’, but if someone who knows you walks in, they’re quite useless.”

"Oh." Minimus sighed. “I know. I asked Mirage to ensure no one from the Lost Light would ever-“

But Perceptor was on a roll. “Your secondary form has over two billion nanoscopic deflectors, which, considering the mental impact of the ‘Magnus’ vocalizer, is not nearly enough if you ask me. Three billion would be better. Four billion, if we could afford it. They’re very, very delicate! ” He gave Megatron an admirably subtle glance, over his shoulder, and turned back to Minimus. “Even your base personality core and processor commands can affect them.”

“I beg your pardon?” Minimus said, flummoxed by Perceptor’s rapid bombardment of technical terms.

“Perceptor.” Megatron called across the room, having opened the panic room door on the right. “We need to move, now.”

Perceptor muttered to himself. “Brainstorm would have known. “ But then he fixed Minimus with a look of unwanted sympathy. “The attention deflectors work best when you want to be ignored.”

Minimus thought about this. “I see.”

“Perceptor.” Megatron repeated.

Perceptor bore himself up primly, defiantly, and without another word turned around and opened the left hand panic room door. He entered and shut it solidly behind him.

On the floor, the timer counted down.

“Excuse me, er…” Megatron hesitated over Minimus’ name. “Could you please come here?”

The interior of the panic room behind Megatron did not look large enough for two, but what else was there to be done? Minimus folded his arms behind his back and quietly walked inside.

“Hm.” Megatron observed the action with curiosity, and Minimus cursed his overly recognizable mannerisms. He let his arms fall to his sides – but even there, he felt obligated to keep them straight. His imperative for perfect posture would be his undoing.

Minimus blinked twice as the ex-Decepticon grew smaller before his eyes.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Megatron stepped inside. It was close, but they both fit. “My frame has been altered for mass-displacement. My alt-mode was once a gun, you see.”

Megatron shut the door behind them. Minimus wished Perceptor had not mentioned the last fact about the attention deflectors. Now his processor was spinning even more frenetically, running a constant mantra of ‘ignore me, ignore me’. But in the close space, it was impossible to ignore each other.

The silence was stifling. The faint outside beeping of the calculator only made it worse. The bare light that there was came from the glow of their optics: both red, both fixedly avoiding the other.

Megatron cleared his throat awkwardly. “I take it you’re not much of a conversationalist.”

Minimus had a joke for this exact situation, but dared not make it lest Megatron recognize his poor attempts at humor. Instead, he shook his head, and trusted that Megatron would sense the movement in the dark.

“I understand.” Megatron said. “I’m much the same. In fact, a colleague of mine often says: if Primus had intended-“ Megatron coughed and turned his head away, as if embarrassed. “Well, it’s quite humorous, anyway.”

Minimus became thankful for his stoic demeanor, that it hid his internal panic. Now was not a good time. If he were to reveal his other frame, his other identity, here – Minimus rejected even the thought. In the confined space, he would practically stew in the lack of respect Megatron would no doubt hold for him.

“If I…” Megatron began again hesitantly. “If I have done something to offend you, please tell me what it is? I only want to avoid it in the future.”

Minimus’ gears clicked and his mind stalled. Megatron’s innocent question had unwittingly caused Minimus catastrophic internal dissention.

According to ‘rule number two’, Minimus had no choice but to answer the question – for Megatron had done something wrong: he had spoken to Minimus at ‘Visages’. The mortification of the memory still lingered.

Minimus put a hand to his head to rub away the ache building up. Rules were rules. They were the golden walls within which Ultra Magnus led his life. They gave clarity in uncertain situations, stability when all else had been destroyed; they were the foundation upon which the rest of him was built.

Minimus took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “That night in Visages, I was… flustered, by your attention.”

Megatron jolted. Evidently, he had not expected Minimus to reply at all.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that you saw me there.” Minimus said, and hoped the darkness hid the heat in his cheeks.

“I promise not to tell a soul.” Megatron said. “My apologies for seeking you out. It was simply that your voice was exquisite and… familiar. Have we met?”

Minimus could not say ‘no’ outright; as to do so would be a lie. He carefully phrased his words. “If we had met somewhere before, I would have remembered.”

Megatron spluttered, and too late Minimus recognized the salacious insinuations of his phrasing. “Forgive me!” He frantically tried to backpedal, but was unable to do so without lying. “I did not mean to imply – I only meant that you are quite unforgettable-“ He was making it worse.

Mercifully, the calculator outside beeped for the final time and cut off his mortifying ramble. There was a bright flash of light around the doorframe.

“I understand completely.” Megatron sounded a little hoarse. “In which case, will you do me the honor of a formal introduction?”

Despite the enclosed space, Megatron put out his hand respectfully, offering a handshake.

Minimus stared at it for a moment.

Such deference – it was ridiculous. The entire situation was ridiculous.

What was the use in attempting to omit ‘just enough’ information to lead Megatron to the wrong conclusion? What was the point in wishing to be ignored? They lived together, for Primus’ sake. He would have to reveal the truth eventually.

And to Minimus’ surprise, he found he did not mind. Something about Megatron awkwardly offering a handshake, his elbow cramped against the side of the panic room – it didn’t matter as much anymore.

“I apologize.” Minimus said, and fear throbbed in his gut alongside newfound resolve. “I have not been entirely honest with you.”

“What?” Megatron frowned. His hand was still hanging in space, so Minimus reached out and shook it.

“My name is Minimus Ambus.” He said. “I was born Minimus Ambus. But you may know me as Ultra Magnus.”

Megatron froze with his hand in Minimus’ far smaller one.

“Oh.” Megatron said, and his optics flared. “Oh. But how?”

“I am a loadbearer.” Minimus explained. “My spark is capable of supporting large suits of armor. That is Ultra Magnus – that is what I am.”

Megatron hurriedly let go of Minimus’ hand. Minimus had forgotten he had still been holding it, and the sudden loss was unexpected. He folded his arms behind his back and looked to the side. He would deny that the absence bothered him.

“Er.” Megatron said, eloquently. “Is rule number one still in effect?”

Minimus tensed. He had been prepared for this. “I suppose not.”

“You…” Megatron regarded him silently for a moment. Minimus felt uneasy. “You will, no doubt, want to know what you missed.”

Minimus lost his nervousness. “Indeed.”

“The area freshening should be over at this point.” Megatron said. “Allow me to-“

He pushed on the door. Minimus felt a twinge of worry when it did not open. Megatron pushed harder, and the metal creaked without budging.

Minimus pulled out his memo-pad and called Perceptor. It was no use merely raising one’s voice – the panic rooms were soundproof.

“It’s useless.” Perceptor said, after trying the door from the other side. It was stuck so fast that there had been no indication that he had attempted it at all: no noise, no movement. “Hold on… oh. Oh dear. I’m looking at the name of this particular panic room – Brainstorm’s handwriting wasn’t big enough before. It’s designed for chemical accidents. It will open automatically… after half an hour. Will you both be alright until then?”

Minimus glanced at Megatron, and when he nodded, returned to Perceptor.

“I see. Thank you Perceptor. And the books – have they all been vaporized?”

“Yes.” Perceptor answered. “The agency is completely free of black books.”

Megatron jerked. “Completely? Ah. Nevermind. Thank you Perceptor. That will be all.”

Minimus hung up.

Megatron sighed. “It seems we will have to wait a while.”

To distract himself from this fact, and from the close proximity, Minimus leaned back on the wall of the panic room and folded his arms in front of himself.

“Fill me in on everything that has happened in my absence.” Minimus ordered.

“I did have a binder containing all the relevant reports.” Megatron said. “But it was black, and as such, was no doubt confused with the other books by Brainstorm’s invention.”

Minimus blinked. “You made a binder?”

“For your return, yes.” Megatron sighed heavily. “I did make another copy, for all the good that it does us in here.”

Another copy. Minimus stared at Megatron in wonder. He had not the energy for words, and put a hand to his chest.

“It was blue.” Megatron added. “So it would not have been vaporized. Ah, out of curiosity, which do you prefer? Black or blue?”

Minimus summoned the scattered fragments of his mind. Had Megatron made two copies of a binder – for his return – two copies, in different colors, simply because he didn’t know which color Minimus preferred?

Impossible. Ludicrous. There had to be another explanation.

“Black.” Minimus said, eventually. “For formal situations, blue is rather too festive.”

“Hm. Noted.” Megatron nodded. “I’ll explain today’s events in short, then, and later you can peruse the collected files at your leisure.” In the heavily summarized explanation Megatron gave of what he had missed, none of it seemed terribly unusual to Minimus - but for one thing.

“So things truly have been running smoothly.” Minimus nodded to himself. “I appreciate that.”

“Smoothly.” Megatron said, incredulously, and gestured to their current predicament. “Do you call this ‘smoothly’?”

“Truly, I had expected to find the building in flames.” Minimus said, bluntly. “Anything less than that is a victory. Besides – you have affected quite the atmosphere of discipline in my absence.”

Megatron inclined his head and whispered conspiratorially. “They even turn up on time in the mornings, now.”

Minimus flushed and turned his head away.

The silence grew too much for both of them.

“Do you-“ Minimus said.

“I have-“ Megatron said, at the same time.

Minimus cleared his throat. “Do you have some form of entertainment?”

“I was about to say,” Megatron said, and pulled out a copy of the library book Minimus had seen stacked up in the hallways. “I have this. The original. I could read it aloud to pass the time.”

“That would be acceptable.” Minimus said, and meant it. It would absolve him of having to speak. Megatron was remarkably intelligent.

And then Megatron spoke, with a slow, fascinating rythmn, like the patter and movement of falling rain.

“Blue! ‘Tis the life of heaven, the domain

Of Cynthia, the wide palace of the sun…”

Poetry. To his horror, Minimus found himself slightly charmed by Megatron’s sonorous tones. He could not allow such a ridiculous emotion. Minimus sought out the source of fondness inside him that had sprouted. He tried to crush it, in vain.

There was something delicate in the air, something fragile. An intangible, invisible thing, hanging in the darkness. Minimus couldn’t say what it was, or why it was there, only that he was terrified of breaking it with words.

But thankfully, he had no obligation to speak – he only needed to listen.

Chapter Text

Megatron walked with Red Alert to the last apartment building of the city.

When Red Alert had come to the Lost Light – jittery, flicking his head towards the windows and exits – Megatron had not been overly surprised that he was looking for a newer, safer apartment. It was common news in the papers that the DJD had burned down his old apartment complex.

But thankfully, the place they were going to now certainly screamed ‘safe’. The building was not a part of Metroplex, and as such, the short slab-like walls and hard floors belied a war-born style of construction. The place had been constructed as a fortress. It made the rest of the glittering skyscrapers look out of place.

“So, do my new roommates have a history of excessive violence, criminal activity, or manipulation?” Red Alert asked.

“Yes, they do.” Megatron led the way to the elevator. “They’re Autobots.”

Red Alert looked at him, slightly annoyed. “I said ‘excessive’.”

“Their names are Cerebros, Fortress Maximus, and Prowl.” Megatron answered. “I believe you are familiar with their files.”

“Oh.” Red Alert said. “Prowl. Fair enough.”

Red Alert was a red and white bot. Stillness seemed a foreign concept to his head, and he casually, constantly, scanned their surroundings. But here out on the edge of the city there was nothing to see: only the snow littered lines of monuments stretching out into the desert. Above, clouds coiled overhead like the underside of waves, like white marbled stone. The pink sun was falling in the sky.

They walked up the hallway of the apartment building together, and at a certain door, stopped and slowed.

“Er.” Red Alert winced under the uncomfortable sound of bickering within the room. “Is this me?”

“This is the correct apartment number.” Megatron had to speak up to be heard.

“Right.”

They stared at the closed door for a moment while the fight inside continued.

“Maybe this is the wrong building.” Red Alert said, hopefully.

Megatron sighed and knocked sharply on the door. The raised voices broke off.

When Prowl opened the door, he immediately glowered at Megatron.

“Oh. You.” One of Prowl’s optics twitched. He spat out the invitation as if giving an order on the battlefield. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

The black and white bot led Megatron and Red Alert to a quaint kitchen table, where a silent Fortress Maximus was seated as far from the door as was physically possible. Prowl sat at the opposite end with a sheaf of papers, as far from Fort Max as was physically possible.

Bustling about the kitchen was a much smaller bot.

“Want a cup?” He said, cheerfully.

“What?” Megatron narrowed his optics at them in suspicion. Red Alert eyed the stranger in a similar manner.

“Energon. Want a cup?” The bots visor widened. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m Cerebros. Nice to meet you!”

He put out his hand. Red Alert tentatively shook it, as though braced for an explosion.

“So, rent is once a fortnight.” Prowl spoke to Red Alert as though Fort Max was not emanating a murderous aura. “I understand you lost a lot of your possessions in the fire, and so it’s fine that you won’t be able to afford it yet. That said – if there’s any way you could pay for your own energon, that would be a big help.” Prowl handed a paper to Red Alert. “I wrote down some local places you can apply for jobs. Do you have any particular interests or skills?”

“One moment.” Megatron said, and turned to Cerebros. “Outside, we could not help but overhear…”

“Oh, you just came at a bad time.” Cerebros explained. “They fight every couple of weeks, you see – we’re on the downswing now. But in my opinion, it’s nothing a good cup of energon won’t fix!”

At the far end of the table, Fortress Maximus snorted. A puff of dark smoke guttered out from his vents in a visible indication of internal rage. His arms were folded, and his red gaze was heavily trained on Megatron.

“So.” Fort Max said. “How’s the Lost Light?”

“Can we save the small-talk for later?” Prowl snapped. “I am trying to sort out our new roommate.”

“I was only going to ask about Ultra Magnus.” Fort Max turned his head to the side and muttered. “Now there’s a bot who knows how to keep things clean.”

“Oh, not this again.” Prowl smacked the sheaf of papers flat against the tabletop. “My chore-wheel is perfectly satisfactory. I don’t see the need to change it.”

“And I still think we would be better off having a set day of every week to do everything! As a group!” Fort Max’s tank alt-mode engine gave an ominous background rumble.

“Hey!” Cerebros jumped in between them. “Who wants energon?”

You could have cut the tension with a knife.

“Actually.” Fortress Maximus stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Cool down.”

“Very intelligent.” Prowl nodded. “You do that.”

Megatron winced as the giant bot slammed the front door behind him with enough force to rattle the glasses in the cupboards.

In the ringing silence after the other bot’s exit, Megatron found the interior of the apartment extremely fascinating. Surreptitiously, Megatron looked across at Red Alert, to see what he would think of such a volatile living environment. The bot was perusing the list Prowl had handed him with a laser-like focus.

“Er.” Red Alert addressed the list. “So.”

“So sorry about him.” Cerebros placed a cup down on the table in front of Prowl.

“Really, you just came at a bad time.” Prowl insisted.

“I get it.” Red Alert sighed and held up a hand to forestall Prowl’s assurances. “No really, I do. Rung warned me there would be problems to living in a close environment with other bots, and if this is the worst of it, I think I can handle it.”

Prowl and Cerebros relaxed in unison, their frames losing tension in such perfect symmetry that Megatron wondered briefly if the two were sparkbonded.

Prowl sipped his energon and exhaled. “Good.”

“Yeah, because we were really starting to struggle with the rent.” Cerebros laughed. “I was thinking I’d have to start smuggling sub-space filtered engex again.”

“Wait, what?” Prowl frowned. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Hence the word ‘smuggling’, Prowl.” Cerebros’ visor widened. “Er. Don’t tell Max.”

“I don’t believe this.” Prowl was staring at Cerebros in righteous outrage. “We live with Fortress Maximus: the newest Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, and you have been smuggling engex-“ Prowl cut himself off with a sigh. “Is there any other criminal activity I should know about?”

“Nnno.” Cerebros wrung his hands. “Nothing recent, anyway.”

Red Alert blinked but then visibly moved on. “Anyway, I just need to know this place is safe. From Tarn or from – whatever.”

“Have there been any problems?” Megatron asked, quietly, and the question had the tone of an order.

Prowl looked him up and down, and then smiled the honest smile of the true bastard. “No, nothing. Some minor reports. Perhaps you could investigate them for us, and put all our minds at ease?”

Megatron didn’t trust the strategist for a second. “Reports?”

“Ghosts.” Cerebros said.

With Megatron out, Minimus was perhaps the only one in the Lost Light actually doing paperwork.

At the present moment he was doing the accounting to relocate those affected by Tarn’s most recent ‘celebration’. Finishing one sheet, he placed it delicately on top of a nearby stack, and then took another form off the peak of a second bureaucratic tower. The process of filling out all the individual details soothed something in his soul.

Tailgate was still missing. Rewind had gone over security tape after security tape, with no results. Arcee’s attendance records revealed that Cyclonus had not turned up for the night shift. And Minimus had even questioned Mirage – as casually as possible, so as not to incur suspicion – if he had seen the blue bot in Cyclonus’ photo. But his other boss had seen nothing.

It was frustrating and draining. Someone had disappeared, and all his best efforts had proved useless.

“Excuse me, Minimus?”

A shadow covered his desk. A mountain of a bot towered above, and the angle prevented him from making out their face. It was decidedly uncomfortable addressing such a tall client from a seated position.

“Ah, Fortress Maximus.” Minimus recognized him as he straightened up. “Do you need help with the implementation of a delicate section of the Tyrest Accord?”

“Er, no.” Fortress Maximus shuffled his feet, and Minimus fancied that the floor creaked under him. “No. The job’s fine. I’m all set with it, thanks.”

“Ah.” Minimus was a little disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, at any rate, if you want to read over the Tyrest Accord together sometime-“

“I was actually wondering if Rung was here today?” Fort Max interrupted him. Now that Minimus was looking for it, the large bot did seem a little on edge.

“He should be.” Minimus answered, and watched the other bot walk away. The height difference between them was quite a physical reminder of his personal inadequacy. He watched heads turn to follow Fortress Maximus; he watched the Lost Light workers look up to him. He could not help but feel conscious of the respect that Fortress Maximus commanded with merely his presence.

“Hey, Minimus, guess what?” Rodimus hopped up without warning to sit on Minimus’ desk. Behind him, Drift stood back and allowed him to act immaturely. Minimus put a hand on a stack of paper to keep it from being knocked over.

“You have found Tailgate?” Minimus said.

“What? No.” Rodimus paused. “Although damn, I wish. No. I just wanted to let you know, we’re going to see a play in a week or two.”

Rodimus and Drift, of late, had taken to searching for the missing Tailgate. They had approached this in the true Rodimus fashion – by doing whatever seemed most interesting first.

Drift – the swordsbot, the spiritualist – seemed to think Rodimus chosen for some greater fate by the universe. Minimus was wary of the effect this might have on the captain’s already inflated sense of self-importance, and the effect such reverence would have on the Tailgate investigation. For Rodimus was looking for the missing bot using the same methods he had used for years to look for the Knights of Cybertron. And Drift, ever since Rodimus had brought him out of Mederi, had scarcely left his side.

“Indeed? In that case, I hope you have f… f…” Minimus gave up. “I hope you enjoy yourselves.”

“It’s experimental theatre.” Rodimus said the words with barely restrained derision, as though the very concept was something both ridiculous and disgusting. He swung his legs back and forth. “It’s Crosscut’s premiere, he asked us to come. Ratchet’s busy, but I’ve got First Aid down, and I’ll see if I can’t rope Megs in as well…”

“I commend you for supporting him.” Minimus said. “Your point being?”

Rodimus laughed mechanically and leaned in. “I’m not suffering through this alone.” His voice and face became gaunt. “It’s about ‘information creep’. A weird play about the most boring thing ever? If I have to sit through it, so does everyone.”

Minimus sighed. “Where is it?”

Rodimus mumbled something, but gave in to a stern look from Minimus. “Swerve’s.”

“A bar? No.”

Rodimus groaned and flopped back on the desktop, scattering files everywhere. He drummed his feet against the side, in a manner that was definitely not reminiscent of a tantrum. Futile frustration burned along Minimus’ circuits. He knew he would give in. He always did. Despite Rodimus’ irritating shenanigans, Minimus still cared too much for the other bot to deny him his ridiculous requests.

Minimus closed his eyes at the mess. “Fine.”

“I love you.” Rodimus put a hand on his chest. “Have I told you that today?”

“Please get off my paperwork.”

“I love you.” Rodimus gave Minimus a winsome grin and rolled off, knocking a stack of files to the floor. “Just letting you know.”

Minimus sighed, and pushed his chair back to kneel and attend to the scattered papers. Contrary to whatever Rodimus thought, Minimus did not enjoy cleaning up the havoc his captain caused. It would have been a different story if the bot ever showed remorse for actions – he had disturbed very serious work – but every time Rodimus would grin his way out of it.

The worst part was that it worked.

His memo-bad beeped to signal an oncoming call, and with a sigh, Minimus reluctantly put down the stack of recovered papers.

“Minimus.” Megatron’s voice came through laced with static. “Am I bothering you?”

“Ah, Megatron.” Minimus was relieved it was someone with a legitimate reason to contact him. “Not at all. I was about to work through my lunch-break-”

“-As usual. I understand.” Megatron said. “And I apologize if this is perhaps too personal - but you should consider taking an actual break one of these days. I’ve found it increases my productivity immensely.”

“Hm.” Minimus considered the suggestion.

“Ah.” Megatron coughed. “I lost track of my reason for calling – have we received any reports of ghosts near the apartment building Luna-1?”

“Ghosts?” Minimus frowned, and stepped away from the desk, intending to check with Rewind. “What sector of the city would that be?”

“One hundred thirteen.” Megatron said. “The edge.”

“Ah.” Minimus slowed, and stopped. “In that case, yes, I would not be surprised if we had received such reports.”

“Why?”

Minimus hummed and tapped one finger on the top of his paperwork stack. He was unsure of how to phrase it.

“Are you there right now?” He asked, hesitantly.

“I am.”

“In that case, I suggest you simply walk out into the desert. You will understand once you see.”

Minimus was terribly afraid Megatron would ask him to describe the source of the reports outright – but thankfully, the ex-Decepticon backed down with a sigh.

“Noted.” Megatron said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Indeed.” Minimus hung up with relief and took a moment to adjust his posture. Minimus had come to expect strangeness from the Lost Light, and the scarce moments of normalcy stood out in stark relief from the background insanity. No blackmail, no intimidation, only conversations about reports and paperwork.

There was nothing inherently charming about it, really, but it was astonishing how rare such interactions could be.

An actual break. Minimus considered the idea, and found he did not mind it. At this time of day, ‘Visages’ would be quiet. Ten would, no doubt, be more than amenable to a visit.

Outside the Luna-1 apartment, it was the lunch-hour. Pedestrians and vehicles crowded the roads and the sidewalks. This was good – the more people there were, the less likely it was that he would be noticed. He fought against the flow of traffic to drive out towards the desert.

Snow on sand was strange to behold. Even stranger were the lines of monuments he passed by. No two were alike, but all were arranged in identical rows that stretched out to the side, parallel to the edge of the city. Megatron had to drive for quite a long time before he came upon emptiness.

There was something fascinating about being on the outermost boundary of something. The part where the city stopped and the desert began. There was a sense of danger – the new, the unknown – but also a sense of possibility.

Out here, on the edge, anything might happen.

Megatron transformed to root-mode, and was about to call Minimus again – to insist he explain the cause of the reports – when he spotted a familiar frame in the distance.

Megatron called out, but the cold air swallowed the sound. The scientist was too far away. He called a second time once he was closer, but Brainstorm seemed too absorbed in the monument to have heard him.

“Brainstorm.” Megatron said, directly behind the other bot.

Brainstorm jumped literally over a hundred metres. Before Megatron could blink, he had snapped into alt-mode and shot directly up into the air. There was an awkward moment where Megatron watched the scientist loop the sky above, before he sheepishly landed and transformed again.

“Whoops!” Brainstorm gave the fakest laugh Megatron had ever heard. “You made me jump! What, er, are you doing out here?”

“Investigating reports of ghosts.” At Brainstorm’s blank look, Megatron elaborated. “Red Alert has moved into a residence nearby, and wants to be certain it is safe. You?”

Brainstorms wings fluttered as if he was considering flying away again. “Hmm! Well, uh. You do know ghosts aren’t real, don’t you?”

“I was led to believe that merely driving out here would reveal to me the source of the reports, but unfortunately I have been unable to determine as such.” Megatron spoke at a lower volume, wary of startling the other bot again. “Could you possibly shed some light on the situation?”

Brainstorm looked at him for a moment. There was no sound but the wind singing on the corners of the stone rows.

“Do you see these?” Brainstorm said, and patted the column behind him. “Every one represents a battle – a place – anywhere there was a significant loss of life.” He turned his back on Megatron. “This one is Grindcore. You might know it.”

Now that Megatron was paying closer attention, he could see names listed in rows on the stone surface. Brainstorm knelt down and brushed away the snow obscuring the bottom of the list, revealing the last three names: Glit, Rev-tone, Quark.

“Yeah. Tell Red Alert not to worry.” Brainstorm sighed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Megatron looked at the lines of gravestones with new understanding. “Ah. That certainly does explain the reports…”

Brainstorm shivered where he was crouched on the ground. “Look.” He said, a little awkwardly. “Like, I don’t mean to be rude but can you… go? Like. It’s kinda hard! You being here. Because you know.” Brainstorm waved a hand at the rows of headstones. “A lot of these names are your fault! Haha.” The laugh was as brittle as the ice covering the ground.

“I see.” Megatron backed up the way he had come. “I’ll leave you be.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Brainstorm didn’t stand up. “Yeah. See you at the next DJD class.”

Megatron drove back through the graveyard. The number of headstones was overwhelming – he had seen them from a distance, from the window of Magnus’ apartment, but he hadn’t known what they were. It was a different thing to watching them going by in rows.

Belatedly, Megatron remembered that Tarn had been the commandant at Grindcore. The revelation went through him like a shot, and his engine shuddered.

He transformed. It was hard to say whether driving or walking was worse. Driving hammered in the sheer number of monuments, but at a slower pace, there was time for his processor to linger. Surely, he was not responsible for all of this? Surely not. But the battles, the locations – names sparked remembrance, and each memory fell like a red-hot anvil dropping into his mind.

“Psst.”

Megatron heard a voice from somewhere at ground level, and scanned the snow of his surroundings. There was no sign of anyone.

“Psst.” The voice came again. “Megatron. Down here – you nearly stepped on me.”

A black cat faded in from the foreground, almost like an optical illusion. Megatron recognized Soundwave’s cassette – Ravage – but what the bot wanted with him was a mystery.

“I can get you out of here.” The cat said.

Megatron did not answer, but kept walking. Normally, being offered such an out, Megatron’s mind would have been spinning rapidly, planning. But it was as if a fog hung over his thoughts. Normally razor sharp neuron circuits had been numbed.

Ravage fell into step alongside him. His red glowing optics were the only part of him Megatron was able to focus on properly. He had long suspected Ravage had covered himself in attention deflectors – nanoscopic micro-machines, which convinced casual observers that what they were seeing was unimportant – and in this, he found it difficult to keep Ravage completely in sight.

“I can.” Ravage insisted. “Where’s your roommate? Who would stop you? It would be so easy to leave. You’re alone out here.”

The ground was covered with a shell of thin ice, which his weight broke through with ease. The sand beneath the crust tugged at his muffled footsteps. Something cold brushed past his cheek. He looked up.

The snowflakes drifting down gently laid a white shroud over each stone.

Megatron would not give in to emotion. Emotion had all too often been a sign of sentiment, and therefore weakness, and he would not seem weak in front of his former underling.

“I can get you away.” Ravage repeated.

Megatron contemplated it a little longer. He examined the opportunity he was being offered, the opportunity to escape his fate. His future loomed. Be it Tarn or his trial, Megatron could not see an end in which he went free.

He didn’t want to die.

But neither had the bots whose names lay carved onto the sides of the sad monuments. He owed it to them not to shirk at the abyss. Under the blank snow, under the shadow of a thousand dark gravestones, Megatron dismissed the idea of escape. He owed more to those who were alive and had to live with the grief. He had to make amends in the time he had left.

“No.” He said, determined, and Ravage hissed.

“Foolish.” The cat padded alongside him. “Soundwave won’t be happy.”

“Ah, Soundwave.” Megatron said. “He was worried about you, you know.”

“I know.” Ravage sighed. “I could feel it in my spark.”

“You should go see him. Assure him of your survival.”

Ravage scoffed. “He knows. No. You’re my main worry. Is this what you do now? Help bots with their everyday problems?”

“You’re welcome to join me.” Megatron said. “Look around – this is what our cause has wrecked on the race. The Lost Light work is nothing glamorous, but it’s the least I owe.”

“This isn’t like you.” Ravage sat down. Megatron stopped walking to face him. “The old Megatron – the Megatron we loved – where is he? What happened to making a better world?”

A terrible notion flickered to the surface of Megatron’s thoughts: that the world would have been a better place without him in it.

But before he could answer, the sound of a jet engine ripped up the sky above. Wearily, Megatron tipped his head back, intending to chastise Brainstorm for breaking alt-mode safety guidelines. But the red and blue jet wheeling overhead was a stranger.

“Who are they?” Megatron asked Ravage. “Do you know?”

The cat hissed and crouched back on the ground. “We have to get out of here. We’re alone out here.”

The jet landed on the squat roof of the Luna-1 apartment ahead, and rested a leg on the side of the building. Their posture gave Megatron primordial shivers. Here was a hunter, a killer, a beast of prey. They raised impossibly long forearms, and the distant sound of a growling chainsaw went straight to Megatron’s neural cluster.

“Pharma.” Ravage said, as quietly as possible.

Even from a distance, Megatron fancied he could see the gleam of the bots blue optics shining, pinning them in place.

What was it that Minimus had said Pharma wanted? His report had been unclear, but Megatron remembered the mention of a certain hatred of Tarn. Megatron’s processor clicked, as if coming online again, and thawed circuits hummed with renewed fervour.

“What if we were to hire him?” Megatron said, to himself.

Ravage heard, and looked up at him with revulsion. “He nearly killed-”

“Under orders.” Megatron reminded him. “It was his job to see to intruders. If we offer him a better deal: a chance to get back at Tarn…”

Ravage eyed the distant bot with distaste. “I don’t like it.” He said, eventually. “Even if he agrees, he’s a loose cannon, and he’d just as soon kill you as Tarn.”

“I know.” Megatron said. “I have in mind a way to prevent that.”

“Hmm.” Ravage looked up to him. “Alright. I trust your judgement. Call him down.”

Megatron waved to the ominous figure watching from the roof. Pharma’s head tilted to the side in amusement. Ravage ducked behind Megatron as Pharma transformed and flew down to land in front of them.

He was smaller than Megatron had been expecting. He did not have that quiet, malevolent aura that pervaded the area of any place Tarn was in; he did not have that stoic determination to kill. He appeared, if Megatron had been forced to define it, unhinged. Something in Pharma was clearly off kilter, but it was an instability that exuded an incredible amount of self-possession. It was nearly enough to convince one that it was the rest of the world that was off balance.

“What brings you out here on this fine evening?” Pharma spoke, and Megatron was surprised to hear how professional the bot sounded. He had forgotten, but Pharma had once been a doctor.

“I could ask you the same.”

“Curiosity.” Pharma said, and shot a friendly smile at the cat hiding behind Megatron’s legs.

“We have an offer for you.” Megatron said.

“I do love money.” Pharma said. “But I’m afraid I’m already employed.”

“It’s to do with Tarn,” Megatron said, and Pharma stiffened. “At some point, we’re going to take down the DJD. At that time we’ll need all the support we can get.”

Pharma’s expression became less unsettling at this, and for a moment, he almost reminded Megatron of the happy, peaceful bot he had seen in Ratchet’s photo.

But as soon as the brief calm was there, it collapsed into something self-aware and painful. Pharma tossed his head to shake it away, and snowflakes dodged the wind of the motion.

“Say you get a group together.” He said, and transformed his chainsaw arms into normal hands with the familiar sound of shifting metal. “Say the day of a grand battle comes, and that Tarn is all but defeated. At that time I don’t want to be there as mere support. I want to be the executioner. I want to be the one to do it.”

“Done.” Megatron said. “But in return, you do not disturb anyone at the Lost Light, nor their clients or associates.”

Pharma’s optics flickered like the rim of a candle, blue for all that it was hotter than the rest of the flame. “Very well. I’ll leave Ratchet be, for now. How do I contact you?”

Megatron stood tall. “You do not. We will contact you at the time of Tarn’s execution. If we see you in person outside of those times we have outlined, we shall consider you a threat.”

Pharma shrugged his shoulders, and Megatron caught the card he spun through the air. “Fair. Here’s my number. And just so you know… if I don’t get Tarn’s head on a silver platter at the end of this, I’ll track you down. Deal?”

“Deal.” Megatron nodded and Pharma transformed and flew away. Only a light, friendly laugh hung in the air where he had once been.

“Foolish.” Ravage said, where he was shaking behind Megatron’s legs. “Extremely foolish.”

“Only if we don’t take down the DJD.” Megatron said.

“Well, you better.” Ravage grumbled. “Or it’s your neck on the line.”

Megatron transformed, and waited for Ravage to climb on top of his alt-mode before driving away. He still saw the gravestones flicking past in his mind long after they had cleared the last monument.

He arrived back at the Luna-1 apartment at the same time as Fort Max returned from his walk. They stared at each other in the hallway for a second, attempting without words to determine who would open the door. In the end, Fort Max knocked.

“Ah, good. You’re back.” Cerebros did not have a mouth, but Megatron had spent enough time around Chromedome and Rewind to recognize the telltale sound of gears that meant the bot was smiling.

“How’s Prowl?” Fort Max peered over Cerebros’ shoulder. “Still mad?”

“He’s doing the washing up with Red Alert.”

“What? But that’s my job on the chore-wheel.”

“He says he’s ‘just showing Red how to do it’.” Cerebros’ visor flickered half-offline in a wink. “But when have we ever trusted what Prowl says?”

Fort Max sighed. “Is it so hard for him to just apologize?”

Cerebros and Fort Max shared a glance, finding solace in their shared familiarity with Prowl. The fact was iron-hard in their faces: it truly was impossible for Prowl to apologize, and they both knew it. But Cerebros only shrugged and beckoned Megatron inside, clearly unwilling to disturb the uneasy post-argument peace.

“Ah, Megatron.” Red Alert turned at his entrance. “Did you see to those reports? Is it anything to worry about?”

Megatron shot a glance at Prowl, who met his gaze innocently.

“The ghost sightings were superstitious fabrication due to the graveyard nearby.” Megatron said. “This area is safe.”

“Oh?” Prowl clicked his tongue. “What a shame to waste your time like that. I hope it didn’t take too much out of your day?”

Megatron stared him down, lie for lie. “Not in the slightest.”

Prowl snorted and went back to drying glasses. Beside him, wrist-deep in bubbles, Red Alert and Cerebros scrubbed them clean.

“Thanks.” Red Alert spoke with his back to Megatron. “Say hi to Rodimus for me, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Megatron smiled genuinely, even though Red Alert was unable to see it. “I was happy to help.”

Red Alert hummed acknowledgment.

There was a lengthy pause in the conversation. Megatron examined the walls, uncomfortable with showing even the barest hint of sentiment, and found that the paint was fresh. The walls had not yet been scuffed and cleaned a thousand times, and the floors were not yet well worn. There was a new atmosphere to the place.

Fort Max, Cerebros, and Prowl were staring at him pointedly. Megatron jumped.

“Oh, I apologize.” Megatron sped to the door, surpassing light-speed in attempt to rectify his awkward mistake. “Goodbye.”

No sooner had Megatron left the Luna-1 apartment than he heard the bots inside complaining through the door.

“This is a change, Prowl.”

“Yes, well, the arrival of a new roommate has thrown off my delegations completely. As much as I hate it, it may be worth – on a trial basis – attempting your ‘group’ idea.”

“Rung says you shouldn’t resist change.” Red Alert was muffled. “You should-“

Cerebros interrupted. “If you say ‘embrace it’ I’ll glass you.”

Friendship born of mutual bitterness. There were worse things on which a relationship could be based. Megatron drove home, and the streetlights turned on one by one in his wake.

The twilight Lost Light agency was empty but for Minimus.

He went around the room and tidied up as best he could in preparation for the night shift’s arrival – it was ridiculous. There were over fifty desks on the floor, but only three of them were ever clean at the end of the day.

As he understood, tonight would have been movie night for the other Lost Light bots. But with neither Tailgate nor Cyclonus in attendance, the others had felt uncomfortable with maintaining their usual routine.

He nodded as he passed Arcee at the exit/entrance. The pink bot raised a hand to him in return, and that was happily the extent of their socialization.

Tired afternoon light wafted in the large glass window back at his apartment. He could hear Megatron making little noises in the kitchen, but Minimus just wanted to sit down. Just for a while. After a day of everyone else’s company, could he not be forgiven for wanting a little time to himself?

But first, a glass of energon. Minimus hesitantly wandered out into the kitchen.

“Ah, Minimus.” Megatron said. “Welcome home.” He hung in place a moment after the greeting, as if unsure of how to follow it up, but then merely nodded.

“Megatron.” Minimus inclined his head in return.

“How was your day?”

Minimus narrowed his eyes at this seemingly innocuous question. ‘How was your day’ was a line that constituted ‘small talk’ and therefore he did not feel at home answering it.

“Good.” He settled on, tersely, but before he could go into more depth Megatron shook his head.

“I apologize.” The other bot busied himself pouring two glasses of energon – one bright green, one regular. “No, don’t feel obligated to continue that vein of discussion – I don’t know what came over me.”

Minimus sighed. “Primus, thank you. I was worried for a moment you had decided to attempt light conversation.”

Megatron handed him the cup of regular energon. “What would have been next – anecdotes?”

Minimus shuddered. “Spare me.”

The reason for Megatron’s earlier kitchen noises became clear: he had been heating the energon. This was a delicate process, for the fuel was volatile at higher temperatures, but Minimus supposed his efforts could be considered a success. It was better than the time Rodimus had blown up half his kitchen.

“I do have an anecdote for you, however.” Megatron said. “It concerns Pharma.”

Minimus stayed mute while Megatron explained the terms of the deal he had made.

“I see.” Minimus said, eventually. “Forgive me, Megatron, but this level of idiocy is rather unexpected from you.”

Megatron jerked his head up. “Idiocy?”

“As far as I can surmise, you have put yourself in danger, in order to prevent a nebulous threat to the Lost Light.” Minimus fumbled for words. “I just- it is idiotic! What manner of self-sacrificing recklessness possessed you-“

“I should think Rodimus has been a greater influence on me than either of us expected.” Megatron mused, quietly.

Minimus unruffled. “Oh. I suppose. Yes, indeed.” He shook himself. “But still foolish. You are of no use to the Lost Light dead.”

Megatron half-turned away, as if hardly daring to pose the question. “Minimus, were you… worried?”

“Worried?” Minimus felt his faceplates heating up. He placed the cup on the counter, wrapped his hands around it, and welcomed the pain-tinged warmth. “I- that is, we – not at all. It is merely that the contributions you provide the DJD case are vital. You are sorely needed. By the Lost Light.” He cleared his throat. “Make sure you inform Ratchet of the threat Pharma no longer poses.”

“I will. So.” Megatron said, after a languid silence. “Do you have a ‘Visages’ shift tonight?”

Minimus searched the tabletop, as if hoping to find an answer there. “No.” He had to force the words out. It was still so strange to have Megatron know of his other job. “I am available Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday nights, from the hours of six to twelve. Mirage calls upon me at those times only.”

“I see.” Megatron said. “So would it perhaps be possible for us to schedule an after-hours catch-up on one of your available evenings?”

“’Catch-up’ implies tasks that were not completed earlier, when they should have been.” Minimus pointed out, sternly.

“Yes I know.” Megatron said. “I cannot think of a more fitting definition, however. I would have phrased it as ‘an allotted time-slot dedicated to the perusing of DJD reports in order to keep up to date with the latest news’ but it wasn’t very ‘snappy’ as Rodimus would say.”

Minimus sipped his energon and was a little disappointed to find he had missed the perfect time to drink it. The temperature had cooled a little beyond what he would have preferred – sixty degrees, with a ten percent margin for error – but he sipped again anyway, before it lost even more of its heat.

Minimus realized Megatron was still waiting for an answer. “Oh! Oh, yes, that would be highly acceptable. Shall we make it every week, today at eight?”

Megatron pressed his lower body against the edge of the counter, and leant his weight onto his elbows where they rested on the tabletop. “Just to clarify: it would merely be reading. If either of us were to find a potentially useful detail, it would of course only be prurient to share it-”

“-But conversation would not be an imperative.” Minimus finished Megatron’s sentence.

The ex-Decepticon smiled. “Exactly.”

“Hmm.” Minimus put a hand over his mouth in case his faceplates attempted a similar expression. “At any rate. Until then, if you require me I will be in the study.”

“Yes.” Megatron straightened up, looked out the window with shadowed optics. “Ah, Minimus, before you go…”

“Yes?”

Megatron gripped his cup of energon in both hands. “I understand why you were reluctant to tell me outright the source of the ghost reports. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh. Yes.” Minimus paused at the door. The atmosphere – which had before been almost bearable – was now awkward and tense. “Having seen the monuments for yourself, you do understand how hard the place is to describe…”

“I do.” Megatron swallowed visibly. “This may sound pretentious, but words don’t do it justice. They really don’t.”

Minimus examined the figure of the other bot for a moment. Megatron’s body had become peculiarly hunched over around the cup, which he held close in front of him. His optics were dark. His shoulders were held high and protectively, guarding against something internal.

Minimus half-reached out a hand, thinking to say something – but what could he say? He was inexperienced with comforting others. He aborted the motion self-consciously.

“Indeed.” Minimus said, stiffly, falling back on a more familiar topic. “Well. I will be in the study. If you need me.”

“Noted.” Megatron nodded at the tabletop. “Thank you.”

Minimus hovered still. “I look forward to ‘catching up’ in two hours time.”

Megatron dipped his head again, as if lost far away.

Seeing that the other bot had mentally left the conversation, Minimus lowered his guard.

“Thank you for the energon.” He said, quietly - secure in the knowledge that even if Megatron heard, he would not care. He withdrew to the study, relieved to finally have time to himself.

As such, Minimus missed the moment when Megatron looked up, and found only the empty, abandoned doorway.

Chapter Text

Megatron had never been one for extravagant appearances. Yes, he waxed, but only as much as was healthy to maintain his paintjob. He was no Mirage, to have laid out a polish, glaze, wax, plan. It took him little time to get ready for events on the rare occasion that he attended them.

Tonight, unfortunately, was one such event.

Rodimus had insisted on his presence at the premiere of Crosscut’s play ‘Information Creep’. The most that could be said for the forced outing was that at least he would not have to endure it alone. Magnus had also been convinced to attend.

Unlike Megatron, however, Magnus was taking a little longer to get ready.

“Er – Megatron-“ Magnus strode out into the living room. “I truly hate to ask – but could you help me with something?”

“What seems to be the problem?” Megatron stood up carefully. He would not have dared presume to examine Magnus physically. Even to ask for permission to do so seemed far too bold.

“The back is stuck, I believe. First Aid was reluctant to release the armor to me, but in my over-eagerness I dismissed his warnings.” Magnus tried to turn and reach a strut in the centre of his back, but was unable to twist far enough around. The right arm of the armor hung dead at his side.

“Er.” Megatron hovered at a distance, one hand over his mouth, and the other cupped in the crook of his elbow. “Do you want to take it off, first?”

Magnus’ frame hummed with internal embarrassment. “Oh, of course. One moment.”

Magnus sat down in the second armchair, and a moment later Minimus emerged from the open chest.

In the evenings, Megatron had been reading up on Cybertronian anatomy – Magnus had a surprising number of medical texts. And so, when he bent and gently pressed under the plating, he was easily able to tell: where the strut in question integrated with the underlying circuitry, acid had melted through and weakened the connecting cables. One of them had snapped.

“One of the cables needs to be replaced.” Megatron withdrew with a sigh.

Minimus, who had been watching his ministrations with rapt attention, looked away dejectedly. “Nevermind. Please let Rodimus know why I will not be attending.” He turned and walked back down the hallway.

“Is the armor truly so vital to going out?” Megatron followed to continue their conversation. “Please explain. I do not see the necessity.”

“I cannot formally present myself in public as Minimus.” He shot Megatron a sullen glance from the entrance of the bedroom. “I would be an object of ridicule.”

If Megatron could help it, he did not want to go alone – to a bar, with Rodimus and company – as he remembered too well what had happened the last time he had done so. According to Minimus, his approach at ‘Visages’ that night had only flustered the other bot. No lasting harm had been done; yet Megatron was still mortified by the memory. Thankfully both he and Minimus were resolute in mutually ignoring that the incident had ever happened.

“Do you really think the others at the Lost Light hold so little respect for you?” Megatron leant against the doorframe and watched Minimus bustle about mindlessly, straightening the divide in the middle of the bed. “I assure you, Minimus or Magnus, Rodimus will be happy to see you there.”

“Rodimus yes, maybe.” Minimus paused in leveling out the sides of the stacked book wall. Sharp distress rose in his expression, and for a moment he stared at nothing. “The others – no. No, for a semi-formal event, Minimus is nowhere near dignified enough.”

“There, we disagree.” Megatron said, and quickly scanned the other end of the hall when Minimus jolted his head up to face him.

“Hm.” Megatron heard the other bot return to shuffling books. “Well, I am not going out without waxing, at least, for which we do not have time.”

Megatron smiled at the plural personal pronoun. “We have thirty nine minutes. Assuming Rodimus has already found a seat, we have time.”

He was correct. In the back corner of Swerve’s, Rodimus had commandeered a table, but he and his Lost Light companions had not yet sat down.

When Megatron drew near to the Rodimus group the conversation slowed. First Aid turned to stare at his approach, radiating hate. He glared at Megatron venomously.

“What’s this I hear,” First Aid said, sweetly, into the silence. “About you making deals with Pharma?”

Megatron had only informed those in his DJD class of the deal he had made. He checked the faces of those who had attended, looking for guilt, but they all became absorbed in the scenery.

“I would be happy to explain my reasoning in full, at another juncture.” Megatron said. “I assure you, however, that I am the only one in danger due to my decision.”

“So it’s true?” First Aid laughed. “The same Pharma who killed the patients at Delphi, the same who, not too long ago, tried to kill Magnus and Rodimus at Mederi. The same Pharma who murdered Ambulon-“

First Aid struggled to speak through a vocalizer on the fritz. Getaway put a comforting hand on the medic’s shoulder, and glared at Megatron with an expression of pure loathing.

“On second thought, Rodimus,” Getaway said. “I think I’ll pass this time.”

“What?” Skids looked at his friend, hurt. “Getaway…”

Getaway’s expression softened, and he lowered his voice. “I’ll take First Aid home.”

“Oh.” Skids nodded. “Oh, okay. Good idea.”

“And you, Rodimus?” First Aid managed. “You’re really fine with this?”

Rodimus coughed, and coughed again, and Megatron rolled his optics as Rodimus keeled over clutching his spark. “Oh, oh no, I think the damage hasn’t fully healed… I’m dying…”

First Aid stammered in exquisite, wordless fury. It was all too easy for Getaway to take him by the shoulders and guide him out the door.

“Okay, everyone else.” Rodimus made a sudden, miraculous recovery. “Is everyone happy with this table? Bee tee dubs, being close to the bar takes priority over a view of the stage, and I won’t hear any objections.”

As he watched, Megatron saw Minimus – who had just been about to chastise Rodimus for his immaturity – frown and mouth the phrase ‘bee tee dubs’ in disgust.

“Rodimus.” Minimus said. “Could you have waited at least a minute before completely decimating a sentence?”

“What?” Rodimus grinned. “Oh, ‘bee tee dubs’ is just a way of saying ‘btw’ which is a text shortening of ‘by the way’-“

“Stop.” Minimus put up a hand. “I can’t listen to words being stoned to death like this.”

“I think it’s a fascinating example of how our language has evolved.” Megatron said, dryly.

Minimus considered this thoughtfully, and through unspoken solidarity, they took seats next to each other when the group sat down.

“So what’s the play about?” Brainstorm asked.

“Information creep, I believe.” Megatron answered, looking at the posters. “It refers to the re-interpretation of older memories in robotic life-forms.”

“Oh, I know that!” Nautica piped up. “But in Caminus we called it ‘blurred data’. This actually sounds interesting – Nightbeat, let’s go up for closer seats.”

Rodimus watched them go with a perplexed expression; clearly confused that anyone could possibly enjoy such a dull premise. But Rodimus could not be thrown for long, and the next second he flicked his fingers at Drift.

“Hey, when you go, get me a couple of shots, alright? Something strong.” Rodimus smiled coyly at Drift. The white bot smiled back and stood up, easily allowing himself to be manipulated by Rodimus’ charm.

“What kind of engex does everyone else want?” Drift addressed the table.

“Fools Energon.” Megatron said. Rather than engex, the green energon variant was a distasteful sedative. But it was the only fuel Megatron was permitted to consume.

“Triple filtered engex for me.” Brainstorm said.

“I’d like a Brawn.” Skids said, and stood up. “Here, I’ll come with you – maybe Bluestreak will let me mix it myself.”

Drift looked at Minimus, questioning, and the green bot awkwardly raised a hand in refusal. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry.” Skids said, breezily. “Thanks to Mederi, I’m an expert. I’ll mix you something special.”

This sounded decidedly ominous to Megatron, but before Minimus could object, Skids and Drift had left. On the stage, Crosscut walked out into a spotlight.

“How long can you go without answers?” Crosscut asked the bar.

The lights and conversations around them dimmed. Bots sat down at their chosen tables. Onstage, there was neither scenery nor staging, only the harsh spotlights. Crosscut had projected rather well, and Megatron settled himself back into his chair, ready for the performance. Drift and Skids returned with everyone’s drinks just in time.

“We rewrite our histories, every day, little edits

To endure our future: our past, we forget it.”

“Oh no.” Drift glanced across at Rodimus in horror. The captain’s face had frozen into a grinning mask. “It’s in rhyme.”

Throughout the bar, chairs were pushed back. Bots who had originally intended to abstain for the evening found themselves pushing to the front of the bar crowd, or waving over the top, trying to catch Bluestreaks eye. Suddenly, nobody wanted to be sober.

Crosscut continued, weeping with dramatic passion.

“Every lost loved ghost’s an exaggerated legacy

Collected traits and details, we cling to desperately

We hold them close; hold close those reminders of them

But what are we? Learned responses, weak spark, brain stem:

Is that all that we’re mourning? Is that all that we are?

Does history define us, or are we governed by our sparks?”

The content of the monologue was not trivial. If anything, it was profound. But the words fell on Megatron like an axe blade across a lute string. Only full-processor control of his frame stopped him from wincing.

“I’m getting older just listening to this.” Rodimus said, cheerfully sliding down in his seat. “I can feel years of my life withering away.”

“Sit up.” Minimus chastised the captain. “We are here to support Crosscut. He clearly put in quite the effort.”

“You don’t understand, Minimus.” Rodimus sunk out of sight. “This physically hurts. Like, physically. Primus, I am not drunk enough for fragging poetry.”

“Language.” Minimus said. “But while it rhymes, I would be hesitant to call this poetry.”

“You would?” Megatron surveyed Minimus with curiosity. “Would you care to explain your reasoning?”

Minimus flushed, stammered something about rythmn and meter, and looked to the side.

“No, it’s poetry.” Rodimus let out a long groan all the way to the floor. “I know because I feel like I’m being hit over the head with something.”

Onstage, Crosscut pulled out a shovel and brandished it.

“Oh, good.” Megatron said, to himself. “It seems that’s how we’re meant to feel.”

Rodimus tipped back the first of his shots.

Because Megatron’s frame was held in complete discipline by his mind, he bore it stoically when the neighboring tables began to mutter. One such table shot him a slew of dirty looks, which he ignored. But he knew he had no grounds on which to object to their anger. The outer city graveyard had impressed upon him the true weight of his actions. All those names, all those monuments. How many friends had the neighboring tables lost? How many empty seats could Megatron be held responsible for? Reaching out his hand for his Fools Energon took as much effort as lifting a mountain.

“Okay, I am a genius, but.” Brainstorm narrowed his optics at the giant turbofox being wheeled out onstage. “Just – what? What’s going on? Did I miss something?”

“Pardon?” Skids frowned.

Minimus turned in his chair to address the muttering bots nearby. “Excuse me, please be quiet. Some of us are trying to enjoy the performance.”

After a few comments about ‘meddling spoilsports’, the worst of the background chatter died away. Megatron was very glad he did not have to endure the night alone.

“It’s a big turbofox.” Skids said, once Brainstorm had repeated his question.

Brainstorm rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, I got that. But what’s happening?”

“I don’t know! We’ve seen as much as you have!”

“Why doesn’t Crosscut. Just come down here. And hit me in the face with his bloody shovel.” Rodimus said, over-dramatically nursing his second empty shot glass. “How have you not drunk anything yet?”

He pointed across at the flute-glass Minimus was holding nervously in front of him, as if the liquid inside were acidic. It shimmered with golden bubbles.

“Come on, Minimus, it’s not strong.” Skids looked hurt by Minimus’ reluctance to try the drink he had mixed. “This isn’t Hedonia – it’s basically just energon – but I promise it tastes so divine it’d make engex jealous.”

Minimus scowled. “You know how I feel about exaggeration.”

“Just try it.” Rodimus pleaded with Minimus. “Relax, for once.”

“Quiet.” Megatron ordered, and was pleased when everyone stopped talking. “We are disturbing others. Try to be more respectful.”

This was not strictly true. The volume of the conversation had not risen to bothersome levels, and even at an event such as this, it wasn’t as if Swerve’s was ever quiet. There was always background chatter, even when the bartender himself was absent.

But Megatron’s interjection placed a silence into the centre of the conversation. No longer the subject of attention, Minimus examined the glass, raised it, and then sipped tentatively. It was hard to tell in the low lighting but he might have been a little flushed.

Megatron realized he was staring, and swiftly returned his attention to Crosscut’s play.

But the silence could not last. Rodimus changed his position for the third time in as many minutes.

“Hey, Brainstorm.” Rodimus made rebellious eye contact with Megatron as he spoke. “How are things going with Perceptor?”

“Oh. Perceptor.” Brainstorm tossed back the remainder of his drink and placed the glass gently to the table. “Okay. You ready? He wants to be lab partners again!”

“What? Good for you!” Drift grinned. “What changed his mind?”

“I don’t know.” Brainstorm shrugged. “One day he just comes up to me and says ‘I may have misjudged our ability to work well together’.”

“Was that all?” Skids frowned. “He didn’t say why?”

“He gave me a lot of sciencey excuses, sure, but I can’t help but feel there was something more to it… I don’t know… am I reading into this?”

“Yes.” Rodimus said, without hesitation.

“Anyway, at that point I wasn’t really listening.” Brainstorm sighed. “Primus, he’s got lovely optics. And frame. And everything.”

“I know, right? He’s so hot.” Drift grinned. Rodimus looked sideways at his friend in wounded confusion. Drift continued, oblivious. “And when he gets mad…”

Brainstorm fanned himself with a hand. “Oh, I know. Some bots wear anger so well. The way Percy wears it, Primus, it should be illegal.”

“A wrathful disposition is not against the law, and nor is it possible to wear such a thing.” Minimus entered the conversation out of nowhere. “Unless, of course, one drastically alters one’s body with physical augmentations that are violent in nature.”

The silence after Minimus’ attempted humor was so painfully tense that the lack of noise felt like it was crushing Megatron’s audio sensors. The silence seemed like a stone wall, unbreakable. Skids got up and left to join Nautica.

The benefit of the awkward silence was that it enabled Megatron to enjoy another scene in Crosscut’s play without interruption. It was clear that this outcome had not been Minimus’ intention, however, because after no one replied he shrunk down in his chair by a few millimeters and quietly, miserably, finished off his drink. Megatron felt guilty for not laughing.

Another bot – not Crosscut – took the stage. They were half shadowed by the harsh stage lights, a chiaroscuro that emphasized all the glowing lights of a Cybertronian frame. The audience tittered with unease when the stranger turned them off, one by one. The strange dead glow was unsettling.

They began a lengthy monologue, but Rodimus did not even attempt to listen. He leant across the table to prod at Minimus, who had practically slumped over the table. The lack of posture was both shocking and worrying.

“Er.” Brainstorm grinned nervously. “Is he alright?”

“Psst. Mags. Mins. Magsy.” With every nickname, Rodimus poked the bot.

To everyone’s surprise, Minimus chuckled.

Megatron was sure he had misheard. Brainstorm froze with his glass in mid-air, and it was leaking down his front. Drift wore a look of sickening saccharine concern. Rodimus just looked evil.

“Wow.” Rodimus breathed. “He’s drunk.”

“I am not.” Minimus addressed the table. “I’m having trouble enunciating, and my inbihit- my inhibib- inhibitions are significantly lowered. That does not mean I am drunk.”

“Lowered inhibitions, huh?” Rodimus wore a gleeful grin.

“Rodimus!” Drift cried out softly. “If he isn’t willing to share sober, you shouldn’t take advantage of him.”

“He just said he wasn’t drunk.” Rodimus held up his hands. “But fine – I won’t ask him why he agreed to come out today.”

“Mederi.” Minimus reached out, but missed his own glass, and instead took one of Rodimus’ shots. “Life is too short to miss out on being with people. No matter how frustrating, or inconvenient, or irritating they may be. Mederi reminded me of that fact.”

And before Megatron could correct him of his mistake, Minimus tipped the shot back. His head hit the tabletop with a dull thud.

Rodimus whistled. “Nice.”

Megatron was unable to repress his curiosity. “What exactly happened in that hotel?”

“It was different for everyone.” Drift explained. “I saw Primus, and he told me this: that my actions as Deadlock were monstrous, but the fact that I was willing to make amends – the fact that I could not stand under the weight of my mistakes – these things were enough that I was worthy of a second chance in his optics. It was what I most wanted to hear.”

Megatron stopped himself from making a face. The concept sounded perverse.

“I was captain of a spaceship.” Rodimus jumped in. “It was super cool.”

On the stage, the strange bot continued his performance, but Megatron was unable to fixate on the words, because-

Had Minimus just hiccupped?

It was either a hiccup or the electronic fritz of a voice box malfunction. It was almost a funny sound, and beside Minimus, Rodimus snorted in amused confusion.

But then he did it again, and again, and Megatron realized Minimus was sobbing.

“Oh dear.” Brainstorm said. Rodimus still smiled, as he was yet to understand the situation.

Megatron stood up. “I think I’ll take him home now.”

Brainstorm followed suit. “I’ll help you walk him to the door.”

Minimus resisted their assistance the whole way there. Brainstorm’s offered arm hovered at a respectful distance, but while Minimus swayed, he never reached out for it.

“Take care of him, okay?” Brainstorm said, once they had reached the exit, and then disappeared. Megatron watched him return – not to Drift and Rodimus, but to where Nightbeat, Nautica and Skids were watching the performance at a closer table.

Minimus had collapsed to the floor. He was still gripping the doorframe, however, and this was all that kept him from keeling over completely. The bot was in no state to drive.

“I suppose we’ll wait until you’re ready.” Megatron mused to himself.

“I can walk. We are parked not a block away.” Minimus took two steps, and showed remarkable control right up until the point where his legs became confused and he fell to the ground, giggling. “Oh, what a disaster. I should never have come.”

Megatron was lost for how to comfort him. He was also overly conscious of the fact that they were still in the entrance of the bar, and so knelt beside Minimus to shield him from the view of gawking bar patrons. He did not reach out and pat the other bot on the shoulder. He knew Minimus resented being touched.

“This is your fault, you know.” Minimus looked to the side and narrowed his optics. “You and your words.”

“I know.”

“I should never have agreed to this.” Minimus was unable to face Megatron. Somehow, that made it so much worse. He tried to stand up again but gravity lovingly pulled him back down. “This is all your fault. Take rensponsil- resbonsil- responsibility.”

“How?”

Minimus held out his arms to Megatron. “Carry me.”

“Carry-?” Megatron’s optics flared so white, so quickly, it was like the flash of a camera. For the life of him, he couldn’t say why the demand was so distressing. And he neither could explain why a deep, tiny part of him so desperately desired to obey.

“The NCA is within walking distance. It is more efficient…” More than humiliated, Minimus looked agonized. He lowered his voice. “I just want to go home.”

Irrational sentiment pulled at Megatron’s spark. He slowly obliged, putting one arm under the raised arm Minimus was offering, and the other behind his knees. He lifted him. The warm breeze of Minimus’ vents tormented Megatron, blowing against his chest. He could feel the arm resting on his shoulder, and the lax way in which Minimus lay in his arms. It felt right, and this terrified him.

Megatron strode out of the bar and down the street.

It was deep red outside, the moon above a strange pink from the dust in the atmosphere. Ice clouds fell apart in the atmosphere and sprinkled down. Rain stained the pavement in neon reflections and deadened their footsteps.

Minimus weighed less than the tension of the night street. Megatron walked with caution. It wasn’t quiet – the city was never quiet – and it would have been foolish to assume that things were peaceful as well.

Things were certainly not peaceful with Minimus.

“You and your words.” Minimus repeated, bitterly. “Why can’t you be mean?” He pushed at Megatron’s chest to emphasize his point, and stunned, Megatron let him. “Why can’t you scheme, or plot, or something – instead of being so courteous, and poetic, and, and – who are you, Megatron? A tyrant, or a… or… this! You’re so bloody difficult.”

Dazed by the rambling outburst, Megatron was only able to formulate one word in reply. “Poetic?”

Minimus lifted his helm around to contemptuously glare at him. “Had you truly assumed I was unfamiliar with your work?”

Megatron was completely stupefied. Minimus’ words echoed around his head. It had been a while since he had written anything; information creep could very well have blurred his memories of his work. What if it was bad? And why did he care if Minimus thought it was bad?

But Minimus took his silence for something else, and his optics welled up. “Oh, Primus, what am I saying? How unprofessional.”

“No, no.” Megatron objected, but halted, unsure. How hard it was to comfort another bot! “You read my poetry?”

Minimus laughed, and Megatron went gentle. The sound was a little raw, a little sad, but it enthralled him so completely he did not even have the processing capacity to be aware of his entrapment.

“It was… rather good.” Minimus told him. “Perhaps we could discuss them sometime?” Minimus beckoned Megatron closer, and caught up in the moment, Megatron leaned down.

“I would enjoy that.” Minimus whispered behind one hand.

Megatron’s step faltered. He shivered, and pulled away through iron self-control. The need to get Minimus home had become more urgent. It would not do for the bot to say something he might regret.

The rain glimmered off the wet pavement and puddled underneath the NCA. With as much care as he was capable of, Megatron placed Minimus down and let go. The bot wavered, but this time stayed upright, and even managed to get into the passenger seat on his own. Megatron closed the door behind him.

He stiffened as he caught sight of a shadow the shadows of an alley, on the other side of the street. A bot?

But before Megatron could react, the shadow slipped away back down the alley. He quickly jerked open the NCA door and pulled out from the curb. A glance in the rearview mirror showed nothing but the rain pooling on the pavement where they had been parked. No other bots, no ominous shadows. Megatron returned his attention to the road ahead.

“Minimus.” Megatron rumbled quietly, and he saw Minimus shiver out of the corner of his vision. He repressed a similar response – now was not the time.

“Hm?” Minimus said, sleepily.

“Activate your fuel intake moderation chip. Sober up.” Minimus curled closer into the seat’s embrace, ignoring him. “Please. It is extremely important.”

Minimus frowned across at him sourly, but nodded. A click sounded from within his machinery. The bot grimaced and offlined his optics at the sensation – re-activating a FIM chip was more unpleasant the more engex one had consumed beforehand. The next moment, Minimus ducked his head down and covered his mouth. This did nothing to hide the mortified blush spreading across his face.

“I apologize for sparing you blissful, blackout ignorance.” Megatron said. “However, I need your opinion on something. Did you see a bot near the NCA when we approached?”

“No.” Minimus looked out the window in obvious avoidance. “I was… significantly distracted.”

“I see. Well, thank you.” Megatron checked the rearview mirror again. “That was immensely unsettling.”

Minimus shot a nervous sideways glance at Megatron. “You think they meant us ill?”

Megatron took a corner a little faster than he had intended to. “I did not get the impression they were a newsbot.” He remarked dryly.

“Slow down.” Minimus replied shortly. “For the record, you spared me nothing. Over-fuelling does not affect my memory.”

“I see.” Megatron pressed the brake pedal to the road. Their speed did not change.

All too suddenly, the flicking streetlights going by outside seemed to be moving far too fast. The dark sped past in blurry dirty walls and windows, in half-forms of doorways and strangers.

“Megatron.” Minimus’ voice grew steel-hard. “Slow down.”

“I can’t.”

“You what?”

“I can’t slow down.” Megatron pumped the brake pedal mechanically, as if repetition would yield different results. “I can’t stop.”

“We cannot stop.” Minimus corrected, and raised his head to examine the road ahead.

“They must have cut the brakes.” Megatron muttered to himself unconsciously, a processor to mouth thought-flow spurred on by the high-stress scenario. He peered into the gloom, expecting at any moment to see a too-sharp corner, or a dead end. “That shadow – one of the bots from Swerve’s, perhaps…”

“Megatron.” Minimus calmly cut off his rambling. “In four hundred metres, the road splits into two. The right turn is less extreme.”

The buildings pressed in on either side, constricting. Megatron kept every iota of his attention on the road, to the point where the strength of his focus pounded an energon-blood drumbeat in his processor. In four hundred metres, he turned right. The car slipped a little on the ice-speckled tarmac. Megatron’s fingers left dints in the steering wheel.

“Good.” Minimus said. For all the emotion in his tone, he could have been reading DJD reports, or telling a joke. “Now, there is a traffic light up ahead. If it is red, go through. It is illegal, yes, but unavoidable.”

The traffic light was red, but thankfully it had only recently turned, and when they went straight through they caused no accidents.

“Good.” Minimus repeated, and guided Megatron down street after street. Things swum out of the darkness towards their headlight lit bubble, and signs appeared out of nowhere, but Minimus’ voice never changed. Even as they barely avoided too-close cars. Even when the NCA shuddered underneath them on a rough patch of road. Even as the headlights coming the other way blinded them, and Megatron felt sure that this was it – Minimus’ voice never varied, but remained that soothing, constant tone.

“Oh.” Megatron recognized the Luna-1 apartment building up ahead.

“Indeed.” Minimus said, and they drove headlong out into the desert.

The terrain change tugged at the wheels. A strange sensation of recklessness overcame Megatron, now that the only danger was the headstones passing by on either side. Killed by a gravestone! Perhaps he was delirious, but Megatron found the irony deeply amusing.

Still, it would not do to crash. Minimus was beside him, after all. They cleared the last monument, and then there was nothing but the flat cold wastes, as barren as the surface of the moon.

“I am going to activate the emergency brake.” Minimus said. “I want you to keep us steady.”

“What?” Megatron frowned. “Why wait until now?”

“Because it has to be done slowly, otherwise there is a chance you may lose control of the vehicle.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s more than fair, I would say.”

“I am glad you agree.” Minimus said, and activated the brake slowly, and steadily.

The friction of the snow and sand scraped at the wheels and dragged them back. Megatron choked the wheel with both hands to keep them on course. It seemed that they would slow to a stop without issue – and then a rock seem to pop into existence out of the darkness.

Megatron swerved to avoid it, and lost control of the vehicle.

 When the world stopped shaking, spinning, Minimus dragged his head up off his chest.

Overhead, the light rain still sprinkled, falling in the intermittent moonlight like tiny red sparks from a fire. A thousand drops fell and spun in the light, hanging incandescent for a brief moment. Then they landed on the windscreen and were flicked away by the wipers.

The NCA had stopped.

Minimus put out a shaking hand to touch the door, the dashboard. He had to physically make sure before he could relax. The engine was still running, and quickly he reached across Megatron’s lap to turn it off.

Beside him, Megatron was venting heavily for air. Cycling cooler air to overheated systems was a useless endeavor in such a hot environment – they had steamed up the windows with the heat of their frames – but Megatron continued; five seconds in, and then out again for five, and repeat. Minimus followed suit to calm his buzzing nerves.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. You?”

“The same.”

Tyre marks tracked the ground in front of them. In the chaos, the car had been spun around, and there was Autobot City! Visible in front of them, a mass of distant glowing lights almost on the horizon. Minimus sat back in his seat and closed his eyes.

“If Primus had intended his children to drive Non-Cybertronian Automobiles.” Minimus said. “He would not have given them alt-modes.”

Megatron let out a rush of air in a half sigh, half chuckle, which quickly escalated to open laughter. Minimus knew it was only the leftover energy that made Megatron appreciate his joke so much; but the sound warmed his spark anyway. Minimus almost felt drunk again – this time on relief.

“Next time.” Megatron’s voice was still thick with humor. “I’d prefer a quiet evening in.”

“Likewise.” Minimus sighed. “At least we supported Crosscut.”

“I wonder how the play ended?” Megatron mused. “We never saw…”

Megatron trailed off at the same time as the events of the night struck Minimus in succession. Leaving without his armor. Getting drunk. Speaking to Megatron in a – Primus forbid – candid manner. Humiliated, mortified, Minimus opened the NCA door.

“I am checking that nothing is damaged.” He explained, and stepped out.

The car door shut solidly behind him. Minimus immediately shivered and hugged his plating closer to his frame. It was cold in the desert at night. Three loops of the NCA later revealed that it was miraculously unharmed, and lacking anything else to check, Minimus faced the facts: it truly was impossible to think that Megatron held any measure of respect for him now. He could not have shamed himself more.

A gut-deep objection hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest when Megatron opened his door as well. Silently, Minimus begged Megatron to go back inside. He pulled out his memo-pad and scrolled mindlessly through old reports to occupy himself.

Megatron’s voice caught in his throat as he started to speak. “You were right, you know.” He folded his arms and wandered over to lean on the hood next to Minimus. “When you asked me if I was a tyrant or… something else. I can’t reconcile myself either.”

Minimus tensed, uncomfortable at the divulgence, but considered Megatron’s words. The cold sucked all energy from his frame and left him tired and unsympathetic.

“I will not try to comfort you.” Minimus said, curtly. “You know I am not good at it. But when I said that, I was thinking about your previous actions and your actions now. They do not line up whatsoever.”

“You understood perfectly.” Megatron said. “I look back and I’m filled with disgust, but it’s ridiculous to think simply feeling bad could ever make up for everything I’ve done.”

“Indeed.” Minimus said, with a powerful certainty. “And neither can you expect others to forgive you.”

“Forgiveness, yes.” Megatron’s voice sounded achingly weary. “The need to make amends is so immense I may collapse under it, and to undertake it is both terrifying and perhaps the only thing that will give me peace.”

Glowing water sprinkles landed on the memo-pad screen and were buffeted away by the numbing wind. Minimus turned it off and put it away.

Peering through the clouds above, the stars made searing pinpricks in the dark blue canvas of the sky. Minimus felt a little dizzy at the vastness of space. Here, grounded, he was all too aware of how tiny their planet was, how hopeless their track through space. He felt like a pilot on the bridge of a spaceship with no control over the course. They couldn’t stop, even if they wanted to.

But it was not completely dreary. There had been a thousand poems written about the stars, a thousand metaphors of love and death: for they could not help but resemble a thousand distant sparks. The night sky was an intimate thing, to Cybertronians. A romantic thing.

“It’s freezing.” Megatron commented. “Do we want to transform and drive home for the night, or stay here?”

“What night? Dawn is in four hours.”

Getting back into the NCA felt like sinking into a warm bath. The cold had seeped deep down into Minimus’ struts in the time that he had been outside. He was terribly conscious that Megatron’s larger frame was putting out a significant amount of heat – he remembered it intimately, being held against the larger bots chest. In a bridal carry. Shame warmed him. He did not want to be held again, no matter how supported, or how safe, or – and this thought, his processor whispered – how loved it had made him feel.

Wind whistled over the windows. Outside the car was a barren, open plain. Minimus checked to make sure the doors were locked before adjusting his seat and lying back. Beside him, Megatron had already done the same.

“If you’re interested, I could… no.” Megatron broke off.

“Share.” Minimus insisted, curiosity roused.

“I remember one poem I performed a reading of. It wasn’t mine, but if you like, I could recite it for you.”

There was something to be said for an unfamiliar setting. It allowed one to say things one wouldn’t in a mundane environment.

“I… yes. I would like that.” Even this small admission was almost too much. For Minimus, poetry was something extremely personal. “I cannot sleep, so if you would be willing to recite something – yes, that would be acceptable.”

Megatron spoke softly in the darkness. He was distractingly close. Not a day beforehand, Minimus would have been furious with himself for focusing on such a detail, yet sometime during the night his anger had burned out.

“I am tired,” Megatron continued.

“My bed is my kingdom.

My sleep is just

My dream is my verdict.

I hung my clothes on a chair

For tomorrow.

He hung his kingdom

In a frame of golden wrath

On the sky’s wall.

My arms are short, like string too short

To tie a parcel.

His arms are like the chains in a harbor

For cargo to be carried across time.

He is a dead king.

I am a tired man.”

Minimus’ frame burned with an ineffectual despair. How dare he. How dare Megatron make him feel so-! It ached physically. Here was a bot whose crimes could not even be comprehended in their magnitude. Here was the most despicable, sadistic Decepticon tyrant – leader – king, their world had ever known. And yet…

“Yes.” Minimus ventured, against his better judgment. “You would find a certain truth to that one.”

Megatron was mute for long enough to make Minimus think the conversation was over. When finally he spoke, it was a surprise.

“What did you think of it?” Megatron’s voice gave no hint to his emotional state.

“You want my opinion?” Minimus was taken aback. “I admit. The sentiment in it is all but alien to me. But why should that matter?”

“Why indeed?” Megatron asked, quietly.

“Because it is a good poem.” Minimus replied. “Because poetry does not merely describe an experience. It is something to be experienced. And only in doing so can we discover some kind of – of – rightness, some kind of verity, beyond what we already know and think.”

Megatron did not speak, but Minimus felt the breath of his vents in the close space. He regretted his divulgence immediately. It was so quiet he could hear all the little sounds of Megatron’s frame. The click and whirr of tiny gears, the faint hum of ventilation systems, and most intimate of all: the background electric whisper of his spark, purring in the darkness.

“In other words,” Megatron said, in almost a whisper. “Poetry carries us outside ourselves – outside our everyday constraints – and yet also deeper into ourselves…”

Minimus had seen a bonfire only once. It had been part of a ceremony, at a festival of some kind that Rodimus had dragged him along to. Minimus had watched as they had stacked up the dry and brittle sticks into an impenetrable mound. Then, a bot had reached beneath with a match.

Minimus felt like the bonfire, like he was being lit up from the inside.

“Exactly.” Minimus said, ardently. “That is why I-“ He cut himself off before he could reveal any greater secrets about himself.

“That’s why you…what?” Megatron asked.

Minimus had already humiliated himself utterly. What was one more secret?

“That’s why I enjoy…”

But this was more than a secret. Minimus’ own attempts at poetry were too intensely private, too immature. He did not have Megatron’s large, carrying voice, as large and as powerful as the city. In the face of that, Minimus would rather have shared anything – everything – but his own fumbling attempts at introspection.

“Perhaps you could recite another.” Minimus said, in a tone to suggest that he was now finished talking.

Megatron took this with grace, and obeyed.

“Where’s the Poet? Show him! Show him,

Muses nine! That I may know him…”

If there would ever be the perfect person for Minimus, it would be Megatron. It seemed cruel that only now at the end of his days, having achieved all he had set out to do, he was presented with such a dilemma. Oh, if only the ex-Decepticon were anyone else! Anyone else, perhaps, he could have forgiven – but Megatron’s past actions were completely indefensible.

And yet – and Minimus put a hand to his mouth, exceedingly flustered – Megatron was changing. He had changed – he was an Autobot, he was learning. Perhaps it was foolishness, but Minimus desperately wanted to believe the best of him.

Megatron’s voice was quiet, low and gravelly, and it thoroughly – effortlessly – melted Minimus’ poor spark. Anguished, Minimus was slowly carried off to sleep by the sound.

Chapter Text

The city never slept.

The end of the war had spat out the remaining Cybertronians into Autobot City – named after the Autobot Titan, Metroplex. His brain was too large to ever go completely offline. There was always some facet of his processor awake and thinking about the tiny lives of the sparks scuttling over his skyscraper-body.

The city never slept. The remaining Cybertronians’ dreams had been scarred by the war - too badly for sleep to come peacefully ever again.

Minimus Ambus yawned.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Megatron asked. “I understand.”

Minimus felt briefly ashamed for yawning – how undignified! But a brief glance at Megatron’s expression revealed only empathy. He did understand. Minimus relaxed.

“I have been having trouble, yes.” Minimus admitted. The two of them entered together through the doors of the Lost Light help agency. “What do we do, Megatron? We have made practically no progress investigating the DJD. We have no idea what Tarn is planning, no way of defeating him-“

“-And no idea where they are.” Megatron finished, word for word what Minimus had been intending to say.

Minimus hummed in tired agreement. “Perhaps if we work harder.” He sighed. “We have thousands of DJD reports, thousands of recorded previous headquarters – there must be something we missed. Something we can use.”

“I trained Tarn thoroughly.” Megatron said, his voice raw. “Once he has left a place, he never returns.”

“Never?” Minimus asked, hopelessly.

“Never.”

They took the steps to the main office in sync.

Usually, in the early morning of the Lost Light help agency, the building was all but empty.

But today – it was crowded. Minimus was used to a delightfully barren main office: across which he and Megatron would sit in comfortable silence, sharing the occasional warm glance.

He was not used to finding a massive crowd in the centre of the room, blocking something from view…

“What in the blazes?” Megatron said.

“No doubt everyone is here to see that today’s DJD meeting goes well.” Minimus said, doubtfully.

Rodimus split from the mass and flowed across the room to Megatron and Minimus. He was smiling: it was an unnerving sight at such an early hour.

“You were wrong.” Rodimus grinned up at Megatron. “Primus, I love saying that. You were wrong. Oh! It sounds so nice.”

Megatron ignored him, busy folding out the newspaper he’d been reading to Minimus on the drive there. He checked the headlines. “You’re here, Rodimus? But there were no wild parties last night…” Megatron paused. “What is it I’m wrong about, by the way?”

Rodimus pointed into the crowd. It parted, and there, just barely visible through the gaps between bystanders, was Tailgate.

“What in the blazes…” Minimus said, wonderstruck.

Tailgate had his hands under his thighs. He was swinging his legs back and forth. Velocity stood behind his chair with a medical scanner, searching in vain for any kind of injury. There was no sign at all that Tailgate had suffered at all under his kidnappers.

In fact, he looked to be in perfect health.

“I wasn’t kidnapped.”

“You’re back…” Rewind sobbed. “Oh I was so worried…”

“I wasn’t-“

“You’re back, oh Primus…”

“I wasn’t kidnapped.” Tailgate repeated it like a mantra. “I was just staying with a friend. I’m so, so sorry I made everyone worry, and I promise I’ll catch up on all the work I missed…”

At which point he was inundated with hugs and assurances to the effect of: ‘who cares about work? You’re back safe. That’s what matters’.

“I don’t understand it!” Minimus said in an aside to Megatron. “Tailgate says he was simply staying with a friend. That directly contradicts the information you received from Whirl-”

“You believed Whirl?” Rodimus scoffed. “Right. Because he doesn’t pull pranks at all.”

“…He did dare Riptide to a staring contest yesterday.” Minimus felt compelled to mention. “Riptide challenged him to twenty three rematches before he realized Whirl doesn’t need to blink.”

“He doesn’t?” Megatron inquired.

“Well, his ‘optic’ is – technically – his brain.” Rodimus explained, and shuddered. “Ugh, empurata is creepy.”

Megatron frowned. “Wait. Twenty three rematches?”

“But if Tailgate was staying with a friend,” Minimus pointed out. “We should have discovered as much during the first few weeks of his disappearance.”

“Exactly.” Megatron agreed. “Either he was being deliberately hidden, or… we weren’t following procedure.”

Rodimus grinned. “Wait. There’s a procedure?”

Both Megatron and Minimus looked at him sharply. Rodimus laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Joking! Look, it’s easy to find out if Tailgate was kidnapped or not: we ask Chromedome to examine his memories-“

“No!” Megatron snapped out like a gunshot.

The force of the refusal was alarming.

Only Minimus knew the extent of Megatron’s stress. They shared a bed, after all. Megatron had not been sleeping, either.

Night after night, Minimus would lie awake. And night after night, as he restlessly adjusted his position on the berth, he would feel it move beneath him as Megatron did likewise…

But with Tailgate back, maybe they would both find it easier to sleep at night.

He put out an arm and lightly grazed against Megatron’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“Megatron?” Minimus asked. “Are you all right?”

Megatron turned his optics back on and met Minimus’ concerned gaze for a little too long. Minimus’ hand barely brushed against Megatron’s plating. Megatron swayed, just a hint, and pressed himself more firmly into the slight touch.

“No.” Megatron said, and sighed. “Rung is the kinder option.”

Minimus pulled back his hand and told himself he was imagining the way Megatron leant after it.

“… Very well.” Minimus said, slowly. “There’s no real immediate need to know what happened.”

Minimus could still feel the heavy warmth of Megatron’s shoulder on his palm. He captured it in his other hand and rubbed the affected plating with his thumb, trying to work away the tingly electromagnetic imprint.

“You’re both taking this really well.” Rodimus waved his arms. “Tailgate’s back! He’s been missing for months!”

“Can’t you tell?” Minimus frowned at his captain. “I’m a whirlwind of emotion.”

“Indeed.” Megatron gave Minimus a horrified look. “Metaphors and conjunctions, Minimus?”

“I apologize.” Minimus said, in a severe deadpan. “I’ve been shaken to my core.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Rodimus said, sarcastically. “You almost sound casual.”

Minimus was utterly affronted. “How dare you.”

“Tailgate?” A gruff voice choked out. Minimus turned. “Are you unhurt?”

Cyclonus leaned heavily against the doorframe of the office. He clutched the wall with a grip to buckle metal, and he shook where he stood, on the verge of collapse.

“Like you care.” Tailgate’s words were filled with pain. “You’re the one that kicked me out.”

“I didn’t.” Cyclonus ground out the words with evident effort. “I… apologize for being reticent. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

Without mouth or visor, it should have been hard to determine Tailgate’s expression, and yet Minimus had no trouble. The minibot was skeptical.

“Tailgate.” Cyclonus took two stumbling steps forward, and fell to his knees. He reached out, folded his terrible claws gently around Tailgate’s hands.

“Please.” Cyclonus begged, and in his gravelly voice Minimus noted a powerful desperation. “I missed you. Deeply. I just want to know you are okay.”

The skepticism in Tailgate’s expression wavered. “I’m okay.” He leaned forward, but then pulled back. Unspoken words hung between them.

As one, the crowd shuffled uneasily. Casual bystanders became less casual. Bots made excuses to leave, and the nearby break room became an impromptu evacuation area.

Whirl waltzed into the uneasy tension like a flamethrower into a snowfield.

“Yo, Tailgate!”

Tailgate’s face lit up. “Whirl!”

Tailgate leapt at Whirl, who caught him in midair and spun him around.

“You idiot!” Whirl screeched gleefully. “We were worried sick about you!”

“Put me down, I’m fine!” Tailgate laughed and hit Whirl lightly. Whirl only cackled and nestled his featureless cylindrical head into the hollow of Tailgate’s shoulder in a proper hug. He whispered something unintelligible. Then, Tailgate was carefully lowered.

“Good to see you again, panic button.” Whirl bowed with faux politeness.

Tailgate replied in the same manner. “Same to you, nutjob.”

“Movie night tonight?”

Tailgate faltered. “Maybe not tonight…”

Minimus watched both Cyclonus and Whirl loom behind the minibot. No doubt it would be a while before Tailgate would be officially ‘back’ at the Lost Light – but in the meantime, he would be safe.

“Magnus?” Someone in the crowd tugged his elbow. “I have some important information. Since you’re the only one who keeps this agency running, well… I thought I should tell you first…”

“Ah?” Usually, flattery bounced off Minimus like a rubber ball off a wall, but this statement slipped under his plating as if precision engineered for the purpose. “Of course, Getaway. One moment.”

Minimus beckoned Megatron close and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Megatron, could you please remind Rodimus of our missing persons procedure? I wasn’t too fond of his joke, earlier…”

“Of course.” Megatron nodded, and Minimus was helplessly aware of how close this brought their heads together. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. I know I bore Rodimus. But when you give lectures, people listen.”

“I’m flattered.” Megatron scowled. “But Minimus, you mustn’t think of yourself as boring… I certainly don’t find you so.”

Minimus turned his head to the side to hide the budding flush in his cheeks. “In regards to the DJD meeting – I will do my best to be in the briefing room early, as always.”

Megatron gave him a rare smile. “As it is your best, Minimus, I think we can rest assured that it will be unparalleled.”

“Ah?” This, on top of his earlier comment, was too much. Minimus covered his mouth with a hand. His face was burning. “Hmm.”

Lately, during their Thursday evening catch-ups, or in between filing paperwork at the agency, Megatron had taken to attempting conscientious little comments or compliments. Minimus wished he wouldn’t. Every time, it made him confused and flustered. He was blushing like a rose; he knew it.

Getaway waved to the recently returned Tailgate as they left. Tailgate waved back.

Cyclonus and Whirl did not.

“You know how we all thought Tailgate was kidnapped?” Getaway asked, as he led Minimus into the break room. They were alone but for Brainstorm and Perceptor, at the far bench, absorbed in an experiment.

“Yes…” Minimus was a little distracted by the scientists. He hoped nothing would get blown up – their chemistry bench seemed dangerously messy.

“Nobody told me.” Getaway choked out. He covered his mouth nervously with one hand. At the gesture, Minimus unconsciously softened in sympathy.

“Please clarify.” Minimus asked, gently.

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” Getaway said. “The Autobot thing! When Tailgate showed up on my doorstep crying about Cyclonus, I should have asked around. I thought letting him stay with me until their fight blew over would be the Autobot thing to do – I didn’t think Cyclonus would assume he’d been kidnapped.”

“It was the Autobot thing to do.” Minimus reassured him. “Part thirteen forty two of the Autobot Code states-“

“Another time, Magnus.” Getaway hurriedly cut him off. “But in future, we might want to have someone knock on doors around the area.”

“But that is already part of procedure.” Minimus frowned. “Nobody told you Cyclonus was looking for him? Nobody told you what Whirl suspected?”

Getaway shook his head. “And nobody came knocking.”

Behind them there was a sputter, a flash of bright light, and a loud pop.

Across the room, a smoking glass of golden energon shimmered in the centre of Brainstorm’s chemistry station.

“The ritual is complete.” Brainstorm spoke in a hollow drone. Beside him, Perceptor nodded.

This ominous phrasing caught Minimus’ attention. He crossed over. In his smaller form, Minimus was not able to loom properly, but he gave it his best attempt. Brainstorm snickered. Minimus stopped attempting.

“Please explain what’s going on here. Is this more cult activity, Brainstorm?”

“Honestly. I summon one eldritch abomination and everything I do is ‘cult activity’.”

Perceptor shook his head disdainfully. “It’s a drink Brainstorm’s showing me how to mix. A ‘Skid’s Special’.”

Perceptor launched into a precise technical explanation of the process, while Brainstorm dreamily nodded along.

While he listened, Minimus set about cleaning the mess on the bench. Minimus enjoyed cleaning. He could lose himself in it. It wasn’t anything improper, whatever Whirl might imply – rather he simply found soothing satisfaction in tidying up a small part of the world.

Perceptor finished listing the precise chemical formula of the drink and turned back to Brainstorm. “Oh – did Skids mention the secret ingredient?”

“He gave me some, yeah.”

Brainstorm pulled out a vial of something gold and glittering, and added a couple of drops to the beaker.

“Ah?” Getaway stepped over to the pair. “What is the secret ingredient? Skids won’t tell me.”

Brainstorm cocked his head at Getaway in a mocking manner. “It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I knew, would it?”

Getaway’s smile faltered. The blank-faced way he watched Brainstorm, his optics burning blue holes in the other bot’s head, made Minimus momentarily uncomfortable.

But then the moment passed.

“Anyway, thanks for understanding, Magnus.” Getaway turned to face Minimus, and his eyes crinkled above his faceplate in a kind smile. “You’re the only one around here who always knows what’s going on.”

While flattered, Minimus couldn’t quite believe Getaway’s words. Rather, he had the nagging feeling he was missing a large part of the picture…

Meanwhile, Megatron was lecturing Rodimus.

“You have been following procedure, haven’t you?”

“Duh!” Rodimus laughed with complete self-assurance. “Me and Drift went looking for him in all sorts of places. His apartment, ‘Visages’, the oil reservoir, Swerve’s… er, the beach… ”

“Please. Rodimus.” Megatron put his head in one hand. “Can’t you be responsible for a minute?”

“Sure.” Rodimus straightened up.

“The floor is lava!” Skids called from the other end of the room.

There was an office-wide clatter as bots hopped up onto chairs, desks, and other bots.

Rodimus vibrated in place.

“Sssseeee?” He said, obviously straining to remain stationary. “Rrresssponsssible.”

“You have been searching for Tailgate.” Megatron said, pushing away the internal spike of irritation. “In the same way you have been searching for the Knights of Cybertron: by doing the most interesting things first. What real action have you taken?”

Rodimus looked hurt. Behind him, Drift glared at Megatron.

“What could I have done to help with Tailgate?” Rodimus implored. “It wouldn’t have mattered-”

“The issue is not ‘what you could have done’.” Megatron said. “The issue is ‘what did you do’? Did you read reports, ask questions, did you knock on doors? Did you follow procedure?”

Only now did Rodimus’ engine start up in anger. The agency’s bystanders were getting down from chairs and each other. At this sound, they looked over.

“I care about my agency, about my friends.” Rodimus said. “I care.”

Megatron felt his patience thinning, but reigned himself back in through iron force of will. When he spoke again – a little too slowly, and a little too softly – anger hummed through every word.

“You had to be prompted. A thousand times. To send a team into Mederi. And it was only when it was part of the DJD case that you took charge.”

“I was going to get around to it-“

“You have a good heart. You are caring.” Rodimus brightened, but Megatron kept going. “But in your position, you cannot afford to be immature, or negligent. Caring does not absolve you from needing to take care.”

Rodimus bristled with indignant rage. He open and shut his mouth, too full of emotion to speak.

“Frag you.” Rodimus spat. “I won’t take this scrap from you, of all people.”

Megatron took in their audience – the observing, suspicious, Autobot audience.

He stepped back from the argument with a sigh.

“…Tailgate has returned. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah.” Rodimus’ optics had glazed over in white-hot fury. “Yeah, it is.”

Megatron did not respond lest Rodimus use it as an excuse to continue fighting. When he stayed quiet, Rodimus snorted.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go, Drift–“

Rodimus went to leave, but Drift did not move.

The lack of motion hit Megatron like a physical blow. It hit Rodimus even harder. Rodimus jerked mid-step as though he had forgotten to unplug himself before walking away from his recharge berth.

“Drift?”

The bot stood like an iron post.

“You had to be ‘prompted’ to rescue me from Mederi?” Drift was inscrutable. “You didn’t look for me at all.”

Rodimus laughed into the cold silence. “I came for you, didn’t I?”

“But you had to be prompted.”

The atmosphere caught up with Rodimus. He looked around, as the space on all sides grew wide. “I was going to get around to it.” He repeated, earnestly. “Drift, I owed it to you, I was going to get around-“

Drift walked out. The crowd cleared a path for him almost reverently.

Rodimus sagged in place.

But then he snapped upright and stormed into his office, slamming the door. The entire room shook with the mental impact of the gesture. Whispers rippled out in the tense crowd, and various conversations started up again, indistinct murmurs just out of hearing range. Disapproval was the only clear sentiment; Megatron could not make out exactly what anyone was saying.

“You’re an hour early.” Minimus commented, when Megatron arrived in the briefing room at exactly seven o-clock. He and Nightbeat were busy taping photos to the pin-board.

“My discussion with Rodimus was cut short.” Megatron briefly explained what had happened with Drift.

The detective seemed unsurprised at Megatron’s explanation.

“Drift’s honorable, he’ll probably come to the meeting anyway.” Nightbeat said, breezily. “But if Rodimus turns up at all it’ll be because he’s decided to be mature, and apologize to Drift.”

“I hope he does.”

Minimus sighed, with feeling. “Thank you for trying, Megatron. I just wish I could get through to him. Rodimus has such potential…”

“He’s sacrificing leadership for friendship.” Megatron said. “The agency needs a captain they can trust with their lives in a crisis. I wouldn’t trust Rodimus to stay awake in class.”

Minimus smiled, and Megatron blinked, and it was gone. He almost doubted that he had seen it to begin with.

“Rodimus looks up to Optimus.” Minimus explained. “Prime could be both leader and friend. But it wasn’t through ‘bonding activities’. He simply… took an interest. In you. And when Prime was interested in you, he made you feel interesting…”

Briefly, Megatron saw fondness in Minimus’ expression – before the emotion was pulled deep within again, and Minimus resettled his demeanor.

Fondness. Regret and jealousy put twin hooks into Megatron’s spark.

He had never completely known Optimus. Not as a leader, a comrade, a friend. Not in the way Minimus had. But that avenue was closed to him forever now, and fresh, bright jealousy washed the old ache away. Minimus and Prime had been comrades – had they been more…?

“So. Mederi.” Minimus said.

“Thanks to Brainstorm, we know what Mederi is: it’s a modified clinic.” Nightbeat replied, and tapped the disemboweled Mederi box on the pin-board. “The illusions work to keep people trapped, and the medical technology has been repurposed for spark extraction.”

Megatron shuddered at the visceral image. A dark thought occurred to him. “Wait. The hotel has claimed more than a hundred victims. That much extracted spark-energy would result in a glowing ball the size of a house.”

“Who would want something like that?” Minimus asked, utterly horrified.

“Me.” Riptide said, from the back row.

They stared at him.

“A big, glowing ball?” Riptide said. “It’d be like owning a baby star!”

“Made of dead bots?”

Riptide looked stricken. Clearly, he had tuned in at the wrong time.

“Mederi is a dead end.” Nightbeat clenched his fists at his sides. “Even if Pharma had known where the DJD were hiding, it’s useless. Tarn never uses the same location twice.”

Megatron sighed. “It’s official then. Mederi holds no relation to the DJD, and is no longer part of this case.”

Nightbeat nodded, and turned around. He was motionless but for the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

Without warning, he ripped half the photos off the pin-board in a single violent movement.

“Damn it!” Nightbeat gripped his helm. “Mederi. The DJD. Tailgate. Mysteries aren’t fun anymore – they’re frustrating. I’m so tired. Of not knowing.”

Megatron had not expected Nightbeat to be so affected. The detective muttered half-mad notes into his hand-held recorder.

“And Tailgate! The whole agency cancelled movie night when he went missing, why didn’t Getaway notice? Why did Whirl think he’d been kidnapped? Getaway explained it, but it doesn’t seem right. And even the Mederi records were blocked by someone high in command…”

“Starscream?”

“There’s always Starscream.”

Blaming Starscream for a murderous scheme was like blaming Whirl for blowing something up. Yes, it was usually true. Yet it was always more intriguing if someone harmless like First Aid was actually responsible.

“I just want to know what’s going on.” Nightbeat sounded seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Hey, me too!” Riptide waved. “Join the club!”

“Why not?” Nightbeat ran a hand down his face. “Hell, Nautica left a box of energon sweets on my desk this morning. Let’s have a party.”

“Yeah!”

Nightbeat meandered down the back. Riptide mimed reeling him in.

Over the hour, the rest of the class arrived. Drift and Rodimus crept in with a couple of minutes to spare and sat on opposite sides of the room. Rodimus looked longingly across at the other bot. Drift ignored him.

“Thank you for attending.” Megatron announced. “But I’m sorry to tell you that nothing has changed. We don’t know why the DJD are burning down apartments, we don’t know how to stop them, and we don’t know where they are.”

“About that last one.” Riptide spoke with his mouth full of energon. “How about. We invite Tarn somewhere he hasn’t been yet… and we lie in wait.”

Minimus froze in the process of cleaning Nightbeat’s outburst, at the front of the room.

He locked optics with Megatron. “Somewhere. He hasn’t been yet.”

Megatron’s audials went numb as he processed this.

Brainstorm swivelled on his chair as if attached to a rotary gear. "Have you even been listening. To the thousands of gruesome DJD reports. We've been going over?"

"Sure." Riptide said. "There was Clemency, Messatine, Garrus-9, Grindcore-"

He shrunk down in his chair at Brainstorm's expression.

“We could make the invitation really fancy?” Riptide continued, muffled. “And say we’re having a party?”

There was a collective shudder as the room imagined a DJD party.

“Somewhere Tarn hasn’t been yet…” Megatron hardly dared to voice the thought. “If we eliminate previous DJD headquarters, how many possible hiding places are left?”

The DJD class considered this.

“Riptide.” Rodimus said. “You genius.”

“We’re using my fake party invitations?” Riptide said, hopefully.

“Primus, no.”

“Cross-referencing possible DJD headquarters against their previous records. That could work.” Skids said. “Tarn never uses a location twice. We have to tell the Prime-“

“Starscream.” Minimus corrected. “But perhaps we should inform one of his underlings first. Rattrap, or Airachnid.”

“It was on Optimus Prime’s authority that I was sent here.” Megatron pointed out. “He asked me to investigate the DJD.”

“But Starscream is the ruler of the city.” Nautica said.

“Prime-“

“Starscream-“

“Enough!” Megatron ordered, before the room could rip itself in two.

The argument subsided. Only underlying grumbles remained: background discontent – a lack of consensus. Megatron knew that if he asked for one, the fight would start again.

“We’ll inform both leaders.” Megatron said. “Starscream and Prime.”

The last muttered disagreements melted into silence.

“However.” Megatron continued. “If it’s not a feasible theory, who we inform doesn’t matter. Perceptor?”

“I still need to run the numbers.” Perceptor said. “Has anyone got a calculator?”

“Here you go.” Brainstorm said.

“Thank you.”

Megatron’s processor trundled towards a realization with the tick, tick, tick, of a chemical countdown.

He looked at the calculator Perceptor was using, and then at Brainstorm, who was staring at it in growing horror.

“Everybody down!” Megatron yelled, too late.

Brainstorm brought a fist down on the device.

Minimus remembered, in flashes, the way the calculator had vomited up some dark oily thing. It had roared and howled its chemical displeasure. It had blown the lights out.

“Ah, crap.” Brainstorm cursed.

“Language.” Minimus corrected, whereupon the calculator spat out a wall of black oil across the room.

In a mindless instant, Megatron whirled in between Minimus and the spray of battery-acid filth. It splattered against the larger bot’s back without touching Minimus.

“Is everyone alright?” Megatron called out.

There was a chorus of disgusted, yet unharmed replies.

Megatron was all but pinning him to the wall, Minimus realized. Megatron had a large physical prescence. His systems radiated heat, and it was this that Minimus blamed for the faint dizziness that overcame him.

He was definitely not flustered by their position.

“Er.” Megatron said. A drop of oil trailed its way down his helm. “Are you…?”

“I’m quite alright.” Minimus said. Megatron was terribly close. The warm hum of his frame seemed to invite touch. Minimus clenched his fists.

“Rodimus is correct.” Megatron said, out of nowhere. “Your recent relaxed approach to contractions is rather more… casual.”

Minimus felt mortified. “I know. I am sorry.”

“Oh, please don’t stop on my account.” Megatron looked worried. “I never said I disliked it.”

Embarrassed, Minimus put his hands to Megatron’s chest as if to push him away. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation to have at a time like this. Protocol indicates we see a medic to ensure that this mixture is non-harmful.”

“You’re right.” Megatron hesitated a moment before he yielded to Minimus’ timid pressure, and stepped away. “You’re right. I’m sure Ratchet will be understanding.”

Ratchet was not at all understanding.

“What the hell, Brainstorm?”

A drop of oil clung to Brainstorm’s wing for a moment, and then lost the fight with gravity.

“I shouldn’t’ve hit it.” Brainstorm said, glumly. “I should have just let it wipe our processors clean.”

Both First Aid and Velocity, however, accepted the entrance of the black splattered crowd without comment. They tested the oil, declared it harmless, and ushered bots one by one into the clinic wash-racks.

Beside Minimus, Nightbeat made an odd expression and put a hand to his throat.

“Your spark?” Velocity asked a patient.

“Steady.”

“Any recent injuries?”

“Not unless being splattered counts.”

“Thanks for making my job so easy… Arcee always gets injured.” Velocity sighed wearily, yet wistfully. “Do you remember the night we saved Megs from the DJD? I was trying to drag Hoist out of the way, when this beast-mode DJD member jumped at me! My life flashed before my eyes. Caminus, meeting Nautica, failing my medical exams, failing my medical exams, failing-“

“How many times did you fail your medical exams?” Asked Rewind, current patient of Velocity.

Nightbeat made a weird choking noise, and Minimus’ spine turned to ice. Something was wrong…

“But then Arcee’s there.” Velocity looked dreamily into space. “She’s got her fire swords out, and she beheads them just like-“ Velocity made a spinning, slashing motion, and nearly knocked herself out on a wall. “That. Hey, Nightbeat, you alright?”

Nightbeat gasped ineffectively, once, twice. Beside the detective, Riptide pawed at his throat and wheezed.

Nightbeat collapsed.

“Ratchet!”

First Aid was already there. He dragged the bot across the floor to the nearest berth outlet, to the jumpstart cable. First Aid clamped the cable to Nightbeat’s chest.

“I need an Isomeric spark type, now!”

Velocity grabbed another jump-start cable, grabbed Riptide, and hooked his spark to Rewind’s. The bot heaved a gasp.

Nightbeat let go his throat and scratched a compartment open, pulled out, with one hand, his hand-held recorder.

Shaking, he pressed it upon Nautica, kneeling nearby.

She took it. Nightbeat slumped. He began to convulse-

“Now!” First Aid screamed- “Please-!”

-And Ratchet knelt beside him. “Pass the other end.”

The electromagnetic energy pulsed along the cable and shocked Nightbeat’s body, once, twice-

Nightbeat breathed again. Great, rattling sobs of air.

Ratchet swore as he pried the clamp off his chest. “There’s no way.” He hissed. “Something that fast and nasty? No way that was a fragging accident.”

“The oil was harmless.” First Aid said. “Poison, maybe? I’ll need to do some tests…”

The box of energon sweets Nightbeat and Riptide had shared. Minimus turned to confront Nautica – but the stark horror on her face was answer enough. She hadn’t planned this.

“Is he alright?” Nautica gripped the mini-recorder in her lap.

“He’ll be fine.” First Aid spoke with reassuring certainty. “The best you can do for him is go clean off: we’ll take care of things here.”

Minimus stood outside the doorway of the wash-racks and listened to a lot of things not being said.

It was lucky, nobody mentioned, that they’d been in the medibay when it had happened. If Nightbeat had collapsed on the Lost Light office floor, too far away from help – nobody wanted to contemplate it. The DJD class spoke only in glances, only in silent, worried conversation.

However, two real voices echoed out into the hallway.

“So.” Rodimus laughed, but it was a little strained. “Thank Primus for protocol, I guess.”

“U-huh.” Drift replied.

“Look.” Rodimus said. “About Mederi – I could make excuses all day, but this time, I don’t think anything I could say would really come close. So look at my aura, or whatever, and judge for yourself.”

The other bots cleared out past Minimus in a crowd. They were evacuating. Minimus felt awkward for not doing the same.

“God, Drift.” Rodimus’ voice echoed strangely in the sound of falling water. “I feel awful. I’m so sorry.”

There was the confused clatter of metal against metal.

“Primus, I missed you.” Drift said, muffled by the hug.

“So we’re cool?”

“We’re cool.” The water shut off. Drift pushed out the doorway past Minimus, with Rodimus held affectionately under one arm. “But I’ll be keeping an eye on you!”

“Of course.” Rodimus grinned. “Frag, I lo-“

He coughed suddenly, prompting Drift to pat him on the back while he spluttered, and the two friends left.

Only one person had not yet come past.

Minimus investigated.

He found Megatron twisting under the spray, reaching for where the oil had ingrained itself into his back plating. He self-consciously strained for the mess staining his frame, and made a half-rumble of displeasure.

“Perhaps I could help.” Minimus blurted, before he realized what he was offering and cringed in shame. “Nevermind.”

Megatron turned sharply at his approach, as if caught out. “Ah, Minimus.” His expression screwed up in anxiety. “Oh, I… I wouldn’t dream of asking you to humble yourself like that.”

“You mistake my intent.” Minimus said, awkwardly. “I only thought it would be more efficient for me to…”

Something in Megatron gave way. His expression softened.

“Please.”

Megatron turned on the stool so that his back faced to Minimus. A gesture of trust, Minimus realized, and he drifted closer as if reeled in. Megatron passed him the washcloth over one shoulder. The massive bot sat wound like a giant spring, all tension, all stress.

Minimus was familiar with stress.

“For future reference,” Minimus made an attempt at humor to ease the awkwardness of the moment. “You don’t need to save me from every danger.”

“I acted without thinking.” Megatron explained. “You were close, and the oil could have been acid…”

“I understand.” Minimus spoke quietly. “My continued existence is valuable to you.”

If he thought about it, he’d hesitate forever. Minimus let habit take over.

Megatron inhaled at the first wipe of the cloth.

“You understand?” Megatron asked.

Megatron’s frame swung from taut to relaxed, like a fist clenching and unclenching. When Minimus ran the cloth down the edge of a transformation seam, Megatron shivered.

“You were placed with me as an alternative to prison, that I might supervise and protect you.” Minimus said. “If I died, where would you go?”

“Oh.” Megatron’s ramrod posture buckled. “…I don’t know.” As he admitted it out loud, his frame unwound, and gaps widened in his armor plates.

Minimus took this chance to work at where the mess had gotten underneath. A knotted cord of cables loosened under a stroke of the washcloth. Megatron let out a long, slow breath.

Minimus stopped for a moment to recover his composure.

But, technically, the flimsy cloth barrier meant there had been no contact.

“I will say this, though.” Megatron spoke in a hush. “I’ve never been happier than where I am right now.”

“Hmm.” Minimus dizzily acknowledged, and scrubbed off the more stubborn oil specks. They had landed so forcefully they’d been buried in the paint, and their absence left shiny silver dots freckled across Megatron’s back.

“Likewise.” Minimus confessed, hopefully soft enough so the sound of the shower drowned him out.

Minimus loved cleaning. He found it soothing. He could lose himself in it. And he lost himself in it now, in the warmth and the water spray, he let habit guide his hands to wash off the last remaining flecks from Megatron’s frame.

All but for one spot, just in the centre…

Minimus didn’t bother with the cloth. He reached out, and as delicately as though he were caressing a flower petal, ran the tip of a finger lightly down Megatron’s plating.

“O-oh.” Megatron breathed, and at the same time gushed hot air from every vent with a sibilant, sudden, hiss.

He turned his head over one shoulder to check on Minimus. His optics were blown wide, Minimus noted idly. And what Megatron saw in his face, Minimus couldn’t possibly imagine. He didn’t feel like himself. He felt as though he were floating…

Primus, he really wanted to kiss Megatron.

The thought had the sobering effect of three good nights’ sleep and a klaxon alarm. Minimus bustled to the taps and violently turned off the spray.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not with Megatron, that mass-murderer – the bot under his protection and supervision.

He couldn’t. But he wanted to…

“Minimus?” Megatron sounded curiously rough. “Are you sick?”

“Sick?” Minimus’ voice struggled against his use of it. “No.”

“You’re terribly red.”

“It’s the steam.” Minimus said, sharply.

“I see. And your cooling fans…?”

Only now did Minimus hear them whirring in the background.

“The steam.”

Minimus hoped Megatron would not ask any further. For in truth, it was not just the steam – and Minimus had promised to tell the truth…

But Megatron did not ask, and the last of the water had trickled away down the drain before either of them moved again. Megatron stood up and rolled his shoulders in a powerful, hypnotizing movement.

“Hmmm.” Megatron’s fans were purring along as well. “So. Do you think Rodimus has made a report yet?”

“Yesterday, I would have said no.” Minimus admitted. “But after today’s events… it’s not completely hopeless.”

Megatron gave Minimus a smile. “Will wonders never cease.”

Minimus had to agree. Tailgate had returned, Rodimus had taken responsibility for a mistake, and Nightbeat had been narrowly rescued – all before noon. Wonders, indeed.

Minimus hazarded a quick, fond smile in return. Megatron blinked, reddened.

Not completely hopeless, perhaps…

Chapter Text

Some nights, when 'Visages' was quiet, Minimus would finish early, and review Lost Light reports in Ten's company.

Ten's den was a cramped space. A mural of Ten's friends had spread out onto the back of the door, a flower-painted trapdoor in the floor opened down onto Metroplex’s maintenance passages, and vents in the ceiling connected to ‘Visages’ airways. These funnelled the sounds of the bar into Ten's den. 

As such, it was an accident that Minimus overheard the conversation.

“I’m sure the Skids’ Special will be quite popular.” Mirage’s voice carried faintly through the vents. “And in return for the full recipe, I’m sure Thunderclash can be persuaded to sit downstairs…”

Skids’ voice echoed in return. “It’s really nothing fancy. I was just trying to make something even Minimus would like.”

“Minimus?” Mirage said. “I’m not familiar with the individual.”

“Sorry, he’s a friend.” Skids said. “He’s super uptight. Doesn’t really drink, or relax, or have fun…”

“He sounds very disciplined.”

“You have no idea.”

“I can probably imagine.”

Minimus felt momentarily nervous for his position. Oh, the indignity, if Skids, or anyone in the Lost Light were to find out about his second job. But in Ten’s den, he was well hidden. The vent kept talking.

“Now, it’s a simple cocktail.” Mirage said. “But the secret ingredient makes this drink exceptional. ‘So delicious it makes engex jealous’.”

Skids groaned. “Is that what they say?”

“The golden blood of Primus himself…”

“Ew.”

“And addictively divine, or so I’ve heard. Ah… is the secret ingredient… addictive?”

“No!” Skids said. “It’s… you can’t tell a soul, okay?”

“I promise.”

“Alright. The secret ingredient is… edible gold glitter.”

There was an anticlimactic pause after this reveal. Minimus, listening in, was only relieved it was not something illicit.

“Glitter?” Mirage said.

“Glitter.”

“But that’s flavourless.”

“Placebo.” Skids explained. “It’s only exceptional because people think it is. At heart, the ‘Skids Special’ is purely a good cocktail – and nothing more.”

“Ten!” Ten held up a finished figurine. The interruption drew Minimus’ attention to the fact that he was eavesdropping. Chastened, he stood up, and wandered closer to better appreciate Ten's craftsmanship.

“Wonderful.” Minimus said. “You really should consider applying to an art gallery.”

“Ten.”

“Don’t take that tone. I’m serious.”

Ten sounded thoughtful. “Ten…”

It was late. As he bid Ten farewell, Minimus thought only of schedules. He had planned for the DJD presentation for weeks, of course, but despite his best work he’d found himself staring down the barrel of that dreaded phrase: ‘we’ll get it right on the day’. And tomorrow was the day.

It was such a disappointment. Embarrassing, really. It was the evening before their presentation to high command… and Minimus still hadn’t sorted out a seating plan.

Truly, he was utterly disorganised.

Megatron didn’t remember dozing off. But the next he knew, Minimus was there, gently shaking his shoulder.

“You’ll wreck your joints, sleeping like that.” Minimus chastised softly. His vocalizer was still hoarse from ‘Visages’. It was strange how endearing Megatron found this little detail.

"Hmm." Megatron blearily fixated on the desk under his head. "What time is it?"

“Late. Come to bed.”

Megatron couldn’t help but interpret the invitation as innuendo – as if Minimus was his Conjunx, soliciting matrimonial intimacy. Confused embarrassment fuelled an instantaneous transition from half-sleep to full awareness.

“I'm worried.” Megatron pried a paper off his cheek. “Finding the DJD is my last chance to do something worthwhile with my time, and if there’s an error in our calculations...”

“I understand, truly, and I appreciate your dedication – but it’s misplaced. We’ve all but found Tarn's headquarters. Any margin of error is so small so as to be insignificant.” 

Megatron frowned. “Just because it's small does not mean it's insignificant.”

Minimus' optics widened, and he let go of Megatron's shoulder. Too late, Megatron realised the subtle meaning of his words, and rushed to rectify the ambiguity.

"I meant in regards to Tarn - the DJD headquarters have specific requirements. If we map out every place in Autobot City that fits these requirements, and eliminate the ones Tarn has already used, we can narrow down the possible locations."

Minimus relaxed. "The DJD. Of course. Thank you for clarifying."

Megatron paused. "And this is unrelated, but. Your height does not make you any less worthy of respect." 

Minimus stared at him, a little flushed. The silence was charged. 

"Thank you again, for clarifying." Minimus said, after what seemed like an eternity, and lowered his gaze. The spell was broken.

Megatron's spark still hammered in its casing. He awkwardly stood up, and in the same motion, stacked his papers and reports into a single sheaf of paper. Tapping the edges against the desk, he straightened the edges into uniform rigidity.

“Let's go to bed.”

The wind cooed outside their bedroom window. A barrier-wall of books still divided the berth, and it was from this Megatron plucked a small volume of poetry as he lay beside Minimus.

“...When the DJD are taken care of.” Minimus spoke tentatively. “There will truly be no need for you to stay with me?”

Megatron fought down a tide of inconvenient grief. “Yes. I will go back to prison, to await my lawful judgment. Or directly to my trial.”

And no fair trial could fail to execute him for his crimes. At the end of the day, Megatron found it hard to come to terms with the facts: he’d wasted his life, he left no one behind who would mourn him, and the only reason anyone would come to his funeral would be to spit on his grave.

Minimus paused. “Perhaps I could argue for community service?”

“Ha!” Megatron smiled. “Very humorous.”

“I’m glad you think so. I was wary of making a joke about such a serious situation…”

“Not at all. I appreciate your effort to lighten the mood.”

Megatron hugged the book of poetry to his chest. While Tarn was at large, he was not safe. Lying low with Minimus was preferable to a prison cell in the depths of Metroplex, but it could not last. The silence grew. On impulse, Megatron let his head fall to the side, to face Minimus.

“How long do we have?” Megatron asked.

To anyone who did not know him, Megatron sounded serious, self-assured. But Minimus stared back, startled, and did not answer; for of course it was clear to him that Megatron had spoken without thinking.

“I.” Megatron awkwardly corrected, ashamed. He re-examined the ceiling. “How long do I-“

Minimus interrupted. “You will be relocated when the DJD are taken care of. Provided all goes well, that should be around the end of the year.” After a lengthy pause, Minimus sighed. “…We do not have long.”

Something blossomed in the silence. As they both lay in bed, either side of the book divide, Megatron felt unhelpful, unnecessary sadness weigh down his spark like a solid block of metal. And he knew, with utter certainty, that Minimus was feeling the exact same way. It was an incredibly real connection. Minimus was himself: no armour, no Magnus – how rare, how precious!

The quiet bloomed.

Megatron opened the poetry book, using the red light of his optics to see. They had little time left for such indulgences. It was best to make the most of them.

“Minimus, do you mind if I…?”

“Oh, not at all.”

Megatron read aloud.

“…But this human abyss before me. Not on that

Other side may I leave Memory burning.

For the soul must be purified by flight

Through the cold iron heights of the Law…”

Minimus shuffled into a better position and folded his hands over his chest.

“Megatron.” He murmured.

“Mmm?”

“Megatron, er..."

"Yes, Minimus, what is it?"

"Perhaps we might consider… removing the book divide…”

Megatron’s spark stuttered and flared: like a banked fire receiving a sudden rush of air.

“I would like that.” Megatron replied, softly.

“Likewise. It is simply that the books would be of more use on their appropriate shelves.”

Megatron nodded seriously. "Of course. Very astute."

Megatron's spark swelled with sadness and warmth together. The emotions blended seamlessly. Moments like these were the most precious to him: the intimate, unguarded moments, blazing like stars in the darkness. 

Megatron continued, soft as the wind.

“…This body I will leave behind, but not its care;

Ashes it will be, but the ashes of feeling;

Dust it must be – but the dust of love…”

“So Minimus.” Windblade sat down opposite Minimus’ desk at the Lost Light. “Quick quiz: how many sparks is it normal for a Titan to have?”

Minimus paused in his work. “Er.”

“I thought ‘one’.” Windblade continued. “But for some reason, it looks like Metroplex has two. He’s picking up this enormous amount of spark-energy from a ghost hotel on the beach…”

“Mederi?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“The Lost Light has first-hand experience with the building." Minimus saw the opportunity for a humorous quip. "Beyond that." Minimus took a deep breath in preparation. "How many ghost hotels in Autobot City could there be?”

“Six.”

Minimus paused in writing down Nightbeat’s contact details on the back of a business card. “Six?”

“I think there’s six.” Windblade looked thoughtful. “Do you want me to ask Metroplex?”

Minimus stalled, unwilling to point out he had been joking. “Er.”

Windblade smiled. “I'm sure he'll appreciate the interest. You wouldn't expect it, but Titans do get rather lonely...”

“Oh. No. No, it was merely a passing curiosity.” Minimus said, unnerved, and stiffly passed across the detective’s number. “Ahem. For more information on Mederi, talk to Nightbeat. He is currently injured, but has a personal interest in the investigation.”

“Thanks.” Windblade accepted the card. “I was going to ask the Lost Light to search the sewers underneath, but this is much more useful. Tell Starscream I said hi!”

She left. The rest of high command stood littered about the main office as if waiting for permission to follow.

Minimus returned to filling out the seating plan. Rewind was filming the presentation, so he had to be in the front row. Starscream and Prime weren’t talking, so they had to be placed at opposite ends of the room. And to avoid any serious confrontations, Megatron had been removed from the Lost Light altogether – he was currently visiting Nightbeat and Riptide at Ratchet’s clinic, a fifteen minute drive away.

It was a beautiful day for a three-hour presentation.

There was only one problem.

“Where’s Prime and Starscream?” Arcee sat against Minimus’ desk.

“Late.” Minimus said, curtly.

“U-huh.” Arcee said, not looking at him. “And how’s your day been?”

Minimus blinked, surprised by the interest. “Rather good, actually. I slept well. Our vital guests are absent, yes, but I still feel rather optimistic-“

“Really? Wow.” Arcee cut him off. She was staring across the room at Prime’s advisor: a red and grey bot with an aircraft alt-mode.

Minimus spirits fell. “Ah. You're - not listening.”

“Tell me more. Say, in the meeting, could you sit me next to Aileron?”

Minimus sighed. In his opinion, seating them together would be detrimental to Arcee’s focus – but he kept this to himself. “I can swap you with Soundwave. However, you will be next to Airachnid. Is this acceptable?”

For ten seconds, Arcee screwed up her face and made a drawn out noise of disgust.

“Ughhhhhhhhhh… fine.”

Across the room, Aileron caught Arcee staring. She waved. Minimus watched Arcee, a bot he had personally witnessed rip out a vocalizer barehanded, blush a magnificent shade of red. It clashed horribly with her energon-pink paintjob.

“Won’t you, come see about me,” Minimus’ memo-pad warbled. “I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it baby-“

Embarrassed, Minimus answered before the ringtone could continue. Rodimus had changed the alert as a practical joke. Out of sentimentality, Minimus had kept it. He only regretted this a little.

“Brainstorm?”

“Good news and bad news.” Brainstorm said. “The good news, I found Prime and Starscream!”

“The bad news?”

Minimus surveyed the cupboard.

It was industrial steel, silver, slightly dulled, and built to keep things out. It was brutal in its simplicity. It had no massive padlocks, no giant bars, it had no need for any such ornamentation. It was just a solid cube with a door and a lock. On the side, Brainstorm had scrawled ‘hysteria box’.

“Like a panic room, except better.” Brainstorm explained, unasked. “Perceptor and I made it for ultra-emergencies, but we didn’t have any ultra-emergencies? So we sort of just started using it as a cupboard, really…”

“Prime and Starscream are stuck in a cupboard together. How terrible. They might actually have a conversation.” Starscream’s assistant Airachnid sounded far too pleased about it. “Want me to hack everyone and find out who did it?”

Arcee clenched her fists until the metal groaned. “You know, Airachnid. It’s no secret you got kicked out of Eukaris. Because you cut up people’s brains.” She smiled like it hurt to do so. “So forgive me. If I’m losing patience. With the ‘creepy mnemosurgeon’ shtick, okay?”

“No ‘shtick’ here, darling.” Airachnid savored the word. “You’re just shortsighted. If we could know all the variables in the system, and scientifically calculate their relationship to each other, we could predict the future! Avert catastrophe! Save thousands, for the price of a mere handful of lives – is that such a terrible balance?”

“Yes.”

Airachnid pouted.

Up until now, Soundwave had watched the room impassively from behind a red visor. Ravage lay curled over his shoulders.

“None of us were responsible.” He spoke in a formidable monotone. Being a telepath, Soundwave could make such a claim with certainty.

Minimus thought aloud. “Brainstorm, would you care to explain how this happened accidentally?”

“Ah, but what you call an accident, I call destiny.” Airachnid purred.

“Yeah, I’m calling bull.” Arcee’s optic twitched with suppressed fury. “Destiny? And it was foretold that the Prime, possessed of that divine link to wisdom, the Matrix, would one day become stuck in a – no. I think not.”

Airachnid smiled eerily. “Trust me. There’s a reason behind everything.”

Mumble, mumble, said the cupboard. Nearby, Soundwave pressed a button, and Prime’s deep, worried baritone emanated from the cupboard’s inbuilt speakers.

“An alarm went off..."

“Wow! How about that.” Arcee interjected. “Do you think fate set off the alarm, Airachnid?”

"...so we ducked in here. Starscream stepped in a bucket.”

“My foot.” Starscream spoke incredibly politely. “Is stuck.”

“If I shuffle over, do you think you can-“

“Ow! Watch where you’re sticking your elbows, Prime-“

“I apologise, I was just trying to-“

“You’re making it worse!”

Soundwave turned the speakers off, and the argument continued, muffled. Soundwave regarded the room stoically, utterly unruffled.

To Minimus, ‘mind reading’ seemed a double-edged sword. On one hand, it could be a pleasant surprise to find that someone liked you, particularly when you had thought them indifferent. But if you were secretly hated, you’d know it in intimate detail. The idea made Minimus shudder.

Soundwave glanced across.

Quickly, Minimus attempted to think of nothing, and failed.

Soundwave leant sideways to address Ravage. He was quite evidently attempting to be discreet – he spoke in an undertone, and covered his faceplate with one hand so as not to be overheard – and so, of course, everybody in the area listened in.

“Those two. How long?” Soundwave droned quietly. “I’m not surprised, they’re incredibly compatible.”

Ravage lazily opened one eye. “Who?”

The names Soundwave gave were inaudible. “How long? Ever since the binder?”

Minimus' memo-pad creaked where he was holding it. After Mederi, Megatron had made two binders for his return – one black, one blue – simply because he hadn’t known which colour Minimus preferred. It had been an incredibly thoughtful gesture. Was Soundwave referring to…?

Soundwave cocked his head to the side, as though listening to something. “Pardon me. Binders, plural. One black, and one blue-”

Minimus’ memo-pad screen cracked in his grip.

Ravage stretched. “They’re not like that.”

“But…” Soundwave stared into space for a moment. He seemed honestly confused. “… Hmm. Nevermind. The pair with faceplates, then. How long have they been Conjunx?”

“Chromedome and Rewind? Oh, years.”

“Wonderful.”

Overwhelmingly flustered, Minimus took control of the situation. “Brainstorm – do you have the key?”

“No, Perceptor does. He’s on the roof.”

“I’ll retrieve it.” Minimus volunteered. “My apologies, everyone. We will resume when Prime and Starscream have been freed – in the meantime, thank you for your patience.”

Minimus turned off the lights after high command filed out. In the empty room behind him, stifled by the cupboard, Prime rumbled something sadly.

Nightbeat reclined on the medical berth holding hands with First Aid. It was a tender scene if you didn’t know the poison had actually damaged Nightbeat’s vocalizer. The detective spoke by stimulating the nerve-circuits in First Aid’s hand – his chirolinguistics was poor, but adequate – and the doctor passed the question on.

A continuous, wheezing snore came from behind the neighbouring curtains. Riptide was asleep.

“In regards to the DJD presentation.” Megatron said. “We’ve eliminated all but a dozen possible locations. Prime’s team will take care of the actual assault.”

“I regret I cannot go.” Nightbeat said, through First Aid. “I like Optimus.”

Megatron sighed. “Honestly, who doesn’t?”

“Starscream.”

Megatron didn’t feel comfortable laughing – but you had to laugh. It was that or cry. He had a… personal history with both Starscream and Optimus. As such, he knew they had conflicting personalities: Starscream was selfish above all else, and there was no one more selfless than Prime.

On top of this complication, the two leaders of Autobot City still hadn’t co-operated publicly. They’d barely even spoken. It was an extremely tense political dilemma, and Megatron was glad to miss it.

< First Aid > Nightbeat said, in what he obviously thought was a stealthy manner. < Please make Megatron go >

< You’re tired? > First Aid inquired.

< No. I just don’t like him >

“Nightbeat needs time to rest.” First Aid spoke to Megatron aloud. At the same time, he replied to Nightbeat privately. < Honestly, who does? >

Riptide suddenly snorted loudly in his sleep, and interrupted the undercover conversation. They jumped at the unexpected sound.

“If you like pina coladas,” Megatron's memo-pad warbled. “And getting caught in the rain~“

Megatron fumbled it in his haste to answer. Rodimus had changed the default alert to an unfamiliar song. He would have changed it back, but he couldn’t figure out how.

“Goodbye. It’s good to see you’re doing well, Nightbeat.” Megatron said, genuinely, and stepped out into the hall.

“You are speaking to Megatron, co-captain of the Lost Light Help Agency. How can I help?”

“Wonderful introduction.” Minimus answered, appreciatively. “Very informative.”

“Minimus.” Megatron smiled. “That means a lot, coming from you. But surely you didn’t call merely to comment on my introduction…”

“No, this is not the time for an in depth analysis. It's Prime and Starscream. They're trapped in a cupboard.”

“That is less than ideal.” Megatron remarked amiably.

“An understatement. Considering their presence is the reason for today’s DJD presentation, I would go so far as to say this situation is… dissatisfactory.”

“Primus, that bad?”

“I assure you, I do not exaggerate.”

First Aid had followed Megatron into the hallway. He hovered nearby in the manner of one who had something to talk about.

“No, you do not.” Megatron remarked softly. He glanced across at the waiting First Aid. “Thank you for the update. I’ll see you at home.”

“Indeed. Take care.”

“Er.” First Aid said, once Megatron had hung up.

“Yes?”

With remarkable bravery, First Aid continued. “So you and Minimus, are you, er…?”

Megatron didn’t know how to respond. His emotions were in conflict. He was - strangely - happy: First Aid's comment meant there was something there to see. But inside him, the winds of utter refusal swept out the small joy: for he could never allow Minimus to be linked to him in such a manner. Minimus deserved far better.

“Please don’t repeat such talk.” Megatron said, stone-faced. “It really isn’t any of your business.”

“It is, if Minimus gets hurt.” First Aid kept on with grim determination. It was clear he didn’t really want outright confirmation, yet was compelled by a force greater than mere distaste. “So. For example. If you were to die hunting down the DJD – he wouldn’t be terribly heartbroken, or anything?”

“To answer your original question, we are not, ‘er’.” Megatron said. “Minimus and I simply… understand one other.”

First Aid’s face cleared. “That’s all, then. And if you're going that way, could you drop a couple medical monitors off at the Lost Light? Brainstorm promised he’d fix them.”

The broken monitors were too large for Megatron’s subspace. First Aid had to put them into a trailer out back.

As was tradition in a situation such as this, there was a lengthy back and forth as Megatron tried to line up his tank alt-mode with the trailer according to First Aid’s helpful yet vague suggestions, such as: ‘little more to the left’ and ‘no, your other left’. By some miracle, the trailer was connected.

“While we’re here.” First Aid said, casually. The offhand tone seemed calculated, as though he was voicing something he’d been thinking about for a while. “I have a personal question…”

“If it’s about Minimus-“

“No, no.” First Aid raised his head. “The DJD. Would you actually put your life on the line to take down Tarn?”

“Tarn is my responsibility.” Megatron said. “I created the DJD, I moulded Tarn into what he is now. And if I die taking them down, so be it. I will finally have paid for my crimes.”

First Aid’s visor went haywire. He wasn’t blinking: rather a conflict somewhere in his emotional subsystems was causing the light show. The filaments flickered and bounced erratically before shutting down dead.

“Thanks. For your honesty.” First Aid said. He sounded lost.

Megatron felt uncomfortable expressing concern. “Are... you alright?”

“Fine.” The retort was like a cord being cut.

Megatron knew how to take a hint. He drove off, a little relieved to be absolved of the awkwardness.

It would have been satisfying to make some petty, parting remark revealing his fluency in chirolinguistics. But Megatron was glad he didn’t. For one thing, it paid to let others think you knew less than you did. But on an emotional level… First Aid seemed to be going through something. Megatron had no desire to upset the medic any further.

To Megatron’s surprise, Rodimus met him in parking bay three.

“Hey, Megs!” Rodimus waltzed up to Megatron with a charming grin. “Need any help with those?”

“No, I’m not staying long – I’m just here to drop these monitors off for Brainstorm. What do you want?” Megatron became worried. “Rodimus, is there a problem?”

“No, nothing!” Rodimus laughed. “There doesn’t need to be a problem for me to want to help!”

Operating on the assumption that there was a problem, and that it was Rodimus’ fault, Megatron gave the other bot a stern glare.

“Yeah, fine.” Rodimus admitted. “I’ve got an ulterior motive. Can you look this over for me?”

Rodimus pulled out a paper seating plan of the briefing room. Half the seats were labeled with Minimus’ clear-cut handwriting. However, the rest of the names had been written in a scratchy red scribble, crossed out, and rewritten. Megatron declined to comment on a rough doodle in the margin, which depicted Minimus with an oversized moustache.

“Minimus is kinda busy with the cupboard situation right now, so I swiped this off his desk. How’s it looking?”

“You organised this, Rodimus?” Megatron asked.

“Drift helped.” Rodimus said – modest for once.

“Impressive.” Megatron nodded, and looked at Rodimus sidelong. “I’m proud of you.”

Rodimus laughed, and shook his head as if attempting to dislodge something. “Ha! Of course you are.” He paused. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, this shows remarkable initiative. Very responsible.”

“Responsible.” Rodimus pondered this for a moment. Stunned, it took him a while to process it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m responsible! But it’s not that I care what you think. I knew that already.”

“Hm.” Megatron turned his focus back to the seating plan. “Well, keep it up.”

Rodimus grinned and laced his hands behind his head. “No promises. Oh, and before you go – aren’t you going to compliment my artistry?”

“Whatever you do, please do not let Minimus see that drawing.”

Hound’s rooftop garden was quietly awe-inspiring.

Somewhere in the foliage, hidden sprinklers hissed and coated Minimus in a cool mist as he walked underneath. Racks of potted organic-mechanical plants stood in lines higher than his head. A tray of two-dozen roses caught his attention. A hand-written note tacked on the front said ‘for Mirage’s bar’.

Weeds strove for life in every crack. They clung to the trays, to the pots, and bloomed even on the ground. Hound had clearly cared too much to destroy them. 

“Perceptor?” Minimus called.

Perceptor’s voice seemed to come from all directions. “Here.”

“You will need to be more specific than ‘here’.” Minimus said.

Perceptor did not appreciate his joke. “Is this about the cupboard? I’m sorry I can’t help. I have orders… from Prime.”

“Prime?”

“He hopes this will be an opportunity to heal the power split.” Perceptor’s voice darkened. “But it won’t work.”

“Yes, well - trapping himself in a cupboard with Starscream is risky, certainly.” Minimus agreed.

He rounded a corner and found the scientist bent over a pot of half-green, half-purple seedlings. A trailing vine put out a feeble tendril and clung to Perceptor’s hand. Perceptor patted it away absent-mindedly.

“The hard thing? Prime means well.” Perceptor sighed. “When he ordered me to keep the key safe, he looked at me sadly – you know the way he does – and said ‘I’ve exhausted all other options’.”

Minimus dithered, nervous. “Starscream is quite upset about the situation.”

“I have orders.” Perceptor said, and folded in on himself in thought. Minimus saw the conflicting choices warring within him. Obeying Prime’s order risked incurring Starscream’s wrath. But to disobey a Prime – someone with access to that fount of holy wisdom: the Matrix – you’d be saying you knew better than Primus himself. Perceptor stared at his plants in tormented indecision.

Minimus could not allow such a thing.

“’Respondeat superior’.” Minimus said. Perceptor looked up. “Perceptor. As second in command, I have the authority to order you to give me that key. I will release Starscream. If repercussions arise because of this decision, I will take responsibility for them.”

Perceptor relaxed. He pressed a data-key upon Minimus, evidently relieved.

“Thank you, Minimus. I wont forget this.”

The empty lab was dark when Minimus returned. On one of Perceptor’s polished benches, swinging his legs back and forth, Minimus found Whirl. Before Minimus could object, Whirl put a claw over his lack of lips.

Starscream spoke with biting, ice-cold politeness. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying to steal the city from me.”

"Starscream, I will never try to usurp you." Prime rumbled with slow, warm sincerity. "I give you my word.”

“My dear rival, what worth is your word to me?” Starscream sneered. “You're my opponent. What reason have I to trust you?”

Prime chuckled to himself. “Well, it is foolish to ask for one-sided trust. I must… what do they say? Take a leap of faith.”

It occurred to Minimus that he was invading their privacy. Evidently, Whirl had turned on the speakers – neither Prime not Starscream knew they had an eavesdropping audience. Yet somehow, Minimus could not move.

Prime lowered his voice. “I have a secret.” He said. “Which would destroy me to have it known…”

“You…” Starscream sounded a little breathy. “You must be mad. You offer me your darkest secret as an offering of trust, and – what – hope I won’t use it against you?”

“Destroy me with it if you wish. I only ask that you lead us towards peace.” Prime paused. “But I believe in you, Starscream. I believe we can learn to work together, rather than against each other. We are not in this alone, after all.”

Whirl held up a data-pad. In all caps, he had written ‘WHAT AN IDIOT’.

But Minimus could not agree.

Despite the odds, despite everything, Prime was choosing to trust Starscream. It wasn’t naivety. It wasn’t ignorance. Optimus Prime had considered and acknowledged the risks, and had decided to follow through despite them. It was strength in the form of kindness.

Minimus considered Prime the strongest individual he had ever known.

“My secret is this…” Prime said.

“You complete fool.” Starscream interjected helplessly.

“…The Matrix is empty.”

Minimus felt the earth drop out from underneath him. Even Whirl stopped and stared, taken aback – as any Autobot would be.

Starscream, on the other hand, sounded dreamy. “The little bauble that makes you Prime. Dead?”

“Empty.” Prime said. “Wisdom cannot be granted. It must be earned, and that can happen with or without the Matrix.”

Minimus had not considered himself religious, yet if pressed, might have admitted this: during the war, he’d emotionally relied on Prime’s link to that greater wisdom. He'd trusted him. When ordered to fight - to kill - it was a comfort to know that there was a grander purpose beyond the battlefield.

But an empty Matrix felt like an abscess, a void. It was the lack of some fundamental ‘rightness’. Without that certainty, what was left?

Minimus grasped a nearby bench for stability, but misjudged the distance, and bumped a glass beaker. It tinkled cheerfully as it fell to its death.

“Who’s there?” Starscream called.

Whirl jumped off his bench surprisingly soundlessly and bolted for the exit. Privately, Minimus cursed the scientist’s clutter. This was why desks should be kept clean.

“I’ve returned with the key.” Minimus answered, with as much calm confidence as he could muster, and swiftly crossed the room to open the cupboard. “I hope you were not waiting long–“

Minimus was cut off, as Lord Starscream, the Ruler of Autobot City, shot out of the cupboard and across the room as if ejected from a cannon. His foot was still stuck in a bucket, however, and he hopped about for a moment attempting to pull it off.

“I didn’t hear you coming down the hallway, Minimus.” Starscream narrowed his optics. The intimidating picture was only slightly marred by the fact he was still standing on one leg. “Care to explain?”

Minimus kept his face carefully blank – which, in hindsight, he knew was the wrong move. If he had been truly innocent, he would have been confused, or affronted.

“I've no idea what you-“

“Don’t lie to me, Minimus Ambus.” Starscream’s optics were twin fires. “I know where you live. I know where you work – oh, yes, your secret job at ‘Visages’, I know. If you repeat what you’ve heard here to anyone else, I’ll destroy you in a way you stand no chance of fighting.”

Minimus had never felt smaller. "Noted." He swallowed. “On an unrelated note, the Cityspeaker Windblade says hello.”

Starscream finally succeeded in freeing himself from the bucket. In a fit of triumph, he threw it across the room with such force that it shattered the far window.

Starscream’s gaze snapped to Prime. “Tell Airachnid to take notes for me in your blasted DJD presentation. And on a personal note, Optimus… I’ll keep you around. For now. Remember, I can destroy you whenever I want to.”

Prime nodded humbly, as if Starscream giving him permission to exist was the highest possible privilege.

Starscream nodded in return. He gave a grim little smile. Then he ran across the room towards the shattered window. There was no pause, no hesitation – Starscream accelerated and leapt, and sailed elegantly through the shards of glass. There was no sound of a transformation.

Prime gasped and ran to the window.

And then at the last possible moment, Starscream transformed into his jet alt-mode and soared upwards, trailing a subsonic rumble. He spun a loop in the air, and with a flick of his thrusters, disappeared into the blue.

Prime turned to Minimus.

“’Visages’, hmm?” Prime’s optics twinkled. “I hear the singer there has a lovely voice…”

Minimus was mortified. “Please. Prime.”

“It matches the ambience perfectly, or so they say...”

“Optimus.” Minimus said. “I’m in no mood to be teased.”

Prime subsided, yet his optics still glimmered with humour. “My apologies.”

Minimus left for the door, but Optimus stayed at the windowsill a moment longer, staring out into the empty sky.

While Minimus waited, he reflected upon the similarity between Prime and the 'Skids’ Special'. Prime’s true worth did not lie with the Matrix. Rather, at heart, Optimus was simply a good person – and nothing more.

Prime turned. “So, will Megatron be joining us today?”

“No. We thought it best to avoid having him and Starscream in the same room.”

“Wise.” Prime said, and fell into step beside Minimus, and they made their way to the briefing room together.

Megatron sipped a glass of Fools Energon and watched the light fall. A second glass containing normal energon waited on the kitchen table in front of him.

The evening apartment was cool, and the window showed the worn majesty of the city in its entirety. Giant towers, bright and glittering, lay bare under the silent air, and flight-frames swept between them on their way home. Metroplex himself seemed calm.

In the living room, Megatron heard the door open and close – right on time, as always. The familiarity was precious to him.

“Megatron.” As he entered the kitchen, Minimus appeared distracted. “You won’t be needing the study this evening?”

“It’s all yours.” Megatron said.

Minimus pulled open several cupboards and shook his head in an absent-minded manner. “It is not ‘all mine’. We are both equally entitled to use of the room. Now, where did I leave my…? Ah, here.” He swung open the last door to reveal the Magnus armour, hulking in the gloom.

Disconcerted, Megatron ignored the attempt at humour. Such disorganisation was most uncharacteristic of Minimus.

“Are you all right?” Megatron stood. “Did something happen?”

The small bot sighed, and closed the door on the Magnus armour. “Starscream.”

Minimus sat opposite Megatron at the kitchen table and explained the unfortunate situation with the politician. As he finished, he sipped the second glass of energon.

“There's nothing for it." Minimus said. "I may have to quit my job.”

“No! No, why? You enjoy singing there.” Megatron touched Minimus’ hand in a comforting manner, where it was resting on the table. “Don't worry. Starscream said he would keep your secret, correct? In which case, we can easily prepare for anything else he may plan.”

“...Thank you.” Minimus said, quietly, and covered Megatron’s hand with his own, ardently examining the tabletop. “You make it sound so simple.”

Megatron focused on the feeling of Minimus’ hand on his. Neither of them spoke, and the moment stretched out, but too soon the heat of his internal circuitry grew too much. He cleared his throat. They sprung apart.

“So.” Megatron found the ceiling extremely interesting. “How was your day?”

Minimus, decidedly flushed, leant back to a more respectable distance. “Apart from the obvious - rather good, actually. Starscream was absent, yes, but Prime approved of our strategy and intends to launch an operation as soon as possible.” Minimus paused. “However, I suspect Soundwave thinks you and I are…”

This caught Megatron’s attention. “What?”

Minimus awkwardly avoided Megatron’s gaze. “Involved.”

Megatron gave a tiny exhale, not quite a laugh. “Ha. Funny. First Aid thought the same thing.”

“Yes. Quite humorous.”

Neither of them seemed amused.

This was a situation Megatron would have preferred to avoid. What could he say without lying? Maybe there was some way to change the subject.

Belated, Megatron contemplated the fact that Soundwave had assumed them to be involved. What had Minimus been thinking to make a telepath assume such a thing? Megatron burned with curiosity, but was too afraid to ask.

“At least Soundwave is discreet.” Megatron managed. “Considering my past, I’d hate for you to be linked to me in such a manner…”

“…and considering your future, it would be irresponsible to pursue anything serious.” Minimus finished. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course.” Megatron agreed.

"And in general, it's not an unsurprising assumption. I... I find you focused, disciplined and conscientious. From an uninformed perspective my respect could be mistaken for..."

"Romantic feelings." Megatron regarded Minimus affectionately. "The fact that we live together probably doesn't help."

Minimus did not laugh - he rarely laughed - but he covered his mouth and his optics brightened. Megatron took it as a sign of amusement anyway.

”So. Starscream.” Megatron clumsily attempted a conversational segue. “Why is it so abhorrent for the Lost Light to learn of your second job?”

“If they found out I was a singer for Mirage’s bar, they would never respect me again.” Minimus hugged the energon glass close, as if unaware he was doing so. Megatron longed to reach out.

“I found out, and I have only the highest respect for you.” Megatron said. He’d come this far. What was the harm in saying more? “Besides, you have an amazing voice.”

Minimus jolted back. “Ah – thank you – however, you’ve not heard me… er…”

“I’ve heard you perform, before.” Megatron paused. He was breaking their unspoken agreement in acknowledging the incident. However, they did not have much time. Why not mention it? “At ‘Visages.”

“Oh.” Minimus said. “Indeed you have…”

“Mirage actually forbade me to speak, that first night.” Megatron mused.

Minimus seemed physically incapable of making eye contact. “Why disobey him?”

“I wanted to thank you. You were… captivating.” Lost in memory, Megatron remembered too late that he was still speaking aloud. He stiffened. That had been far too honest.

“Ah?” Minimus covered his mouth. “Hmm. You make a remarkable argument for your prior point. But it was a while ago.”

Behind the other bots hand, Megatron glimpsed a smile. Emboldened, he leant forward a little in his chair. “Indeed. Would you refresh my memory?”

Minimus was – he was rather red. He was biting his lip in indecision. He glanced back across at Megatron and flicked his optics up and down in an attempt to ascertain if Megatron was genuine. Megatron maintained a serious demeanor. Minimus paused. And then he let his hand fall.

“...Maybe another time. For er. Educational purposes, perhaps.”

Megatron was struck speechless. A private performance-! True, there was no certainty in the promise - but even this was more than he'd ever hoped, and far more than he deserved.

Megatron clenched his hands on his thighs until they shook. How ironic. Only now, as they drew close to the end of things, could Megatron admit to himself that he wanted to stay. He wanted to spend evenings with Minimus, have late night discussions, and wake up every morning at his side.

“I- oh.” Minimus said. “Are you alright? Your eyes…”

“Hmm?” Megatron put a hand to his face, but could feel nothing amiss. "What about them?"

"You're... here, hold still."

Megatron had no time to react before Minimus leant across the table. Minimus’ hand hovered in mid-air in momentary indecision, and then fell on Megatron’s cheek.

He didn’t dare breathe.

“Minimus?” Megatron asked, a little strangled.

Minimus brushed his thumb underneath Megatron’s optic. Having done this, he seemed to realise what he was doing, and almost entirely drew back from the contact. Not completely, though. His fingers lingered against Megatron’s cheekbone, and the miniscule touch was a scorching brand.

He was powerfully conscious of how close they were. It would be so easy to lean in, to - Megatron swallowed. He dared not let himself imagine. Physically, they were close, but in truth the emptiness between them was an untraversable distance. 

“You were crying.”

It was painfully absurd. He didn’t want to leave.

“I've not cried in... I didn’t realize.”Megatron tried to gather his wits. “I... I… I have things to do.”

Minimus leapt away as if burned. “Likewise! I have work. Um.”

“Yes.” Megatron cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right now.”

“Now. Yes.”

Megatron pushed his chair back and marched to the door of the kitchen, out into the living room.

“I…” Megatron hesitated.

Minimus paused at the doorway of the study, but made no other acknowledgement.

“I loved that line in your report earlier today.” Megatron said. “Concerning Hound’s garden. ‘The flowers are beautiful because every one is fleeting’. A very poetic way of phrasing it.”

“I…” Minimus braced a hand on the door. “Thank you. I’d hoped you would not mind…”

“Oh, never. I’d be more than happy to discuss it with you, if you like.”

Minimus hesitated.

“Well… perhaps my other work is not that important…”

“It can wait.” Megatron agreed, and sunk into one of the living room armchairs.

Minimus joined him in the armchair opposite. Megatron leant his head on his hand, propped his arm up on the armrest, and listened to Minimus’ explanation.

“It really isn’t language appropriate for a report, but… I’m attempting to be more ‘relaxed’…”

“The earlier section, where you commented on the weeds – were you attempting something similar there?”

“You noticed?”

“Of course.”

Outside the window, night fell, cool and blue. Absorbed in each other, Minimus and Megatron wasted an hour talking before they noticed how dark the living room had become – and then they lingered another fifteen minutes more, for no reason that either of them could explain.

Chapter Text

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” First Aid did not sound sorry.

The doctor bent over Megatron’s knee. He was tinkering at an old wound: the scar as thin and white as spider web.

“Humid, isn’t it?” First Aid said. “They say we’re in for a storm.”

“I hope not. I have somewhere to be later.” Megatron examined his surroundings: Ratchet, Aid, and Ambulon smiled out at him from a holo-photo on the medibay desk nearby. “It would be terrible to be detained… ah, but we cannot control the weather.”

“It’s not movie night, is it?”

“Er, no – I have my ‘catch-up’ with Minimus today.”

First Aid gave Megatron a meaningful look. Megatron ignored it. True, the DJD investigation was complete. Minimus and Megatron had no real need to continue their weekly habit.

But if he and Minimus wanted to sit in the living room and read the latest articles – statistics – mundane news – why shouldn’t they?

Minimus would play his music. Megatron would occasionally read a poem aloud. Where was the harm in quiet conversation, precious and warm? It was a powerful routine.

Suddenly, Megatron’s memo-pad sung an alert. “If you like pina-coladas, and getting caught in the rain…”

First Aid eyed it. “Er…”

“Rodimus. Changed my alert settings. I’d fix it, but I don’t…” Megatron coughed, embarrassed, and read the message on screen. “I have just received word that Rodimus has blown up half the break room.”

“He’s not still trying to mix the ‘Skid’s Special, is he?”

“Heating and mixing energon is a delicate process. Rodimus has… other talents.”

First Aid shook his head and put his tools to the side. “Right, just let me check your transformation cog, and you’ll be good to go. And er – if you like. I can change your memo-pad settings.”

Megatron handed it over. “Thank you. I have no idea how these things work.”

Walking outside was like walking into a sauna. The wind immediately flicked a sprinkle of raindrops into Megatron’s face. Each one was fat and wet and ice-cold, and all the colder for the humidity in the air. The streets were filled with flight-frame Cybertronians walking home. No one wanted to risk the winds in this weather.

“Yep, thunderstorm.” First Aid rubbed absentmindedly at the knuckles of one fist. “Damn. Transform, please.”

Megatron transformed. First Aid looped his alt-mode three times, and patted him. The static charge in the air zapped Megatron, like a tiny electric bite. He ignored the pain.

“Try your engine?”

Megatron’s engine guttered out. He did not move.

First Aid stepped away. “Megatron?”

“I can’t.”

“You what?”

“I can’t start.” Megatron tried again, as if repetition would yield different results. “I can’t move.”

“You really can’t control anything?” First Aid said. “Okay. Good. ”

The rain swept across the ground in a wave, like a shiver. Distant lightning flashed, hidden somewhere in the clouds. Thunder rumbled non-stop, for all that the anxious rain hushed it.

“What?”

“Shh. Shh, it’s just an inhibitor chip. You’re okay.” First Aid insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary. “You promised, didn’t you? That you’d sacrifice yourself to take down Tarn? Now you will.”

“First Aid – I know you resent me, but please don’t act rashly-”

“Shh. You’ll see.” First Aid pulled out a blaster. As it charged, it whined ominously. “It’s the right thing to do.”

The sky seared a sudden white split across his vision. Lightning carved a hairline crack in the clouds: a white scar, as thin as spider web. Megatron never heard the thunder.

An instant later, First Aid fired.

Minimus jumped.

The thunder crashed outside like a stack of old bottles clattering into the trash. It echoed, boomed, and ended. The silence afterwards was deafening.

At the far end of his living room, in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, Nautica fiddled with her hand-held recorder. The rain outside fell and thickened.

“Um.” Nautica glanced across at him. “Are you sure Megatron has a copy of ‘the Ascetic Cybertronian’?”

“Positive. It’s mine, but I was lending it to him. He’ll be home soon.” Minimus assured Nautica. “He’s never late.”

“Never?”

“I don’t make hyperbolic statements.” Minimus snapped abruptly.

Nautica backed up. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No, I should apologise. I’m just…”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

The atmosphere in the room became uncomfortable. Nautica looked at the rain pelting the window, her mouth tight, and Minimus sat down in the armchair opposite. Once a week – every Thursday at eight – Minimus and Megatron would have a night to themselves.

It was ten past eight. Minimus had been looking forward to it.

“…While we wait. Listen to this.” Nautica held her recorder up so that the sound would carry across to Minimus. Cracked and distorted, Nightbeat’s voice came through.

“And Tailgate! The whole agency cancelled movie night when he went missing, why didn’t Getaway notice? Why didn’t-Getaway explained it, but it doesn’t seem right- doesn’t seem right-“

“Sorry – it glitches, sometimes. ” Nautica thumped the recorder until it ran smoothly. “Here. This bit.”

“The Mederi records were blocked by someone in high command.”

“Spooky, yeah?” Nautica paced back and forth. “High command. Soundwave and Airachnid are suspects, because the Mederi hotel reads minds, memories, etc, etc. But why would either of them risk their position by harvesting enough spark energy to power the city? It doesn’t make sense.”

Minimus frowned. “Nautica, I expected more of you than to use ‘et cetera’ in such a cheap way.”

Her face fell. “Sorry, Minimus.

“You’re very gifted with words; I believe you can do better.”

Nautica fumbled the recorder, and nearly dropped it. “Er, really? I’m not good with compliments – you really think so?”

“I do. Your…” Minimus’ gaze drifted to the empty entrance, but he refocused. “Your reports are always very clear.”

It was strange. He was quite unable to concentrate. Outside, the rain hissed. Nautica sat in the other armchair. Megatron’s chair. 

Minimus’ memo-pad told him it was twenty-past eight.

Twenty five past.

Nautica glanced sideways at him, concerned. “This is worrying.” She fiddled with her recorder. “Do you think something’s wrong?”

“No, he’d have called.”

“Why? Did you two have something planned…?”

The pity in her voice made Minimus flush red with shame. He stood up. The humiliation was too much. He strode out of the apartment entirely, into the hallway.

Nautica chased him. “You did?”

“That’s none of your-”

“A date?”

Minimus abruptly lost steam. His posture slackened. “A weekly – we – we spend Thursday evenings together…”

“A date then.”

“No! I’m just… He’s never late.”

Minimus despised tardiness: it was disrespectful, it was careless – and he’d thought Megatron was neither. This was the first time Megatron had ever missed one of their evenings. He felt almost betrayed.

“Well, he’s late now.” Nautica said. “Call him. The weather’s terrible; maybe it’s just that. Let’s believe the best, hmm? I’m off. I’ll drop by the Lost Light, maybe he’s there – you call him. Check.”

Nautica left him standing in the hallway alone. Minimus pulled out his memo-pad, and checked.

On a table nearby, Megatron’s memo-pad beeped it’s standard alert. The call went to voicemail.

“Hello, this is Magnus, second in command at the Lost Light Help Agency. Megatron, are you all right? I am… worried. I’m worried. Please call me.”

The message ended.

Megatron had awoken, of course, chained to a chair. No one had ever been blasted unconscious and woken up somewhere nice. Energon flooded the floor. Megatron stared at his reflection in the purple liquid.

“Do you know what you are?” A voice in the gloom said.

“A monster?”

“Worse. You’re the war. The death camps. The massacres. The cities razed to the ground. That’s you, Megatron. That’s what everyone sees.”

“Who are you?” Megatron asked. “I know you.”

“I’m someone who believes in justice. I’m the one who’s destined to end you when even the Prime couldn’t. I’m-“

Megatron recognized the voice. “Getaway.”

There was a peeved silence. “You could have let me finish, first.”

“Sorry.”

While Getaway walked around, Megatron examined his surroundings in more detail. He was in an abandoned M.T.O factory: that much he knew. The empty moulds were a bit of a giveaway – each old hollow was bot-shaped. From the gloom emerged conveyer belts, and cauldrons that had once held melted metal.

Getaway sighed. “This brings back memories…”

Megatron looked up. “Hmm?”

Getaway spoke slowly, and softly. “I was constructed in a factory just like this. We were sent into battle, to die, not an hour after we were born…”

“Um, Getaway-“ First Aid struggled in the doorway, carrying a crate of energon bottles. “This is the last one.”

Getaway shook his head to dispel the melancholy, and swiftly went to help him.

“Thank you so much for your help, First Aid. I couldn’t have done this alone.”

“Do you have everything under control?”

Getaway put a comforting hand on First Aid’s shoulder. “Yes. Now go– Tarn will be here soon. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt.”

First Aid hesitated, but left. Getaway turned on Megatron.

Some shell had been stripped away with First Aid’s absence. Underneath, Megatron saw rage.

Megatron knew the emotion intimately, and he could see that this simmering anger was not formless. It was focused. It powered Getaway’s glare, and if he’d had lasers for optics, he could have carved his name into the far wall.

It was therefore surprising to hear Getaway speak almost casually.

“You knew Prime best, didn’t you Megatron? Tell me, what’s the source of his power?”

Megatron was not sure how to respond. He awkwardly busied himself with his chains – he could easily have snapped them, but did not. “It’s true I could never physically overpower him-“

Getaway grimaced. “Not that! What makes him exceptional? Primus didn’t choose him for his kindness. There must be some other reason. Some special quality.”

Megatron shrugged. “The Matrix?”

The cold fire dimmed in Getaway’s optics. “Yes. That’s probably it. I had a vision in Mederi, you know – I’m destined to be a Prime. And once I blow up this factory, with you and Tarn in it, I’ll fulfill that destiny.”

Megatron took in the energon flooding the floor, and his optics widened in realization. Energon had a lot of uses – food, fuel, blood – and it could also create powerful explosions. But uncontrolled power was volatile. First Aid’s concern now made more sense.

Megatron contemplated offering Getaway some words of caution: not to stop his plan – Megatron hadn’t been lying when he’d promised to face his mistakes – but he wanted to make sure Getaway was in control. In his schemes, had he planned for the storm?

“Hmm.” In a melancholy manner, Getaway strolled across the liquid floor and stared around at the M.T.O factory. “It’ll be good to see this old place burn.”

On his way past, he picked up Megatron’s memo-pad, and casually snapped it in two. The screen went dark.

Megatron didn’t say a word.

At the Lost Light help agency, Magnus found Rodimus in the break room. It was still wrecked after his earlier cooking disaster, and several bots were on their hands and knees, rooting through the blackened wreckage for salvageable utensils.

“Ow!” Rodimus hissed and examined his finger. “Frag! Broken glass.”

“Please be careful.” Magnus cautioned.

Drift frowned. “Mags, you okay?”

“Fine. We need to-”

“I swore.” Rodimus said. “You’re okay with that?”

Magnus narrowed his optics. “Do we have time for this?”

Rodimus put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Brainstorm used magic to find Megatron’s memo-pad. It’s at the docks. Now that you’re here, we can-”

“I traced the signal.” Brainstorm corrected. “Rodimus, please stop calling science you don’t understand ‘magic’.”

Magnus listened as the captain explained. Apart from the ‘magic’, Rodimus had a surprisingly good grasp of the situation. Apparently, Arcee and the night shift were combing the dockyard, Metroplex’s underground maintenance tunnels, and the ocean. There was only one issue in the search.

“We can’t scout the area from the air.” Brainstorm said. “This storm is fragging dangerous.”

When Magnus only nodded in acknowledgement, Rodimus looked genuinely distressed.

“No admonishment? No ‘language’? This is wrong; this is like – like going to the beach, and the ocean being gone. This isn’t you, Magnus.”

“… I suppose not.”

“Well?”

Magnus felt stranded, directionless. Thunder boomed, shaking the ceiling, and the rain behind the walls sounded like static fuzz. His thoughts were blank.

“I was meant to supervise and protect Megatron until his trial.” Magnus said, without meaning to. “If something happened, it means he is not safe with me anymore. It means I am… inadequate.”

Rodimus gripped Magnus’ shoulder. “Not yet, you weren’t.”

The mangled tenses in this statement made Magnus flinch. “’Not yet, you’re not’.” He corrected.

Rodimus grinned. “That’s the spirit, Mags! Everyone, let’s roll out.”

The storm had truly come into its’ own. The docks were buffeted by the rain on all sides. Lines and lines of wind-washed warehouses lined the cement boundary between land and sea. Magnus squinted into the roiling ocean.

A blue boat, barely visible out in the ragged chaos, flashed a signal. 

“Riptide says he’s coming in.” Rodimus commented.

Magnus frowned. “Nautica is staying?”

“Yeah – she’s a submarine, so she’s safe underwater.”

It didn’t seem safe. The raw sea was a truly terrifying sight. Wave after wave broke on the waterfront, and slid away. In the wild ocean, dark mountains of water collided; and cold walls of froth erupted upwards with the strength of the impact. White foam powdered the air.

Lightning illuminated an argument. On the flooded docks, Arcee, Cyclonus and Whirl bickered.

“Getaway planned this.” Whirl was saying. “He kidnapped Tailgate, bought the warehouse, erased security footage-“

Arcee interrupted. “Why betray him?”

“Tailgate.” Whirl said. “And I thought he’d given up the idea – but he just switched targets. Otherwise I would have told you soon-”

A surprise lightning crack shook the very ground. A nearby pole rattled, as if in fear, and the electric roar retreated. Only the rain remained, hammering down.

“Good news and bad news.” Cyclonus said, as Magnus joined them.

“The bad news first.”

A grave Cyclonus pointed into the lines of warehouses. “Tarn is waiting at the location the memo-pad was traced to.”

Magnus went cold with dread. Tarn. The leader of the DJD: a monster with a passion for classical music, literature, and creative torture. Tarn was far too close for comfort – he was actually visible through the pouring rain. The soggy monster stood outside a warehouse, and waited.

Magnus saw Drift make helpless eye contact with Rodimus. The bot turned to Cyclonus.

“The good news?”

“We found the location.” Cyclonus said.

“That is…” Magnus tried to find words. “Not particularly reassuring.”

“No.”

“I had hoped for something a little more positive.”

“I probably should have led with the good news.”

“Probably.”

Drift gave a shallow smile. “Well, we found him. I’m off – I’m going to recall the night shift from the search.”

Rodimus shook Drift’s shoulder warmly in farewell. Briefly, Drift covered Rodimus’ hand with his own. Then he vanished into the rain. Cyclonus and Whirl followed.

Arcee, frozen, hadn’t taken her eyes off Tarn. As such she was the first to notice when the Decepticon moved.

“Tarn just knocked on the door.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Tarn.” Getaway cursed.

Tarn. Megatron’s spark hummed an uneasy rhythm – if Tarn so chose, he could sing them all to death without even entering. But then the factory door opened. Tarn entered. A mask in the shape of the Decepticon insignia completely covered his face.

“Good.” Getaway began, and gestured to Megatron. “You received my messa-“

Tarn strode past like the Autobot didn’t even exist. Getaway fell silent, but glared. The ice in his blue optics should have made snowflakes form from thin air.

“Tarn.”

Tarn looked down on Megatron in chains.

“My lord, what have they done to you?”

“I’m not your lord. And this-” Megatron tapped his badge. “This isn’t shadowplay. I’m truly trying to live by the Autobot Code.”

How ironic, that fate had led them here. Megatron had trained Tarn thoroughly: to kill traitors, to make examples of defectors, to terrify and torture and not get caught. He’d created a monster – yet Tarn wanted to know how Megatron had been altered? He felt sick.

“No.” Tarn was upset. “No, remember your dream – ‘when the world is conquered, we can impose justice upon it’. Harmony. Order. Control. The Decepticon Empire! Peace through tyranny!”

The rallying cry rung hollow in the ruined, empty factory.

“What arrogance.” Megatron said, bitterly. “Any peace I created was a cage. What arrogance, to think I knew best for our entire race – when my only outcome was the destruction of every defenceless being.”

“The weak. Yes. They don’t belong in your empire.” Tarn brightened. “My lord, I knew you were still in there-!”

“No!”

The force of Megatron’s rejection made Tarn step back, stricken.

Tarn had not been born into power. He’d been weak, but Megatron had pushed him, trained him. The strain had broken his body and rotted his mind. Behind the mask, Tarn was horrifically scarred. And behind his face, Tarn was numb to everything but the pursuit of twisted Decepticon justice.

The giant paused and examined Megatron again. “So. This betrayal of yours is genuine. I had hoped…”

Megatron scrunched his eyes shut. “The Autobot Code, article one, section one: the weak have as much right to live as anyone else, and it is the responsibility of the powerful to defend them.” He laughed, wretched, and stroked the Autobot symbol on his chest. “Ha. Optimus was right.”

Getaway raised his head. “What was Prime right about?”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.” Megatron stood, and simultaneously snapped his chains. “After all this time… I finally believe it.”

Behind his mask Tarn’s eyes burned.

Megatron watched something darken in Tarn’s body language. Getaway sensed it too, and stepped closer to the exit. Tarn hummed. It was a clear, mellow sound, as clear as glass. The problem was the power buzzing underneath the note.

It was the friendly hum of an electric fence.

Tarn struck Megatron without warning, and he felt his left optic shatter.

“No.” Tarn spoke gently, and dealt Megatron a second devastating blow that knocked him back into his chair. “No. I care too much to leave you like this. The person you were would hate you now–“

Megatron tried to speak, but Tarn beat him down, word after word.

“-Like I hate you now. You’re sickening. Weak. Ordinary. Was the war – for nothing? No. If it takes – a thousand years – we’ll win. If I have to burn – this world to ash. I will.”

Tarn paused in his assault. He sighed mournfully. Energon-blood ran in rivers down the seams of his fists.

“I’d hoped to do it by your side.” Tarn said, wistful.

Behind him, Megatron noticed Getaway hovering in the doorway. He held a flaming lighter in one hand – but the schemer had frozen mid-plot, transfixed by Tarn’s sudden cold brutality.

Megatron turned to face his ex-subordinate.

“I’m sorry.”

Tarn stared silently.

“I’m sorry I turned you into a monster. You’ve suffered at my hands – and thousands have suffered at yours. Let go of the past, Tarn. Accept that the war is over. Now, all we can do is make amends.”

For a moment, the only sound was the drip, drip of blood from Tarn’s hands, and the hammering rain outside.

“You taught me to kill defectors. To make examples of traitors. I have never, not once, deviated from what you taught me.” Tarn raised his fusion cannons. “You’ve changed – I won’t make that mistake.”

The building nuclear fusion sung a low discordant note. Thunder boomed, like a giant wave on a beach.

“You can make amends with your death.”

But before Tarn could fire, Getaway dropped the lighter.

The world blew up.

From far away, a bot would have seen a brief flash and nothing more.

Getaway had chosen the perfect night. At a distance, a deceptively small orange glow was all that was visible of the ex-factory – but no one would investigate, for the rain would soon extinguish the flames. There was not even any sound. The thunder had drowned it out.

Far away, Megatron's mind reeled.

In his war poetry Megatron had once described his spark as a nuclear inferno.

An inferno was destructive, unstable and powerful – he’d thought it an apt metaphor for his passion at the time. His love of power had led him to burn the world black. Overkill? There had been no such thing.

But then the ash had settled, and in his search for absolute control, Megatron had lost himself.

In his poetry now, he found it more fitting to describe his spark as a hearth, or a candle: something small and delicate. And it was strange – this current, quiet warmth seemed far more precious.

Dream-like, the view from Minimus’ apartment window swum into view...

Megatron saw, in sudden perfect clarity, a view of the night sky from in his apartment window. The first budding stars appeared. He saw Minimus seated in the evening of his memory.

“Have you seen this article? Starscream and Prime are reconstructing war-destroyed buildings into open apartments.”

He saw Minimus pause and look up from the article to check Megatron’s interest. He glimpsed a warm smile – so faint! – when Minimus found Megatron devotedly attentive.

“They’ve collaborated at last. Now, I suppose we can expect a decrease in homelessness statistics, and in rent prices throughout the city…”

Silhouetted against the blooming stars, Minimus folded the page of that evening’s paper. The mundane memory blazed like a star in the darkness and was gone. Megatron was in the warehouse, in the inferno, lying under a chunk of debris.

It was hard to say the factory was even a building anymore. The blast had ripped clean through the walls of the warehouse. Now it was only a melted skeleton, and tiny red sparks fell from the roof like snowflakes. A fallen beam trapped Megatron. He couldn’t move.

“Megatron? You there?” Rodimus’ voice called out into the thick smoke.

“Yes, as if he’ll reply-“ Arcee answered.

“I have to ask!”

“And what’ll you do if Tarn says ‘yes, here’?”

“Captains.” Magnus called out from somewhere nearby. “Help me with this.”

The debris was removed. Megatron was immediately drenched by the storm, but he did not mind – where the rain met his overheated frame, the metal hissed in relief.

Magnus lifted him into a bridal carry. Megatron would have risen without assistance – but when he’d tried, he’d felt the ground turn over and over beneath him. But Magnus was considerate and gentle. Megatron felt secure.

"Getaway?" Arcee asked.

"Gone." Rodimus answered.

Rodimus led them out of the ex-warehouse. Outside, water fell from every building and leaked from the gutters. Not a dry thing existed.

“Sorry I’m late.” Megatron told Magnus, once he could speak. 

“I think we can agree.” Magnus said, over the roar of the storm. “This evening, there were extenuating circumstances.”

Rodimus snorted. “Yes, yes, the traffic was murder. Now let’s-!”

Arcee muffled him with a sudden hand. Her eyes were fixed on something behind Magnus. Slowly, they turned.

Tarn emerged from the inferno, framed by flames. His optics were ravenous behind his mask.

“Megatron!” Tarn roared.

The sound gripped Megatron’s spark in a vice. Magnus stumbled. But then that terrible voice was broken – cut off. Tarn staggered, choking, impaled in the throat by a flaming blade.

Arcee had thrown her sword in an instant.

“Run.” Arcee hissed.

Tarn ripped it free. Energon-blood poured down with the rain. Here was the monster, dark and horrible, with his spark-wrenching voice and double fusion-cannon right arm. Tarn’s mute expression spoke only of violence. He raised his right arm to fire.

Magnus ran. His large stride ate up the distance to the waterfront within seconds. There were two steps until the sea. One step.

Magnus jumped.

The fusion-cannon barely missed them.

Megatron was thankful Cybertronians did not need to breathe, for as soon as the swirling surface closed over their heads, the sea quickly sucked him away.

The ocean was quiet, and freezing cold.

Where was Magnus? He held his vents closed for buoyancy – but in vain: the weight of his body proved too much. Megatron fell in slow motion. Emptiness opened up on all sides, water poured into the empty socket of his left optic, and the silent, endless void grew denser, and denser. Unbalanced, he reached out into the dark-

-And found something solid.

Megatron broadcasted a tentative, wordless query on Inter-Autobot radio.

Ultra Magnus pinged back a confirmation.

They blindly floundered, and collided. Seeking stability, they fell into a desperate embrace, where each clung so tightly that they hugged the breath from each other’s vents. A streamer of bubbles followed them down like a sigh.

Megatron relaxed slowly. Magnus was a fantastic hugger.

Exhaustion came upon the heels of relief. Now, having escaped the great danger, Megatron felt his exertion hit him all at once. He was safe – so his body said ‘rest’.

Never mind the long fall. Never mind the open ocean.

Megatron, tired, sunk into Magnus’ arms and let sleep take him.

Minimus stood in the hospital room and adjusted the picture hanging on the wall.

It was one of Ten’s. The previous painting had been substandard, in Minimus’ opinion, and Ratchet had folded easily to his suggestion of replacing it. Minimus pulled out a cleaning rag to wipe the glass.

“Primus, Minimus, give it a rest.” Ratchet grumbled, on his way past. “It’s a pretty painting, sure, but you’ll erode the glass if you keep at it.”

“Forgive me. But I find it’s only proper to clean the things you’re fond of.”

“So, you’re fond of Ten’s paintings?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Your desk?”

“Yes I am. I see you understand.”

“Megatron?”

“Y-“ Minimus cleared his throat, flustered. “Hmm. The washracks incident. Oh, that was – hm. Different.”

Ratchet shrugged noncommittally. “If you say so, Minimus.”

Minimus glanced across the room to where Megatron still lay, asleep. The bright sunlight illuminated the far wall, bounced off, and reflected back onto his still frame. Megatron glowed. Minimus relaxed, and wondered why he’d been worried. Of course the bot was still asleep.

Ratchet’s voice softened inexplicably. “He’ll wake when he’s rested. You’re welcome to wait.”

Minimus bristled at the implications. There was nothing between them, Ratchet was wrong to assume as much. But Minimus let the misstep pass, and folded his arms.

“I do have reports to write up… I suppose I can do them here. No, no, I don’t want a glass of energon – I won’t stay long.”

Ratchet left. Minimus took a seat in the visitors’ chair, under the window, and pulled out his memo-pad. He’d been trying to use more ‘plain language’ in his reports of late. He was finding it hard – why use one word, when a complex paragraph with accompanying diagrams could work just as well?

But today there were no diagrams, no words at all. Minimus stared sullenly at his blank report.

“Damn.” He put his head in his hands.

Why couldn’t Megatron be malicious? It would have been too easy to shut out complicated feelings if Megatron had been toxic or unpleasant. But Megatron was neither. Why? Why was he clever, and poetic, and courteous? More than disarmed, Minimus was charmed by these qualities, and the happiness that bubbled up within him was so much harder to shut out.

“You know I will never forgive you. You killed entire cities. And so, how unfortunate it is!” Minimus chastised the comatose Megatron. “I find your poetry far too pleasant.”

Megatron didn’t answer.

Minimus shook his head and covered his mouth. It was ridiculous of him to address Megatron so, with the other bot asleep and unable to hear. Nevertheless, he continued.

“I… It’s the strangest thing, but sometimes, I… I try to convince myself that becoming involved with you would be a good idea.” Even alone, Minimus was reluctant to admit it. “Over a longer period of time, perhaps.”

Megatron inhaled deeply in his sleep. Minimus froze, utterly terrified.

When the other bot did not do so again, he relaxed. But to be careful he dimmed the window blinds. The quiet sunlight was kind where it fell on Megatron’s face, and Minimus stared – at that handsome profile, the offline optics, strong jaw. With effort, he looked away.

“Hmm.” He sighed sadly. “Hmm. The oyster guards its pearl-heart,

It coats it in iridescent sheets of nacre,

Layer upon layer of modest white and silver.

But that persistent, tiny particle of love -

That frustrating grain at the spark-core -

Grows with every effort to erase it…"

Minimus sighed again.

“Lovely.”

Minimus jolted. He did not actually cry out, but it was a close thing, and he was sure his spark could be heard humming through his chest.

“Megatron?” Minimus felt weak.

Megatron observed him from the white hospital berth. He hadn’t moved. Only his optics had changed – moments ago they’d been offline, but now they glowed steadily red.

“Good evening.” Megatron gave a tired smile. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I know that one. A shame. Who’s the poet?”

Minimus wrung his hands in agitation and didn’t answer. He had not intended for Megatron to hear him reciting – the poem in question was, in fact, his own. He felt caught out. He felt as if some hidden part of his soul had been suddenly laid bare.

“How long were you awake?” Minimus asked, desperate.

Megatron inhaled deeply. “Minimus, do you remember when we drew up a set of ground rules to govern our interactions – and we agreed not to lie to each other?”

This sounded serious. Minimus gripped his hands in his lap until the metal creaked.

“In the interest of those rules, I feel I must be honest with you.” Megatron sought out eye contact, and held it. “Minimus. I have been awake. Ever since you said ‘damn’.”

The implications echoed in Minimus’ mind.

He swiftly rose to his feet. The window was closest, but impractical, given the effort required to open it and the height of the building. Minimus contemplated making a break for the door instead. If he was fast enough-

“Wait, Minimus.”

He stopped.

“Ah.” Minimus turned away, ashamed. “I – how unforgivably personal of me.”

The way Megatron tilted his head – with empathy – it hurt Minimus’ spark.

“I understand completely.” Megatron said. “Look, Minimus, let me speak plainly. In another lifetime – over a longer period – I’d have loved to get to know you in such a manner. You understand my reluctance to be 'personal' like no-one else... and if you hadn't gone first, I would never have confessed this much to you. I love talking to you. I love our evenings. Minimus, you're the most interesting person I've ever met.”

The white room glowed. Minimus looked out the window and saw nothing, only light.

“How do you know?”

“Know – what?” Megatron asked, perplexed

Minimus sat back down and pressed a hand to his lips. He was blind. The light swum in an odd way, as if wet.

“How do you know just what to say to break my heart?”

All the noise in the world could not have filled the dead air.

Minimus was surprised by his own emotions. He could make a joke of them, if he was quick, but he found himself only able to shake his head in denial. His iron control was gone.

Not all at once. No, it had rusted– little bit by little bit – with every kind word, with every warm evening, with every moment spent together. Like an iron bar over time. Little bits of rust had fallen away, erosion so slow and gradual that Minimus hadn’t noticed the change from moment to moment.

He’d only realised it was gone when there was nothing left.

“Oh, Minimus.” Megatron broke the silence. “I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Minimus gestured vaguely with shaking hands. Wordlessly, he strove to indicate – something. He didn’t know.

“Oh, Minimus.”

“I don’t know what this is.” Minimus admitted.

“You don’t have the words?”

“Yes. Please, help me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m as lost in this as you are…”

Hearing Megatron admit this was, to Minimus, the emotional equivalent of a hug. They sat within handholding distance and each made no move. Not for lack of desire – but it was impossible to reach out, nevertheless. What a pair they were, Minimus mused.

“I’m an old, broken man.” Megatron said. “I wasted my life. But the Lost Light has been… an opportunity to make up for lost time. To make amends. I would never ask for more than you gave me.”

Minimus’ throat caught. “I believe people can change if they want to. I believe in second chances. Even so, your past is completely indefensible. Unforgivable.”

“I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“You’re right.” Minimus almost smiled. “You don’t. But you make me so happy…”

Minimus was contemplating the distance between them, staring, when Megatron gradually turned his hand over with his palm open.

An invitation.

And hesitantly, slowly, Minimus reached out and slid his hand into Megatron’s offered palm.

“What is this?” Minimus asked. “Us?”

“I have no clue.” Megatron smiled. “Is it strange that I envy Rodimus’ expertise?”

“Not at all. When it comes to relationships, Rodimus has always been smarter than either of us – but you must never tell him I said so.”

“It would go to his head.” Megatron agreed.

The dimmed sunlight filled the room with a golden twilight veil. Minimus tightened his grip on their clasped hands, and Megatron did likewise. He could feel Megatron trembling, slightly. He felt exactly the same.

The doomed nature of their… whatever this was… should have prevented Minimus accepting. But his reservations had been washed away, and so there was nothing to prevent him making up for lost time.

Ratchet found them later, both asleep.

He placed two energon glasses on the table for when they woke, shook his head at their clasped hands, and left them to rest.

Chapter Text

“I wish I could go.” Rodimus complained. “I like Optimus.”

Soundwave shrugged expressionlessly. “Who doesn’t?”

“Starscream?”

Windblade shook her head. “They’re actually getting along, these days.”

“Enough gossip.” Megatron ordered.

“Please.” Minimus agreed. “Arcee, Whirl, Cyclonus and Brainstorm have volunteered to accompany Prime’s team. Is this possible to accommodate?”

“Ooh, please, we could use the air support.”

They’d pulled extra chairs around Rodimus’ desk for the extra guests – Prime’s team of advisors and assistants – but the Lost Light captain’s office was still cramped. Megatron was standing. But he was glad to see that Rodimus was focused and paying attention, and actually making notes on the memo-pad Magnus had bought him. Admittedly, they weren’t very productive notes. But it wasn’t a very productive meeting.

Everything had already been hammered out, and no one really wanted to stick around arguing details. It was a meeting to say they’d met, they’d discussed, the assault was tomorrow and yes they all knew. Minimus played the role of the team member who’d done all the work and was politely, if a little accusatorily, asking the other members if they’d mind doing the presentation please.

Megatron supported him. It was a meeting, not an excuse for idle chatter.

“Metroplex is unstable.” Windblade remarked. Her link to the City Titan made her a reliable source on the matter. As if on cue, Metroplex rumbled. The DJD had ripped apart half the city in their search for Megatron. A horrific stack of Metroplex’s damage reports sat in Windblade’s lap, and more than tired: she looked worn.

“Really?” Arcee said, sarcastic, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry. I’m just… sorry. The whole fragging city’s falling apart…”

Aileron fidgeted. “Arcee, about tomorrow… come back in one piece, okay?”

“I’ve wounded Tarn twice!”

“You’ve fended him off twice.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Aileron sighed in a way that said this was already a well-worn argument. In the awkward silence someone cleared their throat in a slightly insistent manner, as if they’d been trying to say something for a while. Megatron looked around. There was no one else in the room. Until, there was.

“At a time like this, it’s important to acknowledge the long term psychological anxiety of our post-war world. We are still recovering from a horrific schism – can anything ever seem adequately safe to us again after such distress? If even Metroplex is unstable, what solace can we find? What peace?”

Windblade blinked. “Er, sorry, but who are you?”

“Rung.”

“When did you get here?”

Rung looked hurt. “I’ve been here the entire time.”

“Oh – er.” Windblade coughed and stood up sheepishly. “Everyone on the team, please report to Maccadams at two tomorrow. That is all.”

Metroplex rumbled again. The building shook ominously, and the floor rolled beneath their feet. 

Windblade’s face looked hollow. “Dismissed.”

“Thank you for your support, back there.”

“What, about the gossip? Of course. It was a meeting, not an excuse for idle chatter.”

“They should have saved it for the break room.”

“Precisely! We were in an office, for Primus’ sake. I wish people would have a little more decorum about such things.”

“This isn’t pertinent, but do you know what I wish?”

“What?”

“I wish more people read the standard operating procedures.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Lockdowns. Evacuations. We can’t rely solely on PA announcements – people have to know the proper protocol.”

“Yes, thank you. That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

Megatron and Minimus walked through a Lost Light garage, together.

Megatron and Minimus, since their fumbled confessions, had struggled to find time together. Tarn’s rage after their escape had left the city in turmoil. It was all they could do to stay afloat of the chaos – they both understood more important things were at stake. They were both intelligent people. They didn't have time to explore this new thing between them. It hung out in the open like a bubble, like a balloon, and both of them very carefully avoided asking about it in case the spell was broken. Megatron walked close enough to brush Minimus' shoulder. By accident, maybe. Minimus did the same.

Brainstorm had created portable recharge stations for the large number of guests. It was a useful invention. It was also very hard to take seriously, as the ‘sleeping bags’ made the sleepers resemble a sea of grey-silver caterpillars. Not that any of them were sleeping: for who slept peacefully in a new place? Three caterpillars snuggled around each other, chatting.

“Is… the Lost Light safe?”

Pipes’ caterpillar bag rustled confidently. “Course.”

“Right, right, it’s just – with Megatron here-“

“Shh!”

The clustered bots fell silent as Megatron and Minimus wandered closer. The DJD had destroyed a lot of people’s homes. The Lost Light help agency was, for them, a temporary replacement. Megatron recognized Pipes, Riptide, and Rewind – but noted that Rewind’s bag was suspiciously large for only one person. Pipes coughed.

“Hmm! Yeah, so like I’m telling you, triple changers are so hot.”

“Yeah, so sexy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey Minimus do you have a type?”

Megatron turned to Minimus coolly. He knew Minimus would be reluctant to answer, but at the same time, Megatron was personally powerfully curious. He maintained a professional manner only out of habit, out of inability to do anything else. Minimus did likewise.

“My type?” Minimus’ voice was two hertz higher than his usual pitch.

Pipes gestured vaguely. “You know? Me, I like big chest plates, aquatic alt modes-”

Riptide gasped. “I have an aquatic alt mode!”

“No!”

“I’m a boat!”

“Oh brilliant! You know what? Life’s short. Wanna go out?”

“What?” Riptide seemed confused, then hopeful, and then confused again. “Oh, like, as friends?”

“No like a date.”

“A friend-date?”

“A date-date.”

“A friend date-date?”

“A- no-“

Megatron cleared his throat to stifle a chuckle, and turned his face away. Only Minimus saw him smile.

Pipes was determined. But to his credit, he wasn’t pressing where he wasn’t wanted. Riptide didn’t seem uninterested: just oblivious. It was probably a good thing Pipes was undaunted. It was certainly fun to watch. The two sleeping bags muttered back and forth and it was anyone’s guess what would give out first – Pipes’ unstoppable confidence, or Riptide’s immovable incomprehension.

“So. Minimus.” Rewind said politely, cruelly. “Your type?”

“Er – ah. Someone… by the book. Someone rule-driven. Punctual.”

“Oh you hopeless romantic.”

“Regrettably so.”

“No deeper desires? No hidden yearnings?”

Megatron came to his rescue. “Answering would quite defeat the point of ‘hidden’ yearnings. Rewind, did you know those recharge stations are only meant for one spark?”

Rewind jolted guiltily. Chromedome unzipped and stuck his head out from within Rewind’s sleeping bag. “I’m hiding from Nightbeat.” He whispered. “He doesn’t want me to look at more experimental mnemo-tech, does he? I won’t do it!”

“Mnemology?”

A nearby sleeping bag rolled over. The occupant was zipped up to her chin, cocoon-like, and grinning like a cat. Airachnid wiggled closer to join the conversation.

“I’m a mnemosurgeon. A fate-spinner, technically.”

“Is that a Eukarian thing…?”

“Fate-spinners look into the memories of individuals, and use them in our prophecy.”

“Prophecy? You’re joking.”

“Would you like to know what happens tomorrow?”

“You’re not joking.”

Megatron wasn’t too fond of mnemosurgery, to put it delicately. He'd harbored a healthy distrust of needles ever since an unhealthy run-in with Trepan. On top of that he’d heard gruesome stories about Airachnid. Arcee hated her – apparently she’d sliced up people’s minds against their will, in Eukaris. The other fate-spinners had exiled her.

“Do me, do me.” Riptide asked. “Tell me something good. Something small.”

“If it helps you sleep. Tomorrow, Riptide, someone will give you flowers, and the job you applied to will call you back.”

This small prediction was quietly comforting. Pipes rustled. “Do me!”

“Pipes, an old friend will reach out to you, and your favorite bar will have half-price drinks.”

Megatron bristled disapprovingly. If Airachnid lied, she was getting their hopes up for no reason. To his vindication, Chromedome looked cynical as well.

“How’d you do that?” Chromedome asked suspiciously. “You’re not a telepath. How’d you read their memories remotely?”

“I didn’t.”

“Aha!”

“But I read a lot of other people’s memories. If you dig deep enough – if you sift through enough data – you’ll find that everyone is connected. Everything happens for a reason, so if you know all the reasons, you’ll know what happens! It’s Tumbler, right?”

“Chromedome.”

“Right – from one mnemosurgeon to another, Chromedome, predicting the future is about knowing as much as you possibly can. Which is why I know that tomorrow, you and Rewind will help a friend and have a festive evening in, how does that sound?”

Chromedome didn’t say anything. It sounded pretty good, which made it hard to argue with. If he argued he might jinx it.

Megatron snorted dismissively. As if the future could be so easily predicted. Were all Cybertronians merely a spark, a brain stem, and a series of learned responses? No. They weren’t scientific variables, acting without autonomy. They were people. Messy. Contradictory. Imperfect.

Airachnid tilted her head curiously. “So! What’s this about experimental mnemosurgical technology?”

Minimus leant back and brushed a hand over Megatron’s chest to get his attention. “We’d better ask Nightbeat about that.”

“I’ve scheduled us a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Minimus nodded gratitude warmly.

They broke off to sidestep Whirl, who was trying to get past. Whirl had the same idea. They shuffled awkwardly from side to side.

“Move.” Whirl lost patience and barged between them. “I’ve got a lot of pranks to organize.”

Minimus wore a little frown. “At a time like this, is that really wise?”

But he was chiding empty air. He glared frostily into nothing.

“Perhaps he’s making trouble precisely because things are stressful?” Megatron remarked.

“Nevertheless, pranks are not a sustainable outlet.”

Megatron huffed a small laugh, appreciating the hint of a joke in Minimus’ statement. Rewind, Chromedome and Pipes gave him a funny look: apparently, they hadn’t noticed any humor going on. Their loss, Megatron thought wryly.

Drift ran up. “Minimus! There you are. Some troublemaker’s stolen my ‘Back to the Future’ DVD box set, and I’ve no idea who.”

Minimus’ mouth tightened. “I might hazard a guess.”

“Go.” Megatron said. “I’ll deal with Nightbeat.”

“I’ll do my best to be at my desk at eight pm – we’ll rendezvous there.”

Megatron gave him a rare smile. “And your best, Minimus, is always exceptional.”

“Ah?” Minimus averted his gaze, his face burning. “Hmm.”

He nodded a sincere goodbye and they parted ways. Megatron sighed to himself. Every time they had a moment to themselves, something else came up.

Alone, he made his way into the inner part of the agency, the older part. There were no windows here, and this was a good thing – all the windows displayed a lovely view of rust-red clouds: the glow of distant fires consuming the city. Megatron found a dark door. Behind it, he heard two people muttering, but they stopped when he knocked.

“Megatron, come in.”

He did, and shut the door behind him. “Nightbeat, Nautica, how are you?”

"Not bad."

“I’m… I’m getting there. Aren’t you curious how I knew it was you?”

“I scheduled a meeting.”

“Yeah, but - oh nevermind.”

“What’s this about experimental mnemo-tech?”

“Oh, well! I had Chromedome take a look at the box Brainstorm got from Mederi, and…"

Nautica shook her head. "We found something horrible.”

Nightbeat spun his monitor around for Megatron to look at. He did so, with distaste: he recognized the mnemonic code. “A complete memory download.” He confirmed. “Horrible. Why would they examine everyone’s minds in their entirety? It’s unsurvivable.”

“To create convincing illusions?”

“No, the remote-scan does that easily, non-invasively. This…" Nautica rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "The corpses. This is what killed them.”

“Not the spark-drain tech?" 

“Well that probably didn’t help.”

Nightbeat put his palms together and rested them against his chin. “Then there’s only one mnemosurgeon who could have done this – who was good enough to do this.”

“Sunder.” Megatron confirmed.

“Yes. But Sunder’s dead.”

Megatron’s comms chose that tense moment to sound an alert. He jumped. “Ah it’s - oh it’s Brainstorm. He has something that may hide us from Tarn.”

“Fifth time’s the charm.”

It was actually the sixth time Brainstorm had called him with a possible solution, but Megatron felt no need to mention this. He bid the detectives goodnight, and left.

Tarn was hunting him. He wanted Megatron; in violence, in chains, on trial; like any other of the DJD’s victims. It would be worse than a bloodbath if he found him. It’d be slaughter. Tarn would fill the Lost Light with death – and the imagined corpses made Megatron shudder, stumble. No. The Lost Light had not asked for such danger. Fresh urgency spurred him into a run – if this latest theory worked – Megatron didn’t want to dally in implementing it.

“Attention deflectors,” was Brainstorm’s suggestion. “We’ll be invisible to the casual observer.”

“Intelligent.” Perceptor admitted, rubbing his eyes. He was tired “Tenable. But our resources are lacking – to coat the entire building we’d need over a billion deflectors.”

“We have…?”

“Six.”

“Ouch.”

Megatron gripped the doorframe for support. As the rush from his run faded, he felt his old aches reassert themselves. The fact that he’d recently re-injured his knee didn’t help. Now he took much longer to recover, when in the past he’d shrugged off such things within the week. He’d used to be fast. Now? Now, his ageing gears rebelled at the slightest strain.

Theories fluttered back and forth between the lab partners.

“We could make a second Lost Light.”

“Yes, but construction would take-“

“Too long, I know. How about a giant force-field?”

“How would we power it?”

“Love?”

“Don’t get cute with me Brainstorm.”

“Aww, you think I’m cute?”

“An acute pain in my-“

“Aha! That’s a science pun!”

Perceptor sighed wearily, yet wistfully, as Brainstorm added a mark to a running tally on the corner of the lab whiteboard. Brainstorm was half asleep and propped against said whiteboard: which bore the messy map of his thought process, getting more scribbled the more tired he’d become. Perceptor sat opposite, his legs folded neatly. His notes were just as bad.

“Megs!” Brainstorm slurred. The words ‘tired-drunk’ came to mind. “We wouldn’t happen to have a spare thousand or so deflectors, would we? Lying around? In storage?”

“No.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Wait.” Perceptor said, quietly. “We actually might.”

“We might?”

“Yes.”

Brainstorm gave Megatron a pitying smile that clearly said: ‘ah, he’s gone insane’.

Perceptor put down his pen. “Remember that time Nightbeat flooded the Lost Light with books, and we had to hide in panic rooms while it was cleaned out? What if, we used the same matter duplicator he used, and created infinite copies of our six attention deflectors?”

Megatron froze. “Will it work?” He asked Brainstorm, urgently.

“Of course it will.” Brainstorm practically vibrated. “We can start right now – Percy, Percy, I could kiss you! You’re a genius!”

“It was a team effort.” Perceptor admitted. His voice trembled with a strange emotion. It took a moment for Megatron to recognize it as excitement.

Brainstorm grabbed Perceptor around the waist and enacted an enthusiastic waltz around the room. He knocked over the whiteboard. Surprisingly – perhaps it was lack of sleep – Perceptor didn’t mind. He actually laughed.

“We’re gonna be invisible! What’d I tell you? What’d I tell you?” Brainstorm chanted. “You and me! Simpatico!”

Perceptor didn’t object. He didn’t pull away, although he seemed a bit flustered, and a bit unaccustomed to laughing. He kept making poor, snorting attempts to suppress it. Megatron felt vaguely voyeuristic in witnessing this rare expression of joy and as quietly as he could, slipped away.

His knee ached all the way back to the main office. Perhaps recent exercise had over-stressed the joint? It kept cramping. So it was rather stiffly, and rather heavily, that he sat in the chair opposite Minimus’ desk. Minimus was, as expected, early.

“How’d things go with Drift?”

“Whirl stole it.”

“You guessed as much.”

“I did – Whirl said he was only borrowing it, however, so Drift agreed to lend it to him. You?”

“I have good news.” Megatron told him. “But I don’t want to celebrate too soon, so I’ll give you the straightforward facts.”

At the mention of facts, Minimus immediately perked up, interested.

Megatron gave a heavily summarized outline of the plan. They would use the matter-duplicator to create infinite attention deflectors, with which they would paint the Lost Light into the background. If he had known the science behind it, Megatron would have explained in more detail – but he didn’t understand entirely how it worked. According to the laws of the universe it shouldn’t have worked.

“Who says it matters?” Minimus said, when Megatron remarked as much. “It exists. “It’s knowing what to do with things that counts’.”

“Ah! Robert Frost.”

“’At Woodward’s Gardens’. Yes.”

“It’s true,” Megatron smiled. “If we’re hidden from Tarn, that’s enough.”

Minimus flicked his gaze up to Megatron and smiled warmly in return – how rare, how precious! Megatron relaxed.

Laughter echoed from down the hall. Someone on the night shift, no doubt, had learned of Brainstorm’s successful theory. Minimus’ desk lamp cast an intimate yellow glow over the pair of them. Feeling mellow, Megatron sighed. He settled himself comfortably into the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

“…You should see Ratchet about that knee.”

“He has others to attend to. How’s First Aid?”

“Still silent. But Prime hasn’t given up on him.”

“Of course not.”

“Mmm. Whirl has invited us to… something, tomorrow. He didn’t say what.”

“Ominous.”

“Extremely.”

“Both of us?”

“I’d like you there.”

“All right then.”

Minimus folded over a finished sheet of paperwork. “This won’t take long.”

“I’m happy to wait. In fact, this is better – you see, I have something for you.”

Megatron pulled out a carefully wrapped rectangular package. Minimus was powerfully curious about it – he kept glancing up from his work – but it was nearly five minutes late that he finished filing everything. At that point, Megatron was beginning to revise his appraisal of the situation. Maybe he should have kept it a surprise.

“Why now?” Minimus asked steadily, very carefully not eyeing the neatly wrapped gift. “Why not when we get home?”

“I was going to give it to you when we got home yesterday – but Arcee called you in to supervise our guests. I was going to give it to you earlier – but we had that meeting. My point is: as soon as we sit down to relax, something else will happen.”

“Very well.” Minimus reached out for the present, deliberately nonchalant. “If you insist.”

He opened it carefully. It was a data pad – blue, because black would have been too formal for a personal gift. At the first poem, Minimus stopped. He flipped to the next page. The next. He avidly scanned the entire book, swiping past page after page so fast it was hard to say if he was even reading them. He finally looked up, wide-eyed, from the last verse.

“Who told you?”

“What?”

“This is an almost perfect compilation of all my favorite poems. Was it Ten? There’s no other way you could have compiled this. Most of these were published anonymously.”

Megatron laced his hands together in his lap. He tapped a finger. “Thank you.”

Minimus looked back down at the data pad in shocked realization. “No. No. What? You wrote this-? ’You flare, you flicker, you fade-‘”

“’And in the end, all your tomorrows become yesterdays.’” Megatron finished. “Afterlight.”

It had been an effort to track down all his old poetry. Nautica had helped. It was hard, coming back to some of it, an entire lifetime later. It was hard, rereading them, because they still rung true; after all the years and all the deaths. After everything.

“It’s hard.” Megatron confessed. “To come to the end and realize your future stretches out emptily before you, and to look back and realize you’ve wasted your life.”

Minimus regarded him miserably. “Yes. It is.”

They stayed like that for a melancholy moment. Then Megatron breathed deeply. “An ‘almost perfect’ compilation?” He said. “What did I miss?”

“Oh-“ As if to brush aside the statement, Minimus waved a hand. “I appreciate the attention to detail, but it’s unneeded. It’s a perfect gift.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

For a gift had connotations, in Cybertronian culture. It was one of the Four Acts. Therefore great societal calculation was given to giving, such as: was this present too much? Was it overly personal? And for the most part gift-givers toed the line between casual-platonic, and meaningful-romantic. By the standards of Cybertronian courting, Megatron had well and truly crossed that line.

They were alone - Minimus put a hand on the table between them and Megatron took it with familiar ease. Megatron loved the happiness of these mundane moments. It wasn’t anything grand or romantic: it was like an old joke that hadn’t lost its humor; it was like drinking fuel heated to the exact right temperature; it was quiet, contented happiness. Megatron clutched Minimus’ hand very tightly for a moment. Minimus squeezed in return. What were they? Megatron didn’t want to ask too much for definitions or reasons or answers. If he asked he might jinx it.

“Magnus!”

Minimus sighed dejectedly. He and Megatron let go.

Rodimus ran up. “Magnus, good, you’re still here. It’s First Aid.”

“I’m sorry Megatron.” Minimus said, a little sullen. “Please excuse me. ‘As soon as we sit down to relax-“

“Something else will happen.’ So true.”

“Don’t.” Rodimus grimaced. “The whole back and forth – finishing each other’s sentences – it’s unnerving. It unnerves me.”

“First Aid?”

“Right, yeah. He’s given up Getaway.”

“Hold on. Let me get my armor.” As he stood up Minimus shot Megatron a wordless look over his shoulder. Megatron understood. He followed suit with a small effort, wincing when his bad knee made an unpleasant noise in protest.

“Why does he need to come?”

“The armor is hard to put on, especially by yourself.”

“Pri-mus.” Rodimus wheeled backwards, as if rolling his eyes with his entire body. “People will talk - you know that, right?”

Neither Megatron nor Minimus graced this immaturity with a reply. It didn’t need one. There were things, sometimes, for which no answer was necessary – sometimes, just that they existed was enough.

First Aid sat silently in the quarantine chamber of Perceptor’s old laboratory. It had been repurposed as an interrogation room. He’d been thoroughly manipulated by Getaway, Rung had explained. It wasn’t his fault. But knowing this didn’t help, when he’d been stoic under every interrogation strategy within the guidelines of the Autobot Code. Even Ratchet and Velocity had gotten nothing out of him

But then Optimus Prime had gone in alone.

For three days he’d subjected First Aid to soft, warm, unrelenting concern. He’d been as gentle as water. And who could stand against the strength of the tide? It would have taken more than a stone will to resist Prime’s personal brand of earnest compassion. It would have taken a stone spark. First Aid was not sparkless.

“Megatron made a deal with Pharma.” First Aid was saying, behind the glass. “A deal. With that murderer. Is there no justice in the world, that such people walk free?”

“There will be a trial.” Prime promised.

“And in the meantime – what? We pretend we’re all friends?” He laughed bitterly. “No. I can’t live that lie. Getaway couldn’t either. Did you really think no one would take action?”

“I assigned Magnus to keep Megatron safe.”

“Oh yeah, he did a great job.”

Magnus winced. It was true that he'd failed. He couldn't help but worry it was the result of his recent emotionality. Perhaps he was too close to Megatron now. Perhaps he'd lost his edge - Magnus thrust his doubt aside. He wasn't on the team, but perhaps the stress of the upcoming DJD attack was 'getting to him', as Rodimus might say. He resolved to talk to Megatron about it later.

“There will be a trial.” Prime repeated. “Megatron will face the consequences for his actions. As must you. But I all I ask is that you help me find Getaway – and I’ll offer him the same deal I offered Megatron. A second chance: with conditions.”

“No!” Behind the glass, Rodimus stomped his foot. Magnus frowned at him disapprovingly. “He tried to murder Nightbeat, Riptide, Megatron – and he just walks free?”

Magnus understood Rodimus’ annoyance, but he had to admit, Prime had every legal right to offer that deal. There was a precedent. And it wasn’t as though Getaway was the only one who’d tried to kill Megatron: at Crosscut’s premiere someone had cut the brakes of his car, and Magnus occasionally had to hold back ordinary bots from attacking Megatron in the street. They ran up reliving old battles and were usually so distracted in their fury they forgot to use a gun; they simply punched him, recklessly, crying. Unless Magnus interfered Megatron would let them. It wasn’t their fault.

No – the real issue was that Getaway had violently silenced Riptide and Nightbeat, who’d been close to deducing his plan. He’d involved the DJD.

“There will be consequences.” Prime continued as if he’d heard Rodimus’ outburst. “But they will be fair.”

First Aid gave Prime a long look, and saw something in his face that reassured him. “Getaway is in… a unique location.”

“Uniquely dangerous?”

“Ohh yeah.”

The Mederi hotel looked different. It looked the same.

They'd entered through a window thanks to a convenient ladder. The hallways were still dusty, Magnus noted. Still purple. His nightmares hadn’t missed many details, so the place was disquietingly familiar. But Magnus’ main problem wasn’t the décor – it was the company.

Nautica and Chromedome, sensibly, hadn’t come. Nightbeat had brought Airachnid as a replacement mnemosurgeon, and everyone was regretting his decision. She was theorizing. It was worse than Perceptor. It was worse than when Brainstorm and Perceptor chased a thread of thought together, because at least you understood their mutual excitement even if you didn’t understand the words. With Airachnid’s theories you didn’t want to understand the words. Magnus caught ‘chameleonic euthanasia station’ and ‘trapped spark-light’ before his audial receptors shut down in self-defense.

Rodimus leant against Magnus to mutter. “Would we have searched for Getaway here?”

It hurt Magnus’ pride to admit it. “No.”

“Yeah, why would we? It’s a death trap.”

“He’s an escape artist.” Nightbeat had overheard him. “Death traps are kind of his thing.”

“And why are we safe from Pharma? I’m not scared or nothing, but uh, remind me anyway.”

“Megatron made a deal." Prime informed them. "Pharma is forbidden from disturbing anyone at the Lost Light.”

“Or their clients or associates.” Magnus added. “Unless…”

“There’s an ‘unless’? Can we try it again without the ‘unless’?”

“Unless-“

“Unless someone else executes Tarn.” Nightbeat answered, coolly and confidently. “Unless Pharma happens to value ‘personally executing Tarn’ less than his job. Who knows? He might get more sadistic satisfaction out of dicing up intruders.”

“Thank you, Nightbeat, for such a sunny summary.”

“That wasn’t me,” said Nightbeat.

“You’re welcome.” ‘Nightbeat’ answered, coolly and confidently.

“What.”

“Wait-“

“Run!”

It was too late – Pharma was behind them. He’d smoothly insinuated himself into the conversation in the dark, and he smoothly approached now. Each step was light and delicate, like he walked on a tightrope. He raised his arms. The buzzing blades whirred to life.

Optimus bodily blocked the hallway.

“Pharma, let’s talk.” He said, soothing.

“Happy to talk. Happy to listen to the panic in your voice.”

“Remember the deal?”

“Didn’t you hear the ‘unless’?”

Pharma swung at Optimus to split him in two. Optimus dodged – he shifted his stance – and threw out a spinning kick with the momentum of a sledgehammer. If it had hit, both Optimus’ leg and Pharma’s hands would have been wrecked. Instead, Pharma ducked.

“Tarn’s alive.” Optimus said. “You’ll still execute him. The deal stands.”

“Hold still.” Pharma said. “This might sting a little.”

In a split second, Pharma swung a chainsaw up and over his head.

Metal screeched.

Optimus had caught the flat of the chainsaw between his palms. The razor teeth whirred uselessly. Pharma tugged. His eyes widened when his arm didn’t budge.

“The deal?” Optimus asked again, unrelenting.

Pharma tugged uselessly. “It stands.”

“You’re forbidden from disturbing anyone at the Lost Light, or their clients or associates?”

“And in return,” Pharma said. “I personally execute Tarn when the time comes.”

Optimus let go.

“Now – I have a job to do.”

A chainsaw arm snaked out and nearly struck Optimus in the chest. But Optimus had bent backwards – death sailed gracefully over his head. And Airachnid blitzed past before Magnus could blink. It was a lightning lunge. It was like a spliced video clip; like there was missing footage in between her standing still, and her pinning Pharma to the wall. He was cocooned in gossamer webbing before Magnus’ fuel pump beat again.

“I apologize for interrupting, but can we move on? I was promised experimental mnemo-tech and I am, as they say, mad keen.” Airachnid raised her alt-mode leg, and with a little spider claw, tapped Pharma gently. He twitched. “Unless anyone has a problem with that?”

“Yeah nah, we’re cool.” Rodimus laced his hands together behind his head. “Cool cool cool…”

The monitor room was at the bottom of the stairs: walking down into it felt like walking into the depths of Metroplex. It was a large room. Dusty. Lots of wires ran across the ceiling.

There was also a Titan-sized ball of trapped spark-energy suspended in the centre.

Tendrils curled off its surface like miniature solar flares. It hung above them like a dark god in the hotel basement. A baby star, Riptide had said. It was accurate. It was horrible. It was-

“Fascinating.” Airachnid reached out to touch it as she walked past. “How many died to make this? Why? I have so many theories.”

Magnus frowned. “Do not share them.”

“No, do.”

“Nightbeat, right? I like you.”

Nightbeat continued. “We know Mederi was repurposed from an old medical facility, that the records were blocked by someone in high command, and that the rooms keep occupants docile with illusions, fantasies, and memories. It’s killed over a hundred bots-”

“Eleventy three to be precise-”

Magnus winced.

“-But look.” Airachnid flicked a button on the monitor. “They extended the window of operation by a minute and a half!”

Nightbeat joined her, curious. On the other hand, Optimus’ optics filled with an instant, aching grief. Optimus Prime was intensely empathetic; he felt pain with those in pain; it was part of what made him so desperate to protect the weak. He drew back now and regarded the baby star with deeper thought. The green light cast his face into harsh shadow.

Airachnid gave a efficient, invasive examination of the attached monitor: soft-hacking the mainframe, restarting essential systems, racking up a list of previous commands. She pulled out her needles and stepped back to rub her chin thoughtfully. “They’re using a lot of Trepan’s shadowplay techniques, you’ll notice – but the remote mnemo-surgical scan is perfectly lifted from the Sunder lobotomies.”

“But Sunder is…”

“Dead. Yes. Or so we thought.” Airachnid smiled. “A real ghost hotel - exquisite!”

The dark clouds left Prime’s face as he roused himself. “Where’s Getaway?”

“Here.” She brought up a map onscreen. A lonely red dot on a lower level indicated an Autobot life-sign.

Optimus knocked twice on Getaway’s hotel door, and shrugged when Magnus gave him a questioning look. Rodimus rolled his eyes. They were tracking down a narcissistic master-manipulator and almost-murderer; someone who hadn’t flinched at involving the DJD – but of course Optimus Prime still knocked politely on his door.

“Hello? Getaway?”

“Room service!” Rodimus called.

Prime ignored him. “My name is Optimus Prime. I want to help.”

And suddenly, despite just leaving a dusty corridor, they found themselves inside a cavernous chapel. Magnus blinked. A pink, pearly sheen covered the stone architecture far above, and they walked over tiles polished so finely they glowed from the inside. Apart from the energon flooding the floor it was perfect: not a scratch, not a flaw.

“Come in!”

From a far room – this giant hall being the entrance chamber – they heard Getaway call. The bell rang like a sound in the huge space.

“Mags, distract him." Rodimus hissed. "I’ll jump him from behind.”

Prime shook his head. “No. We’re Autobots. We exhaust all non-violent options first.”

“Great idea – Prime, you distract. Mags, we’ll both jump him from behind.”

“No jumping. No arrest.”

“But-“ Magnus started, but Optimus put a hand on his shoulder.

“Old friend. Let me take care of this.”

Although Magnus grumbled, he knew when to give in. An ‘old friend’ from Optimus Prime had melted harder sparks. Besides, Magnus had grown soft – earlier that week, to his shame, he’d actually answered Rodimus’ request for a new Fullstasis board. A cool, ‘light-up’ one. He’d become abominably easy-going.

Getaway reclined on a throne on a dais in the centre of the room. He surveyed Optimus with a cold, focused gaze, as the Prime echoed closer.

“Getaway. I am prepared to make you an offer: information in exchange for a second chance.”

“A second chance?”

“With conditions.”

“No. There is no justice in the world: that Megatron walks free. He’s the war. Do you know what it’s like, to endure every day under his command?”

“Why not escape? Live somewhere else, away from him?”

“Where else could I run? He’s a wound in our society. As long as he lives, we can’t heal.”

“Getaway…” Optimus sighed sadly. With the sound of shifting machinery he sat at the foot of the dais. Getaway blinked, taken aback. Magnus agreed. It was unnerving to see such vulnerability, such weakness, from a Prime of all people. Primes were moral pillars of strength. It was visually discordant to see one almost slumped at the base of a throne.

“Getaway. As a society, we cannot hope to heal through more violence. We need to believe that all of us are capable of change – yes, even Megatron – for without that hope we stand no chance of creating lasting peace. Terrible things happen in war. If you killed all the perpetrators, if you stood us all against a wall and judged us – where would you stop? After Megatron, would you kill Starscream? Soundwave? Prowl? Me?”

“You? But you’re a Prime. The Matrix…”

Optimus put a hand to his chest, where the empty Matrix lived. He seemed about to display that abscess – Magnus saw a line of spark-light as his chest-plates cracked open – but then he stopped. His spark-chamber resealed itself with a tiny click.

“Yes, the Matrix.” Optimus said. “But it’s grown cold in my chest, before…”

Getaway sat up. “When? Why? What does that mean?”

“You know Primus is in the Matrix, yes? But he only chooses you if you are worthy. If you are, the Matrix feels warm. If you’re not… it grows cold.”

“I never knew.” Getaway took a step away from the throne, towards Optimus. “Can I-? I’m sorry if this is an odd request, but can I touch it? I’ve displayed the signs of affinity. I’ve always wondered, suspected, known-“

“Looking for external absolution will leave you hollow.” Prime warned. “True peace is only achieved through empathy for others, and for yourself.”

“Please.”

“…Very well.”

Magnus tensed. What would happen when Getaway discovered the Matrix was dead? Empty? Magnus hadn’t considered himself religious, yet even he’d been shaken by the revelation. Prime opened his chest plates. He did it shyly, with his back to Getaway. He removed the empty Matrix, winked at Magnus – and put it back.

But when he turned to Getaway, there, somehow, in his hand Magnus saw-

It glowed. Somehow, it was alive.

“The Matrix.” Getaway reached out, stopped. “So powerful it can challenge an outlier…”

“So they say.”

“A direct link to Primus himself…”

“Mm.”

“…And an incredibly divine artifact, or so I’ve heard.” Getaway’s hand shivered just shy of touching it. He tore his gaze upwards. “You mentioned a second chance?”

“With conditions.”

“I accept, just – please.” Getaway begged. “Please let me carry it. With the Matrix I’d be – more. More than just an M.T.O. I’d be special! I was born to be disposed of, but if I was a Prime, if I was worthy…”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then if you’re worthy, Getaway – yes, you may carry the Matrix.”

Getaway reached out hesitantly.

He touched it.

“It’s warm.” Getaway’s optics reflected the living glow. Blue tears, like melting fire, tracked his cheeks. “It’s warm.”

“Open your spark chamber.”

Magnus looked away. It was one thing when Optimus displayed the Matrix, that was – different. He couldn’t watch Getaway do it. It was the closest thing Cybertronians had to nakedness; but it was so much worse; it was intimate vulnerability, too. It wasn’t something you did casually.

He heard a tiny click.

“Remember,” Prime was saying. “If you act in a way unworthy of a Prime, it will grow cold.”

“I won’t.” Getaway promised. He was still crying. “I’ll keep it safe.”

But it was fake, Magnus couldn’t help but think. If it had been the real Matrix, it would have been dead, empty. It was glitter. Placebo. Optimus had given Getaway an illusion – so when he’d touched it, he’d been deemed worthy because he desperately wanted to be deemed worthy. Once they left the room it would disappear.

“A second chance.” Getaway said. He swayed on the spot. “I… I can’t pretend to be friends with Megatron. I can’t live that lie.”

“There will be a trial.” Prime promised.

Getaway shuddered, stumbled. The room rumbled ominously. “A fair trial?”

“Yes.”

Getaway gave Prime a long look, and saw something in his face that reassured him. “All right.”

The room shook again. Soft, and close, Magnus heard a cataclysmic howl.

“All right.” Getaway took a jerky step down off the dais. “Information. You’re leading the DJD assault tomorrow, yes? There’s another member of the DJD you need to know about. Her name’s Nickel. She’s a medic. Thanks to her, Tarn will have his voice back already. And Tarn – he’s a monster. That’s not embellishment, it’s just a fact: he kills thoughtlessly. You can deal with me – you can even deal with Megatron – but you cannot deal with Tarn. You can…” He faltered. “You can only fend him off.”

Getaway fell.

Optimus caught him. On all sides, the Primal architecture quivered. Their forms churned like mangled light – holograms, after all – and to watch them made Magnus sick. The room itself twisted. For several stomach-dropping moments there was nothing around them at all: darkness, oblivion, like a hole in the world. Then the void was sucked away and geography returned.

“You broke him.” Rodimus said, delighted.

“His primary motivator took a hit.” Prime explained. “He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.”

“Worst place ever,” Rodimus said, as they ran. “To be indecisive.”

But he helped Magnus and Prime carry Getaway into the hall, even as the room was consumed behind them.

“Here.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Here.”

“…Thanks.”

“Oh, um. Megatron…”

“I’ll pass, Hound.”

“Thank Primus.”

Hound continued down the hall indiscriminately handing out little flowers. With the DJD assault about to start there was tension in the air: it was understandable that some people would try to relieve it with random acts of kindness. Megatron watched Hound give Riptide a flower. Riptide regarded it with utter incomprehension.

The DJD required abandoned buildings with lots of exits. On a map, Nightbeat had marked all the places that fit those criteria. And when they’d removed all the places the DJD had already been – Tarn never used a location twice – they were left with five possible headquarters. When they’d circled off the places near Delphi, they were left with one.

And that last place was surprisingly close to the Lost Light.

Megatron followed Riptide up the stairs to the roof. There was a bit of a crowd. Perceptor was hiding in the garden, Megatron noted, pretending he wasn’t worried about Brainstorm.

“You seem troubled.” Megatron remarked.

“No I’m fine why do you say so?” Perceptor said, watching the distant building like a hawk.

“You’re choking that rifle.”

Perceptor loosened his grip.

The rest of the sky was dark and ominous, and there was something buzzing in the air. The Lost Light was nice though. Hound’s garden enjoyed a lovely, lonely shaft of sunlight. It was odd, being out of the storm’s path – and unpleasant. Tension was building like water behind a dam. There was the sense that any second, something might break.

Riptide’s comms went off.

A couple of people yelped. Tailgate nearly fell off the roof. Perceptor jumped and then tried to pretend he hadn’t.

Riptide apologized and answered the call. “Sorry – sorry – hello? Yes that is me. Oh. Oh, yes! Monday’s perfect! Thank you!” He hung up and turned to Pipes to gush. “I got an interview!”

“Ah! Wow, congrats! Where?”

“Surf lifesaving!”

“Oh brilliant.”

They quieted under the disapproval of the crowd. People were tetchy because they were troubled. Various Lost Light bots had been integrated into Prime’s team.

But in particular Brainstorm – and Cyclonus, and Whirl – probably wouldn’t be needed. Prime was leading the actual attack, and the entire thing might end underground. But just in case a DJD member escaped to the roof, just in case they needed air support, Brainstorm was there. And Perceptor was troubled.

“…This feels familiar.” Perceptor confessed. “The last time Brainstorm left on a mission like this he came back with crushed legs. The week before, we’d argued. I’d told him I didn’t want to be lab partners anymore. As soon as he recovered, I went up to him – I said ‘I may have misjudged our ability to work well together’… But there was more to it.”

“How so.”

Perceptor unconsciously hugged his rifle again. “I’m afraid my interest in his wellbeing may be more than simple professionalism.”

Megatron examined the far building with acute, embarrassed interest. He didn’t know how to respond to such an emotional confession. He awkwardly cleared his throat. “Did you tell him?”

“No!”

“It wouldn’t go badly if you did.”

“He lives to aggravate me.”

“He holds you in the highest regard.”

“…What if he doesn’t come back?”

The Lost Light crowd muttered nervously, interrupting – there was movement at the DJD headquarters. A distant figure slammed open the rooftop exit.

“Kaon.” Perceptor said, his eye to the scope of his rifle. “He’s – oh no.”

The crowd groaned in dismay as Kaon spotted the circling Autobots, and fired a rapid number of shots into the sky. Whirl and Cyclonus wove together in a complex evasive maneuvour. Whirl was a fighter and Cyclonus was a warrior, and they spiraled together like a dropped coin spinning. They caught and flung each other out of range. Brainstorm – who was a lab scientist, and poorly rested – was slower to dodge.

A shot hit. Brainstorm clung to the air, but quickly lost the fight with gravity. He descended choking, smoking.

Perceptor didn’t flinch. He held his rifle steady. He was still using the scope to watch the attack from afar. He watched as in the distance, the tiny figure of Kaon pointed his blaster at the free-falling Brainstorm.

A shot rang out.

Kaon toppled backwards almost in slow motion. Perceptor exhaled, and lowered his smoking rifle.

“Right.” Perceptor said, perhaps for lack of anything better to say. “Right.”

At the base of the DJD headquarters, a tiny Prime carried out a limp body. Behind him, Ironhide was likewise encumbered. Above, on the roof, Cyclonus and Whirl swooped down to carry Brainstorm off in the direction of Ratchet’s clinic – where Magnus was waiting for reports - and the Autobots rolled out.

It was later. Reports had been made; Prime had gotten injured saving someone; Ratchet had blown up at Prime – quite spectacularly, according Minimus’ memo – and everybody was mostly in one piece. It was a victory.

But it didn’t feel like it. For one, Tarn had escaped.

“He’s injured. And we captured Nickel.” Arcee assured Megatron. “Helex, Tesaurus and Vos are dead. Kaon escaped-”

“Kaon’s dead.” Rodimus corrected.

“Righto then, just Tarn left.”

“Wandering around Metroplex’s maintenance tunnels?”

“Hey, I know where I cut him. He’ll come back, but not anytime soon, I guarantee.”

The captains walked slowly down the Lost Light’s hallway together. Or, Megatron and Rodimus walked. Arcee was a motorcycle. She’d lost a leg to Tarn, and it had been reattached, but she couldn’t yet walk comfortably. Luckily, she could still transform.

“Did Whirl invite you as well?” Rodimus asked.

“Minimus did.”

“Yeah nah, I’m not going. Maccadams is celebrating with half-price drinks, and I promised Aileron I’d shout.”

“What? Swerve’s is closer.”

“Aileron likes Maccadams better. Seeya.”

She kept going, but Megatron and Rodimus stopped at the briefing room door. Minimus was waiting: early, as always. Even after all the post-operation paperwork. There had been mountains of it; there always was, when it became necessary to kill. Helex, Tesaurus, Vos and Kaon. Everything had been written down and justified. In triplicate, knowing Minimus.

"Thank you for joining me." Minimus said.

"I'm glad to join you. But I would have valued a written invitation, at least." 

"I agree. Word of mouth is far too unreliable. But then, this is Whirl we're talking about."

"True. We should count ourselves lucky he gave us twelve hour advance notice."

"Pfft!"

Rodimus looked from one to the other. "What?"

"Anything less than twenty four hour advance notice is an insult to anyone with an organised schedule."

"Precisely! Particularly since things have been so busy of late."

"He has time to fly around on the DJD team-"

"-But can't be bothered to write up a formal invitation. So true."

Rodimus shook his head. "Bloody hell, is this what you'll be like for Meteorfest?"

"When is... 'Meteorfest'?"

"Next month."

"And you tell us this now?"

Minimus and Megatron shared an exasperated look: two people with schedules in a world of anarchy and poor advance notice. Minimus shook his head, knocked on the briefing room door, and stepped back as it opened. Whirl poked his head out. One of Hound’s flowers was stuck rakishly behind his antenna.

“The secret password?”

Minimus sighed. “Whirl, is this really necessary?”

“A billion per cent. I want to hear you say it.”

“Can I whisper?”

“I will allow it.”

Minimus leaned close to whisper something Megatron didn’t catch.

“You may enter.”

Megatron followed him inside. He expected Whirl to put a claw out to stop him, but it never happened.

The briefing room lights were out and the tables had been stacked in haphazard rows up the back. Rodimus vaulted over an empty chair and slid alongside Drift, who was saving him a seat in the front row. Up the back, Rewind sat on Chromedome’s shoulders. He was burning a disk into his database.

Someone else knocked on the briefing room door. Whirl opened it a crack and stuck his head out.

“Password.”

“I like big bots and I cannot lie.”

“You may enter.”

First Aid shuffled into the crowded room.

The tray of drinks he was pushing in front of him placated anyone who might have felt uneasy at his prescence. He noticed Megatron, and glared, but it lacked venom.

“Sorry I tried to kill you.” First Aid said reluctantly, in passing.

“Don’t be.”

“Well I’m not. Rung just suggested I’d feel better if I said so.”

“Do you feel better?”

First Aid mulled it over and shrugged. “I don’t know. I was angry, but now? I’m just tired. I’m not about to pretend we’re friends. I’m just saying… the war’s over, right? It’s done. It’s over. Even if I doubt I’ll ever feel at peace.”

Megatron smiled wryly. “I doubt any of us will.”

First Aid grinned but quickly turned it into a grimace. He disliked Megatron. He wasn’t allowed to find him funny. “Yeah. On one hand, like, I look at you in charge, and I understand the Decepticon desire to burn everything down and start over. But... I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of anger. I just want to sit down and watch a nice movie for an hour or so."

"It wouldn't work anyway." Megatron said. "If you burned everything down and started over, you'd just leave scars. It's easy to burn. It's harder to create, to care."

Minimus held up a finger to signal an impending statement. "'True peace is only achieved through empathy for others, and for yourself'."

Megatron blinked, taken aback. "Who said that?"

"Optimus Prime."

First Aid sighed wearily, yet wistfully. "Should have guessed. Megatron, go easy on that knee, it looks like an over-stressed joint. See Ratchet when he’s less busy.”

“Thank you. Will do.”

They took drinks from the trolley, and seats up the back.

The everyday civilian population had suffered under Tarn’s hunt. It was worse in the larger hospitals, but the influx of injured had still kept Ratchet tied to his medibay. However, with Tarn out of action, things would improve. Perhaps within the month he wouldn’t need all the extra engineers he’d pulled in to help. That was the real reason no one objected to First Aid’s lenient sentence: the sooner he was saving lives again, the better.

“Oi, sit down! Movie’s starting!”

“Pfft!” Chromedome said. He seemed proud of the noise.

“You know we’d have helped sooner if you’d just told us you were organizing movie night.” Rewind snarked.

“Yeah, or I could’ve pissed off everyone with fun pranks. It wasn’t even a choice.”

“Whirl please, just try, try not to be yourself-“

“Shut up and start it!”

In another universe Rewind argued, and since Whirl was a force of nature, lost, and the movie never started and everyone went to bed annoyed. In this one, Rewind shut up and started the movie.

Getaway sat on the opposite side of the room. Prime had held up his end of the deal – not that people were happy about it. Nobody trusted him. They knew what he’d done. Only Skids sat beside him: grumbling and glaring sideways at his friend. Getaway started to mutter – to explain, perhaps – but he stopped and groped his chest. He tried again. He actually jerked violently in his seat, clawing at his spark-plates as if to tear out something living there. He looked agonised.

Megatron nudged Minimus and whispered. “What did Prime do to Getaway?”

Minimus followed his gaze. “Nothing. He gave him the Matrix.”

“The empty Matrix?”

“A fake Matrix – an illusion – it vanished. Whatever he’s feeling now is just him - and nothing more.”

As Megatron watched, Getaway nodded, hollow-eyed. Whatever he’d agreed to mollified Skids: who leant a little closer, and spoke a little softer, and shared his complaints with Getaway alone.

‘More than a feeling – that’s the power of love!’ the movie sang. Cyclonus and Tailgate joined in from the front row. “Don’t need money! Don’t take fame-!”

The film spun on in darkness. It was a festive darkness, warm and comforting: the kind that soothed and allowed one to forget about appearances. Megatron turned off his optics. If he concentrated he could hear – drifting in between the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses – Minimus singing along as well…

The door opened. Someone slipped out – escaped – but Megatron didn’t see whom. But he could hazard a guess.

It was one thing to accept a harsh truth. It was another to endure it. You might know, deep down, that life was cruel and violent; that there was no divine judgment; that bad people did bad things and sometimes got away with it. You could accept that and yet still be unable to endure it – but you could escape. You could run. Live somewhere else. Live.

Getaway’s chair sat empty on the other side of the room. To Megatron’s surprise, Skid’s sat empty as well.

“Nutjob, can I just say-“

“No you cannot.”

“-This is a lovely surprise party.” Tailgate finished anyway. “Thanks from both of us.”

“You’re-“ A futuristic explosion censored Whirl’s reply. “-ing welcome.”

Cyclonus regarded them both fondly.

Megatron leant sideways. “We finally got a quiet evening in.”

Minimus laughed. The sound was half relief, half happiness, and it enthralled Megatron so completely that he was aware of nothing else. Minimus beckoned him closer, and caught up in the moment, Megatron leaned down.

“I wouldn’t call this quiet.” Minimus whispered behind one hand.

“Yes, that was the joke.”

“I know. I was running with it. I’ve been trying to improve my banter…”

“Ah? In that case, it was quite humorous.”

Minimus raised his drink. Megatron clinked his weak energon spritzer against it.

“Cheers.”

“What to? Something good.”

“The freedom of all sentient beings?”

“Something small.”

“An evening in. Together.”

Minimus smiled – so faint, so precious! – and sipped his carbonated engex.

At the front of the room Cyclonus and Tailgate led another chorus of ‘The Power of Love’, opting more for ‘gusto’ and ‘singing together’ rather than any semblance of harmony. It was grating. It was too darn loud. It was ridiculous, and the farthest thing from perfect imaginable – and yet to his surprise, Megatron wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Chapter Text

It would be nice to say Autobot City slept peacefully.

It would be nice - with Tarn licking his wounds in the bowels of Metroplex - to say everyone went back to their everyday lives. That the world breathed a sigh of relief, and the sound came back on, and the tightly wound tension relaxed like a guitar string nonchalantly going out of tune. That in a thousand little humdrum ways, the usual discord returned. It wouldn’t be a lie to say it relaxed - it was amazing how a lack of ‘impending doom’ lowered your blood pressure. But alas, the facts were these: that up until recently the DJD had been running riot. Alas, the smoke from explosions still covered Metroplex, and the particles that swallowed the sky made the sun burn hot pink. Alas, there was a new gravestone in the outer-city cemetery memorialising events, and all the names of the recent dead just managed to fit on it.

So, Autobot City didn’t sleep peacefully.

Not really. Not yet.

Maybe it never would.

But the unstoppable vehicle of routine rolled on. Every morning, Arcee got up, got ready, and drove an elaborate route to work in case she was being followed. Mirage lovingly maintained a spy network, a harmless little war-habit he hadn’t bothered to unlearn. Suspicion was part of daily life, like breakfast, like breathing. Routine. 

People were… careful. ‘Careful’ was a couple of rungs below outright paranoia. Outright paranoia was the killer. When people fell back into military habits, when buying groceries was conducted with a twitchy trigger finger, when strangers eyed strangers with violence – Whirl didn’t count - then it was only a matter of time until there was an ‘Incident’. With a capital ‘I’. The kind of Incident that unbalanced the precarious peacetime.

Society operated on trust.

You trusted that the average stranger probably wasn’t going to kill you.

Probably.

Whirl didn’t count.

Rung tended to fret about the problem during Megatron’s therapy sessions. He’d say something like, ‘I hope, one day, we find some kind of solace’. Only at those times was his age visible. Because Rung was old, Megatron knew. But only then did the years show their patient work, only then were the centuries visible in his face. ‘One day’ they’d find peace. ‘One day’ would come, eventually - if you’d long since surrendered to the flow of eons. Rung might have been waiting across continental timescales, hoping for peace. He might hope until the end of the universe.

Rung the Ancient was currently giving Megatron’s knee a pointed look. “Did you visit Ratchet, yet?”

Megatron fumbled for an excuse, not at all sheepishly. “I… haven’t had the time.”

Rung nodded sceptically. “U-huh. Busy again, are we?”

“Yes.”

“Too busy for your health?”

“Mm.” Megatron said, entirely guilt-free.

“Would you say your neglect of your health could be because - with Tarn no longer a threat - you’ll be facing your trial soon?”

“No! No! True, you could say that since I don’t have much time left, there’s little point in taking care of myself...” Megatron caught Rung’s look and gestured evasively. “But no! No! I just… have other priorities.”

“I’m worried about you, Megatron.” Rung said, gently. “You should try to see Ratchet this week.”

“I just have other priorities. The search for the Knights is of utmost importance.”

“And that’s all?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Rung sighed, and steepled his fingers. “At a time like this – especially so soon after Sixshot’s death - I’m worried about you, Megatron. Do you have anyone you consider close? Anyone important to you?”

“Work is of utmost importance.”

Rung sounded very sad, all of a sudden. “None of us have eternity.” He said, as if to himself. “Even if, given our lifespans, most Cybertronians tend to think they’ll live forever. A mechanical body is infinitely permutable, and so long as our sparks and brains survive, every part of us can be redesigned, remoulded, and replaced. Upgraded neural rewiring. Fresh cybernetics. But none of us have a guarantee on life tomorrow,” Rung said, an eye on Megatron for his reaction. “There is always only the ‘now’.”

“We can’t escape the past so easily. If we could, there wouldn’t be people – people like Sixshot. People with regrets.” Megatron was silent for a moment. “We all have regrets. Things we’d do differently, given a second chance…”

“Different, how?”

“Where do you want to start?”

“Hm. Rather, you could think of things you can do now.” Rung suggested. “That way, at night, you’ll have something to lay against the past.”

It would be like trying to dam a river with pebbles. Megatron snorted derisively. “I wanted to be a doctor, once - I could volunteer at Ratchet’s clinic.” He thought about it and added dryly. “If his patients don’t object. If he’ll even let me.”

When Megatron suggested this he was half-joking.

The other half was unconscious desire so alarmingly fragile he had long-since repressed it in a panic, and which now surfaced from his deep-code in the form of an idle joke.

“Ratchet could certainly use an extra pair of hands, upstairs… I’ll write him a note.” Rung offered.

Megatron waved derisively. “If you must.”

Rung gave a soft smile. But though he sounded happy, the words themselves were sad. “You know, I think we’re lucky not to be immortal. The curse of immortality is procrastination: if we love something, we might spend forever waiting for the perfect moment to act on our love. There’d always be ‘one day’ or ‘next week’ or ‘next year’. And love might pass us by.”

“Yes.” Megatron agreed. “It is good that we do not postpone love, in the same way we might postpone filing a claim.”

For one soul-crushing moment Rung waited for Megatron to elaborate. Too late, the therapist realised it was a joke, but it was too late to laugh.

“It’s ironic. Because some people do postpone such things,” Megatron explained, digging the hole deeper. “And they are lesser for it.”

This time Rung bravely attempted a laugh. The silence that followed was enough to give a cyber-puppy depression.

“Er - did you understand?”

“I- I got it.” Rung put a palm out quickly. “Thank you. And you know who would appreciate that joke? Ultra Magnus.”

Was Rung suggesting he tell Magnus not to postpone love? Why? Megatron frowned in confusion. “Magnus is better at humour than I am, if that’s what you mean. I hold his opinion in the highest regard.”

“That’s wonderful. Why?”

Where did Megatron start? He cleared his throat and readied himself to express no overt sentimentality whatsoever. “I’m – er - he’s a – a wonderful man. Good work ethic. I’m incredibly grateful for – er - for his memos…”

Thankfully, he was rescued by a knock at the door. Rung gave him an apologetic look before opening it. As soon as it was ajar, Rodimus burst in uninvited.

“Is Megs in – beautiful! There you are!” Rodimus grabbed him by the wrist and tried to tug him away. “Quick – tell me a joke!”

“I actually just made a rather clever comparison between filing a claim, and the importance of-”

“Ugh! Perfect! You weren’t my first choice, but Mags isn’t at his desk.”

Rung heaved a deliberate sigh. “It appears we are done for the day. Remember the curse of immortality, Megatron - don’t procrastinate the perfect moment.”

“We’re done?”

“It appears so.” Rung tsk'ed and looked at Rodimus meaningfully. “Did you have anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“No, no.” Megatron hesitated. “Actually."

"Yes?"

"About Sixshot – is Ratchet sure Tarn didn't kill him...?"

Rodimus interrupted with an urgent tug on Megatron’s wrist. “Hello? Emergency? Save it for next time.”

Rung gave a soft smile. A sad smile. “He’s sure.”

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded, mutely. It stung to have it confirmed, but if Ratchet was sure, there was nothing more to discuss. It wasn't as if he'd been close with Sixshot. Sure, he'd heard the stories. A 'one robot army' they'd called him. But all Megatron recalled was his stupid obsession with 'honour'. An honourable Decepticon. Megatron remembered after a 'worthy opponent' Sixshot had always sung their praises post-battle. The one time he'd fought Optimus Prime had been utterly insufferable - for ten years, he hadn't shut up about 'oh, how powerful Prime is' and 'oh, if I hadn't been sick that day, I might've almost won'.

So, Sixshot was dead, and Tarn hadn't killed him.

Fair enough. Nothing more to discuss. 

“Done?” Rodimus grinned manically. “Great! It’s coming.”

Rodimus, Megatron noticed, seemed a little highly-strung. He giggled, further cementing this note. Rodimus was not typically a giggler.

“What’s coming?” He asked.

“Brainstorm summoned something..." Rodimus paused for emphasis. "...Funny.”

“Hmm, it’s been a while since he’s done that. I was getting a bit worried about him, to be honest… it’s good he’s feeling more like himself. Fantastic. Why do we need Magnus?”

Before Rodimus could answer, there came a strange scraping sound from the hallway outside. It was oddly organic, like a sack of wood being dragged along the ground. It made Rodimus freeze, his face frozen in a manic smile.

“Because,” Rodimus said, with grim seriousness, “He has no sense of humour whatsoever.”

Ultra Magnus sneezed.

“Aha.” Nautica elbowed him, and accidentally scuffed the mirror-polish of his armour. “Someone’s thinking about you!”

Magnus pulled out a cloth and buffed out the mark. He spent half-an-hour on it every morning scouring out every speck of dirt, every microscopic germ, every blemish. Nautica had left a dint under his armpit. Under the armpit was always the hardest part to reach.

“Please, Nautica.” Magnus complained. “You know I dislike being ‘jostled’.”

“I was ‘ribbing’ you. Not ‘jostling’. ‘Ribbing’.”

“I’m just saying, if someone doesn’t like to be ‘jostled’, it’s a fair assumption that they also don’t want to be ‘ribbed’.”

“You’re both stalling.” Nightbeat pronounced, flatly.

Nautica blustered dramatically. “Who? Us? Stalling? Us?”

“Ultra Magnus does not ‘stall’,” Ultra Magnus lied.

In front of them loomed a habsuite door. It was perfectly identical to the hundred other doors on this level of the building. It had the same plain border. The same faded plaque. And yet it radiated a menacing chill, as if the cold of the solid metal was somehow seeping out into the hallway...

Then again, the morgue was three doors down. That also would have explained the chill.

The DJD had destroyed a lot of people’s homes. A lot of people were displaced. At first, the Lost Light help agency had been a temporary replacement. But then Rodimus had pointed out ‘huh, we actually have a lot of spare rooms here’. Brainstorm had bet Perceptor he could make more recharge slabs in three days. Perceptor had said ‘I’m not competing with you’ and had stayed up for seventy-two straight hours trying to beat Brainstorm at his challenge. And then they’d had more beds than they knew what to do with. And a lot more permanent residents.

Cyclonus and Tailgate had moved in first. Then Whirl - which set an unfortunate precedent to allow those with criminal histories on board – and then everybody else who worked at the Lost Light help agency made a bit of a mass advent. And even after the rush for the good habsuites, there were still spare rooms left over.

It just made sense to host the displaced bots on a permanent basis. Bots like Pipes. Riptide.

And Airachnid.

“Maybe we don’t need her!” Nautica said. “We can come up with our own theories! Look, the Mederi hotel harvests spark-energy to make a massive battery - Metroplex massive. So what’s it for?”

Nightbeat clicked his fingers. “A massive light-bulb!”

“Get out.”

“The world’s biggest replica of the Matrix.”

“I’m gonna snap you in half.” Nautica stared at him with dead seriousness.

“Haha.” Nightbeat’ smile was weak and wobbly, but affectionate. And though he laughed self-consciously under her gaze, he didn’t actually seem to mind the attention.

“I’m not… a theoretician.” Magnus glanced at Nautica gingerly. Theoreticians were a bit of a sore subject at the moment. “But here’s my theory: the spark-battery is a bomb to hold the city hostage. And the mnemosurgery is to keep Sunder fed.”

“Ew!”

“He probably doesn’t eat the brainstems.” Nightbeat interjected reassuringly.

Nautica grimaced. “Probably. Can we try that again without the ‘probably’? Ew. Skids would have ten theories,” she added, “Of course, he’s not here.”

In the awkward pause, Magnus and Nightbeat shared a speaking glance.

Ever since Skids had walked out of the Lost Light - with Getaway, of all people – Nautica hadn’t been the same.

Both Nautica and Skids were overachievers. They both had a kind of tired intelligence and dry humour. But for all their cleverness, they both seemed a bit sad - as if, when left alone, they both might retreat miserably into study. Maybe, Magnus mused, they were sad because they were smart. When they got low, it wasn’t because their lives were bad, but just because life on the whole wasn’t very sunny.

So they’d hung out together, and made academic jokes in self-defence against depression.

But then Skids had left.

“I’ve got a billion Mederi theories!” Nightbeat boasted.

“Please don’t share them.” Nautica begged.

“But let’s face it,” Nightbeat continued. “None of us know the first thing about mnemosurgery. So. Mags, are you going to knock, or do I have to?”

“I wish you hadn’t given me the choice…”

“Knock, then. I’m telling you. Do it.”

Magnus’ rapped smartly on the cold door, thrice.

The appropriate way to knock on a door varied according to location, time, and occasion. One knock generally sufficed for casual company. Knocking twice was more professional. And anything more than three knocks was either an emergency or an attempt to break the door down.

“Is that you, Pipes? You’re early.”

The door creaked ominously open. A Cheshire smile emerged from the gloom. “Oho! Minimus Ambus. My, my.” Airachnid laughed slow and gave him the once-over. “Three knocks? Is it an emergency?”

Magnus’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I would prefer you refer to me as ‘Ultra Magnus’ while I am in my armour.”

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me. It’s just… you always let Megatron call you that, so I assumed…”

Nautica snapped her head towards him with a grin. Magnus became suddenly fascinated with the ceiling, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s different.”

Nautica jostled him. “Why-y?”

Magnus felt hot - perhaps a flaw in his ventilation systems was to blame? In fact, lately, Megatron had been studying medical theory: maybe he could give the armour a quick examination. It was a useful notion, but strangely, it did nothing to dispel the heat. Nautica kept trying to catch his eye. Magnus stoically avoided her gaze.

Nightbeat ignored them. “Yeah, this case is an emergency. We need your mnemosurgical expertise.”

“Pardon?” Airachnid said, mock-flattered. “Say that again? I wish to record it and play it on loop.”

“You’re not our first choice! Calm down! Chromedome refused.”

“Wise. When’s he due?”

Nightbeat eyes widened, and it came out as a yelp. “Due?”

“Why, his death, of course!” Airachnid shook her head in a patronising way. “We mnemosurgeons are all doomed.”

“O-oh.”

“After every injection we get weaker, we take longer to recover. I hypothesise dear Chromedome has only so many operations left in him. You understand?”

Nightbeat blew out his cheeks in a huff. “Phew. Yeah, yeah, injecting will kill you. I know. Ugh, you made it sound… weird. And you?”

“Calm down.” Airachnid drawled. “I can see the future, darling, and I still have time. What’s the case? Sixshot?”

“No, Ratchet’s got it covered.”

“Mederi, then!”

“Bingo. We need your mnemosurgical expertise.”

“Well it’s nice to be appreciated.” Airachnid stood aside, and beckoned them into the dread portal. “Come in, come in, let’s talk details.”

Airachnid definitely hadn’t been their first choice.

Magnus had asked Chromedome if he wanted to help uncover the mnemosurgical mysteries of the Mederi hotel, and Chromedome had politely told him to ‘stuff it up his exhaust’, which was an unfamiliar idiom and Magnus hadn’t understood it. He’d proclaimed he was done with mnemosurgery. Done with injecting. Rewind had patted Chromedome on the arm approvingly, at that, and had given Magnus a deadly ‘get lost’ look.

Magnus had gotten lost.

As opposed to Chromedome, Nightbeat was foaming at the mouth to solve the Mederi mystery. He needed to know why.

Magnus just wanted the ‘whom’. Sunder had to face justice! There was nothing more to it.

In no way was Magnus postponing Tarn’s capture.

For once Tarn was captured, they would hold Megatron’s trial. A fair trial. And no fair trial could fail to execute Megatron for his crimes. And this was all right. All proper. But first – Magnus had to capture Sunder. From a professional standpoint, Sunder was simply the more dangerous criminal! Sunder was the priority! Magnus wasn’t postponing anything. There was nothing more to it.

But Nautica…

With Skids gone, Nautica hadn’t been the same.

You didn’t need to be a detective to see Nautica was only using the investigation as a distraction from her sadness. She had retreated into quiet research. Whenever Nightbeat asked about Skids, which he did frequently and bluntly, Nautica would simply gush about how the hotel fascinated her. ‘Empty by day, an abattoir at night’. Circadian quantum mechanics, Nautica called it, and would lecture Nightbeat until his eyes glazed over.

She clearly didn’t want to talk about losing Skids.

This suited Magnus just fine. He was manifestly bad at talking. But he couldn’t help noticing Nightbeat glancing at her in discomfort, every now and again, whenever Skids came up.

“I want to be a hero.” Airachnid was saying. “Do good. Save the city. All that jazz.”

Magnus gave Airachnid a look of heavy suspicion. The Magnus armour had a labelling program laid into the cortex. Automatically, his optics tagged all potential troublemakers with a visual criminal profile, a brief little synopsis. Airachnid had a spider-altmode, a dusty purple paint-job, hollow lavender eyes, and her little synopsis read:

‘Airachnid: Starscream’s aide. High command. Eukarian mnemosurgeon. Arrested and exiled for unethical experiments, mass-murder, torture, and keeping pets. Risk of future criminal activity: off the scale’.

Airachnid was talking to Nightbeat. “I’m finding Sunder, right?”

“We wanted Chromedome,” Nightbeat admitted. “But…”

“He’s a little coward?”

“He’s done with injecting.”

“Right!” The creepy mnemosurgeon sighed wistfully. “Ah, the Tetrahexian Ripper. As the poets say, amo illum ad mortilus: I love him to death. Now that was a creative mnemosurgeon! I’ve heard stories, studied the autopsies… he had a delicious mind.”

“’Had’?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Everyone thought he was dead. That’s the best part!” Airachnid lowered her voice theatrically, like she was narrating a movie-trailer. “A hotel of dead occupants, sparks extracted, memories cannibalised. A star-sized spark-battery! A dead murderer! Who? How? Why? Tell me you’re not dying to know.”

Magnus actually couldn’t care less. It all seemed rather grim and boring to him – his interest was merely professional. But Nightbeat, on the other hand, was vibrating gently. Buzzing at the chance to solve the mystery.

“Nope. Nah.” The detective lied. “I’m, you know, the normal amount of curious.”

“Curiosity!” Airachnid turned to Magnus. “Yes! Out of curiosity, why are you here, Ambus? The Immortal Lawman himself. I’d have expected you to be down in Metroplex’s root-mines, hunting down Tarn…?”

Airachnid trailed off meaningfully, but was met only with a blank stare. Nightbeat and Nautica shared a speaking glance. As if they were discussing, without words, Magnus’ personal reasons to postpone Tarn’s capture.

“My interest is merely professional. I want to bring Sunder to trial.” Magnus rumbled, cold and disapproving.

Nightbeat and Nautica broke eye contact as if nothing had happened.

“I want to arrest a dangerous criminal. For that, evidence is everything. Not for the sake of petty curiosity! Not for some petty personal reason! I want justice. There’s nothing more to it! That’s all it is!”

Airachnid watched with a grin. Nightbeat rolled his eyes.

“Evidence isn’t everything.” Nautica grumbled, petulant; this was an argument they’d had before.

“It’s everything that matters.”

“The ’why’ always matters.” Nautica insisted stubbornly. “Motive matters.”

“You’re entitled to your personal views.”

Nautica recoiled from this scathing blow as if in physical pain.

In retaliation, she coughed something derogatory - it might have been the word ‘hypocrite’ – and laughed quietly. More than anything, Magnus feared being laughed at. Being an object of ridicule. Mocking laughter was rubbing salt on the wound, and had Nightbeat failed to interrupt, Magnus might have overreacted in turn.

“Guys! Stop bickering.” Nightbeat massaged his temple. “Magnus, what’s our case?”

In mute answer, Magnus pulled out a mini-projector.

The projector was small enough to pack up into an armour compartment and he’d gotten it from Swindle for a very good deal. It was a wise investment, one of a kind, half-price. In fact, not the other day Jackpot had been playing hand-grenade tag in the hallway – and Magnus had been able to pull it out, there and then, and give the lucky bot a lecture on hallway safety! An amazing invention! Even if he was still paying Swindle back in instalments.

“Oh Magnus,” Nautica said, giggling, “You just carry that? On you?”

Magnus nodded. “It was a good deal. Usually, projectors are very expensive, but just for me Swindle said he’d halve the price – Nightbeat are you all right?”

Nightbeat was bent double, shaking. One hand was clamped firmly over his mouth, but he waved the other. “Fine! Perfectly fine. I can’t believe I’m the most mature person here. Take it away, teach.”

“Is that mockery? Are you mocking me?”

But before Magnus could launch into an hour-long lecture, there was a knock at Airachnid’s door. It was a very pronounced double-rap.

Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” Airachnid asked.

There was a giggle. “Hatch.”

“Hatch who?”

“Bless you.” More giggles.

Airachnid affected a high laugh. “Pipes, darling! Come in, come in.”

The door creaked open. Immediately, Magnus noted that Pipes was not himself. He was shivering all over, and he seemed to be having trouble standing upright, like his legs wouldn’t support him. His grip on the doorframe was white-knuckled; he was leaving little dints in the metal.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Airachnid clucked sympathetically. “What kind of prophecy were you after today? The usual small platitudes? Tomorrow, you’ll drive through a string of green lights.”

“Um. Sorry to bother you.” Pipes’ hand creaked, he was so tense, he was scraping the paint from his fingertips. “Sorry about the joke. I’m a bit - I just got away. I just escaped.”

Nightbeat immediately leaned forward, buzzing with excitement. “You escaped? From what?”

“Brainstorm’s monster.” Pipes giggled nervously. “He’s summoned this – uh, how do I describe it – like, this thing? It’s hilarious. You gotta see it, to understand. But actually maybe don’t look at it. Yeah. Don’t look at it.”

“It’s nice Brainstorm’s summoning things again.” Nautica said, conversationally. “I suppose with Tarn bleeding out down in the city-veins, he can relax a bit.”

“Is this ‘thing’ friendly?” Nightbeat asked.

“Oh, very! But – okay, it did eat Riptide – now that I think about it, it’s maybe not friendly. Decidedly un-friendly. Perhaps.”

Just as Pipes said this, there was a faint sound from down the hall. It was an odd sound. Like something being dragged. It wasn’t particularly hurried, it was just a slow scrape, scrape, getting progressively nearer.

But it was so strange. It was such an organic noise. Something about it set Magnus’ teeth on edge, and he shuddered suddenly.

“So Airachnid!” Pipes was saying. “How do we end up killing the thing?”

“Shh. Spoilers.”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“The best way to predict the future is to create it.” Airachnid proclaimed cryptically.

“You don’t know. I came all this way and you don’t know.”

“Where’s Brainstorm?” Nightbeat asked.

“We’re all kind of hiding in the main office. Last I saw, Rodimus was going to get you, Mags.”

“Me?” Magnus blinked, taken aback. “Why me?”

“Because you wouldn’t know a joke if it bit you.”

Magnus flinched, a little offended. “I’ve been practicing ‘jokes’.”

“Shh.” Nautica hushed. “Does nobody else hear that?”

They all heard the scrape, scrape, coming from down the hall.

“What is that?” Nightbeat frowned. “Is someone dragging a sack of… I don’t know, chalk?”

“Chalk? No.” Pipes had gone very still. “Magnus, I think you better go. Now. I’m right behind you – go! Don’t look at it. Don’t look back.”

Airachnid was already out the door. Nautica didn’t want to abandon Pipes, but Magnus grabbed her by the arm and dragged her after the others, desperation making him cruel. He didn’t look back. Not even when Pipes’ crackling laughter echoed down the hall after them. Not even when it cut horribly short.

“I can prioritise survival over – over finding out what it looks like.” Nightbeat lied. “I can. I can.”

He couldn’t.

Perhaps inevitably, Nightbeat’s curiosity got the better of him. He swung a quick peek back over his shoulder, and snickered.

“Nightbeat?”

“Heheh. I get it now. Haha. Ahaha. Ahahaha-”

Whatever the thing was, Nightbeat found it so amusing that he slumped in place, chortling to himself.

“Oh, you dumbass.” Nautica yanked herself painfully free of Magnus’ vice-grip. “Of course. Someone tells you not to look, and what do you do? Of course. You wouldn’t survive ten seconds in a classical myth.” Nautica brightened. “Actually! That gives me an idea. Magnus, stand – yes, right there.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Thank you for polishing your armour so thoroughly, might I say? You make a wonderful mirror.”

Magnus looked away in anxious embarrassment as Nautica pulled out her wrench, and studying his reflective chest-plate, aimed it at something behind her. There was that awful jarring noise again. Like something scraping. Dragging itself closer. It was such a strange noise – like chalk, or wood. It was almost organic. Why did it unnerve him so?

“Nautica.”

“Hold still.”

“Nautica.”

“There it is! Oh. Haha. Oh dear.” Nautica gave a confused laugh. “What? That’s not funny. It’s not. Haha. It’s not. No! Haha! No! Why am I laughing? Run!”

This time, Airachnid had to drag Magnus away.

Not a second later, behind him came the boiling, bubbling sound of laughter. Nautica almost sounded like she was screaming, except that she’d trail off into ragged hysterics at the end of each breath. And Nightbeat laughed like he was trying desperately not to, in hoarse half wheezes he kept choking off. The twin litany was something out of Magnus’ worst nightmares.

This wasn’t just any monster.

This was a monster that forced you to laugh.

For someone like Magnus, who hated to be laughed at, and was fundamentally insecure about his own attempts at humour, it could not have been worse.

“Hm.” Airachnid made a thoughtful noise. “Do you think the beast is sending out an absurdity signal? It would explain why I am unaffected.”

“Main office. Find Brainstorm.” Magnus ordered, already jogging. “Let’s go.”

“Race you,” Airachnid said, transformed into a giant spider, and scuttled away as fast as her legs would carry her.

“So, to kill it, all we need is someone with no sense of humour whatsoever?” Megatron asked.

“Yes.” Brainstorm said. “But we’re talking nothing. Zip. Complete blank slate. I mean, it ate Perceptor. That should tell you what we’re dealing with.”

Megatron felt vaguely disturbed. And more than disturbed, he was doubtful. He was loath to admit it aloud, but he did have a sense of humour. It wasn’t an obvious one, to be sure, but it was enough to make Magnus chuckle on occasion. Therefore he was not, as Brainstorm said, a blank slate. And neither was Magnus.

“I have little hope in this plan of yours.” Megatron rumbled. “Are there no alternatives? Surely you’ve tried shooting it.”

“Oh, Percy tried, sure enough, but he couldn’t aim straight.”

“Perceptor couldn’t aim?”

“Absurdity signal. He was laughing too hard.”

Megatron felt very cold all of a sudden. If Perceptor had been eaten, things were grim indeed.

“Good news, though!” Brainstorm raised a finger to signal the impending good news. “Once we kill it, everyone should come back from being eaten! It’s got a quantum stomach, you see? So that crunching sound isn’t actually a physical bite-“

There was a thundering knock at the office door.

Everyone in the main office jumped. Chromedome, who was helping Rewind evacuate out of the window, would have fallen five stories if Cyclonus hadn’t caught them both.

“It’s Ultra Magnus and Airachnid,” said the creepy mnemosurgeon, from behind the door, “and you’d better let us in, he’s in bad shape.”

The door slammed behind them. Indeed, Magnus was in bad shape. He couldn’t walk – he could hardly stand upright – and he had an iron grip on the doorframe for support. Megatron swiftly moved to assist him. As Magnus put an arm over Megatron’s shoulder, Megatron noticed two things. One, Magnus was shaking with repressed mania. Two, he had been crying.

“I do have a sense of humour.” Magnus said, “So, there. I thought ‘wouldn’t it be funny if I fell over?’ and it got me. So, there. I would know a joke if it bit me. Although of course, jokes can’t bite.”

There was a pause as Magnus waited for laughter. The silence that followed was completely soul-crushing on a number of levels. Because of course this meant they had no hope. And besides, it wasn’t a very good joke.

“It’s up to you, Megs.” Brainstorm slapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a bit of a push toward the office door. “Break a leg.”

“I’m telling you, I have a sense of humour. Magnus?”

“He does, he does.” Magnus backed him up. “And it’s so nice you’re feeling better, Brainstorm, I’d almost missed your scientific mishaps. Almost.”

“I’ll prove it.” Megatron cleared his throat and prepared to deliver his earlier quip, comparing love to paperwork. But then he remembered Rung hadn’t understood him, and hesitated. Maybe his other joke was more appropriate.

“Once upon a time,” Megatron said, self-consciously, “I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Haha!” Brainstorm’s face fell upon realising that he’d actually found Megatron's 'joke' funny, which proved Megatron did have a sense of humour, and was therefore vulnerable to the monster. “We’re doomed.”

Of course, Megatron was only half-joking. In actuality, he still wanted to be a doctor, and he wanted it so badly it scared him. So he’d long-since repressed the desire – or so he’d thought. The desire wouldn’t die so easily. It was sneaky. It disguised itself as a joke so well, even Megatron didn’t recognise it.

There was another knock at the door.

This one was slow. Measured.

Two, deliberate raps.

‘Knock, knock’.

“Who’s there?” Airachnid called. “Pipes?”

“That is not Pipes.” Magnus whispered. “Airachnid. That is not Pipes.”

They all stared at the closed door in dead silence. Megatron half-contemplated bracing himself against it, but realised he’d have to drop Magnus in order to do so. So he just stood there, and stared, feeling utterly helpless.

‘Knock, knock’.

No one answered. The double-knock rang in Megatron’s head like an echo. It was shameful, it was small, but he did have a sense of humour. Magnus could attest to that. Which meant if that door opened – if that thing entered – Megatron would die laughing. And worse, he wouldn’t be able to protect anybody.

‘Knock, knock’.

“’Who’s there’?” Whirl snickered. “Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if I just let it in?”

“No.” Magnus insisted, urgently. “It wouldn’t.”

“Like if I just – click! – opened the door.”

“Don’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right…” Whirl was quiet for a whole ten seconds.

Then, perhaps inevitably, he launched himself at the door and fumbled it open with his claws. “Psyche!”

Before it ate him, Whirl cackled once, loud and abrupt, like a gunshot. The sound of it eating him was like a throat gargling wooden blocks. A strange, jarring crunch. It was friendly, but it did not sound anything like a person. And as soon as Megatron saw the thing - although he tried desperately not to - he barked out a harsh laugh.

It was just too funny. He couldn’t help it. The way that it moved, dragging itself along the floor, it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t breathe from laughing.

The strangely organic sound made sense now, of course. It was all bones. And yet there was a jumbled face, and a lopsided smile, and white strange teeth somewhere in there. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t breathe. Megatron went weak at the knees and fell over, laughing.

It dragged itself closer across the ground. Slow. Unhurried.

He kicked out at the ground to push himself away, tried to drag Magnus with him, but his legs were still weak with laughing. It was upon him. It smiled with white, strange bones, so close he could have reached out to put his hand between its teeth.

“Oh. I get it.” Megatron gasped, “’Funny’ bones. It’s humerus.”

“Pah.” Magnus wheezed. “A poor pun.”

“Was that deliberate alliteration?”

“Perhaps.”

Megatron gave one last laugh – grateful, that if he was to die laughing, it would at least be at one of Magnus’ jokes.

When behind him, someone cleared their throat.

Later, Megatron would swear later that the thing looked surprised, even without a proper face.

“Excuse me.” Airachnid was smiling sweetly, but this was the only sign she was affected by the lethal humour sweeping the room. “But do you have a brain?”

The no-eyed thing widened hollow sockets in shock. It tilted it's head to the side in the clearest 'excuse me?' motion Megatron had ever seen.

“A brain, darling. Do you have one? You seem to be all bones, but you did eat a couple of people, so one assumes you have your ways. A quantum brain. No?”

It reached out a pathetic, hollow arm, and tried to bite Airachnid’s ankle. She kicked it away with a sound like a bamboo wind-chime.

“A shame.” She sighed. “Mnemosurgery is so much cleaner.”

She stomped on the arm.

Metal was harder than bone, but it still took a while for Airachnid to completely demolish the monster. Past all the mind-tricks and absurdity, it turned out to be just bone, just hollow calcium strung together with weird science, dead-space portals, and a ribboned network of quantum fear in the shape of a monster. But past all that, it was just bone, and it crunched under each stomp.

White shards and bone powder littered the ground when Megatron was finally able to stop laughing.

“The best way to predict the future is to create it.” Airachnid winked cryptically at Megatron.

Megatron almost retched. He had no love for creepy mnemosurgeons – a decidedly unfriendly run-in with Trepan had seen to that, long ago. Besides, Airachnid worked for Starscream, who wasn’t so much ‘an old flame’ as ‘scorched and salted earth’. If there had been a single person who was the sum of Megatron’s fears and regrets, it was the mnemosurgeon Airachnid, and she had just saved his life.

“Thank you.” Megatron ground out, once he’d recovered. In the back of his head he noticed he was still shaking, and still gripping Magnus in a protective hug. But then again, Magnus’ grip on him hadn’t slackened, either. And he was shaking as well.

“You’re welcome.” Airachnid bowed, slightly. “Appreciate: verb, ‘recognise the full worth of’. Oh! But it’s so nice to be appreciated.”

“In conclusion,” Magnus finished, years later, “Our case is as follows: that Sunder is guilty of automating the Mederi hotel with the intention of murdering bots trapped by it.”

He gestured to the chaotic conspiracy board on Nightbeat’s office wall to supplement his final statements. After they’d rescued everyone from the beast’s quantum stomach-dimension, Magnus had immediately picked up where they’d left off. His fifty-thousand-word presentation.

“This is supported by the Mederi code, which – Sunder being an uncreative serial killer - identically matches the ‘Tetrahexian Ripper’ autopsies. We lack only one thing. A motive.”

This clicked a gear in Nautica’s processor. She twitched awake. “Huh,” she said, slowly rebooting. “I guess the ‘why’ does matter. Motive matters.”

“Not technically. It’s not vital.”

Yet Nautica’s need to be right was stronger than the grip of post-lecture lethargy. “Your transformation cog isn’t ‘technically vital’. But without one, you’re not driving anywhere.”

Ultra Magnus winced at this devastating comeback, and changed the subject.

“Before we continue!” Magnus said, “Airachnid, I still have some questions. About the… ‘funny’ bone monster. Why you were unaffected.”

“It’s hardly a mystery, darling. What I want to know is why Brainstorm keeps finding sentient life in his multiverse explorations. When I joined the Lost Light, I didn’t realise I was signing up for a ‘monster of the week’!”

Nautica laughed.

Everyone winced.

“Sorry.” Nautica put a hand up. “I can answer that, though! It’s theorised that, in the multiverse, each parallel universe is created through observation. So, the probability of an observation – and the probability of new parallel universes - becomes higher in a universe with observers. That is, sentient life.”

“So, basically, we’re not alone.” Nightbeat summarised. “Scary.”

“Hmm.” Nautica frowned. “I find it hopeful.”

But Magnus would not be distracted from his interrogations.

“Again, Airachnid, how did you fight it?”

“Again, darling, it’s hardly a mystery.”

“It is to me.”

“Allow me to be your saviour, Ultra Magnus.” Nightbeat stood up, the better to present his deductions. “Ask yourself this – why was Airachnid so flippant about Sixshot? Why does she revere the Tetrahex Ripper? Why was she so fascinated by a torture hotel? It’s hardly a mystery, Magnus. Airachnid doesn’t have a sense of humour. Airachnid doesn’t have a sense of anything. She’s a psychopath.”

Airachnid gave a little bow. “Again, you’re welcome.”

“Oh.” Magnus said. “Oh. I suppose - I suppose I already knew that.”

“Don’t.” Airachnid rolled her optics.

“’Don’t’ what?”

“Judge me. I saved all your lives today. Sure, it was only to feed my ego. Sure, I can’t feel empathy. But the act itself has to count for something, don’t you think? What I did – saving your life - matters more than why I did it.”

“Does it?” Magnus shook his head, and thrust away troublesome questions. “You did save our lives,” he admitted. “So, thank you.”

Airachnid preened. “You’re welcome.”

“However, if you so much as bend the law, I will personally destroy you.”

“Ohohoho!” Airachnid affected a high laugh. “You need to leash your ego, my dear. Macho posturing does not suit a member of the House of Ambus.”

Magnus growled. “Last warning, Airachnid. Don’t call me Ambus when I’m in my armour.”

“Very well, dear. And I’m not going to hurt anybody. I promise.”

Magnus didn’t trust this statement. He didn’t trust Airachnid, full stop. 

Was it the delivery? Was it the grammar? Was Airachnid acting too honest? Was it the amused curve of her mouth, as if only she knew some delicious secret? No, that wasn’t what had pinged Magnus’ internal alarms. Maybe he was being pedantic. Picking up on phrasings that had no real meaning. Maybe he’d lost his edge. 

Or maybe he just had bad associations with the colour purple. Tarn was purple. The Decepticon badge was purple. An illogical pattern, but a pattern nonetheless.

Perhaps mercifully, Nightbeat’s rambling derailed Magnus’ nonsensical train of thought.

“Why?” The detective was saying. “What motive? Sunder-“

“-if alive-“ Nautica interjected. She plucked a pen off Nightbeat’s desk, and in a smooth show-off motion, began to spin it between her fingers.

“-Sunder doesn’t need one, psychopaths don’t need motives. He might like eating the brain stems.”

“Again, ew. Maybe he has an associate?” Nautica suggested.

Even the suggestion set off cerebral fireworks, and with only a muttered “Does Sunder even have associates?” Magnus was already listing possible suspects in his head. Pharma was obvious, but he answered to someone else. The Tetrahexian Ripper’s accomplice had originally been his brother, but according to public records, Sceptre had died in a prison transport accident.

But then again, so had Sunder.

And so had the noted psychopathologist, Froid of Scarvix…

Nightbeat was still rambling. “Maybe! Maybe! But the rest of it – the organisation – feels purposeful. I can feel it, but I can’t see it! There’s a reason! There has to be!”

Judging by the way the pen spun pointlessly in her hand, Nautica couldn’t answer.

“Skids could’ve come up with ten reasons.” Nautica mused to herself. “Of course, he’s not here.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Er.” Nightbeat nodded at the trick. “How’d you learn to do that?”

“Oh, years of engineering lectures, sitting at a desk. You can practice all day. Watch this.”

Nautica picked up a second pen, the first one jumped to her thumb, and she flicked her wrist. Both went around once, twice, three times – and then reversed direction, in something she called a ‘triple thumb-around reverse’.

“How.” Nightbeat demanded to know.

“There’s a reason behind everything.” Airachnid hummed thoughtfully, while in the background, Nautica talked Nightbeat through a simple pen trick. “Have we considered this might be… hmm… a Shockwave situation? Oh, I love Shockwave. 'Ego amare epistimus'. A wonderful scientist.”

“Is that ‘Shockwave rationalisation’, where a criminal justifies their behaviour by calling it ‘logical’?” Magnus was only half interested. The rest of his attention was on Nautica’s pen-trick tutorial.

“No, Magnus.” Nautica corrected him, “’Shockwave syndrome’ is where a prisoner develops an attraction to the evil scientist experimenting on them.”

“No, Nautica.” Nightbeat corrected her. “A ‘Shockwave situation’ is where, lacking motive, a detective assumes all unethical experiments have been undertaken for their own sake, i.e. ‘to see what happens’!” The detective gave an enthusiastic attempt to spin the pen, and somehow managed to fling it halfway across his office. It landed in one of the piles of ancient paperwork and was lost forever.

“Precisely, Nightbeat.” Airachnid said. “It could be an experiment: ‘what happens if we put a lot of sparks together, and make one big spark’?”

“Well? What happens?” Nightbeat’s face changed. “Hold up. Stop everything. Is the spark-star in the Mederi basement - sentient?”

“No.” Airachnid assured him. “No, no. It’s spark-energy. Just a battery.”

Nautica looked ill. “Sparks aren’t just batteries.”

“They are, darling, when you really get down to it.”

“But our sparks are our souls.”

“Who says? Airachnid shrugged. “What is a soul? Is the fuel pump a soul? Is the t-cog a soul? What makes the spark more important than any other organ in the body? Because it glows? So do the stars, darling, and they’re just pretty balls of nuclear fusion. Are the stars sentient?”

“But sparkbonds exist.”

Airachnid scoffed. “If you mix two atomic power sources together, of course they’re going to stay linked. You can channel them, classify them, use them to spark-jump each other. You can combine them, detonate them - it doesn't matter, they're not alive. You're alive. I'm alive. But a spark? A glorified battery? It's just another organ in the body, darling. Sparks aren’t souls. They’re things.”

But Nautica had deliberately stopped listening. To make it even clearer she wasn’t listening, she had turned her back, and was helping Nightbeat in an offensively upbeat manner.

“Hold it here?” Nightbeat was muttering.

“Yep!” Nautica said, deliberately ignoring Airachnid’s background irritation.

“Flick it out?”

“Yep!”

“And curl around?”

“Perfect! Try a little faster.”

They watched as, almost in slow motion, Nightbeat’s pen sailed through the air, and hit Magnus directly between the eyes.

“Ouch.” Magnus said, in a dead monotone. “…I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“I’ll get it.” Nightbeat promised, tried again, and the second pen immediately made a bid for freedom. “Damn it.”

“Ask Ratchet. He’ll tell you. Ask Ratchet.” Airachnid folded her arms, peeved. “‘Sparks are just batteries’. Ask him!”

“I think it’s time we ‘wrapped up’.” Magnus said.

“Just one more, just one more – oops!”

“Ouch.”

Megatron took the steps up to the temporary Lost Light medibay.

What with the influx of tenants – Tarn’s little rampage had trashed half the city – the Lost Light was dealing with an uptick in minor medical accidents. It was nothing serious. Just the average everyday kind of injuries that came from two-hundred-something people living in a building plagued by Brainstorm.

And hell, they had enough recharge slabs to sink a ship. So, why not?

So Ratchet had finally – finally – made First Aid ‘Chief Medical Officer’, and had said goodbye to his old clinic, and had set up a temporary first-aid centre on one of the upper floors. Megatron suspected the doctor had a bedroom out back of the clinic, because he never seemed to go home. No matter the hour, Ratchet was there: grumbling and performing minor operations and treating a host of minor ailments. Oh - and after a month of Starscream's paranoid nagging, he'd examined Sixshot. 'Definitely not killed by Tarn' had been the official transcript, as far as Megatron remembered. Sixshot was dead, and Tarn officially hadn't killed him. Starscream could relax. Fair enough. Moving on.

But as Megatron walked up step after step – his aching knee forced him to move slowly – he felt a weight pressing down on him.

As he walked upwards towards the new Lost Light medibay, he realised how badly he wanted to be allowed to help people. To put them together, instead of taking them apart. And now he was standing under judgement and Megatron knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew he would be found wanting. And worst of all he’d be in Ratchet’s power, and some deep down part of him still hated that, and the rest of him hated that he hated it.

“Megatron!” Magnus greeted him with warm surprise. He was standing at the top of the staircase Megatron was ascending, backlit by the hallway light.

Megatron compulsively stopped to talk. “Minimus. How are you?”

Magnus was heading down, it seemed, so they were going opposite directions. But it was a quiet stairwell. Out of the way. At this time of day, it was all but abandoned, allowing them to stop and talk, uninterrupted.

"Megatron-" Magnus began, but then cut himself off. He started again. "The Mederi investigation is progressing."

Megatron gave him a knowing look. "Thank you. I appreciate the update."

"It's a hard case. It may take time to complete. However, since Sunder is the more dangerous criminal, I must prioritise his capture. You understand."

"I do." Megatron frowned fondly at Magnus. "You don't need to do that for me, you know."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Prioritise Sunder. Postpone Tarn's capture. Postpone my trial."

"I don't know what you mean." Magnus said, stiffly. "The Mederi investigation is the priority. I want to bring a criminal to justice - to bring Sunder to trial - that's all. I will see him face justice. I will. I can. I can do it. He's the most dangerous criminal! If I don't bring him to trial - who am I? Am I the Immortal Lawman? But no, not yet. I can't - not yet. He'll have his trial. A fair trial. But this is a hard case, very hard, and it may take time to complete..."

Magnus bit his lip. Self-consciously, he stiffly folded his arms behind his back. 

"Sunder," Magnus clarified. "That is."

"Oh, Minimus."

"Are you feeling better?" Magnus asked, an obvious ploy to change the subject.

Megatron let it slide. "I don't want to laugh for the next ten years, but other than that - yes, I'm fine."

"Megatron." Magnus clucked his tongue, chastising.

"What?"

"You're obviously tense. The set of your shoulders is at least five degrees tighter than usual. What's troubling you?"

"You - I'm-" Megatron sighed. "I was going to see Ratchet..."

Megatron explained. Or, he tried to explain. He tried to put Ring’s sequence of ideas in its’ proper order, tried to be succinct, even though he knew, he knew he was verbally stumbling over the sheer number of thoughts going through his head. But Magnus… something about Magnus always steadied him. He was always so solid.

“But you will never balance the scales.” Magnus said, tough-love, once he'd finished. “You could work in that clinic for eternity and never make amends.”

“It’s not about making amends. Besides, an eternity of work?” Megatron wanted to laugh. “Magnus. Please. Nothing sounds better.”

“I agree. An eternity of work is the best thing I can possibly imagine.” Magnus shook his head. “But then, if it’s not about making amends, why do you want to be a doctor?”

“I have to. Have to try. Or else - or - I don't know.”

Magnus was quiet for a long while, and the silence became awkward. He looked at Megatron sidelong, cautious. "...Is this about Sixshot?"

"No."

Magnus bit his lip and looked off to the side, nodding mechanically. 

"It wasn't as if we were close." Megatron added, "Sixshot and I, that is."

"Mm."

"Sure, I heard the stories. Heard he wasn't adjusting to peace. Wasn't coping with the lack of 'worthy opponents', as far as I recall."

"I heard."

"Sixshot always said," Megatron said, "That life wasn't worth living without a worthy opponent."

"Yes." Magnus said, gingerly, "What was it, that killed him?"

"Not Tarn."

"Ratchet's sure?"

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded, mutely.

Magnus didn’t say anything aloud. But he nodded slightly, and clasped Megatron’s shoulder. And it was a small gesture. But it conveyed such a deep feeling of - of something - something deep and resonant - Megatron didn't know. Everything Magnus hadn’t known how to say: Megatron felt it.

"Fighting was his life. In peace-" Megatron started, but then sighed, unable to continue. "We all have regrets."

Magnus just looked at him, sadly.

They stayed on the staircase like that for a moment too long.

Every now and again, when Megatron rolled into the Lost Light parking bay, he’d sit there idling for a moment, just because he liked the song on the radio and it was almost over anyway. So for a little longer, he’d sit idling, just to let it finish. The feeling was like that. Magnus gripped his shoulder wordlessly, warmly, and Megatron basked in the feeling for as long as it lasted. Lingering as long as he could.

Finally it became too much, and Megatron cleared his throat. Magnus squeezed once, hard, and let go. 

"Well."

"Right."

Magnus pointed. "I'm headed down."

"I'm going up." Megatron started up the staircase again.

"Oh, and Megatron?"

"Yes?"

Magnus turned back to look up at him and - just once, just small - he smiled. "Good luck with Ratchet. Here's to an eternity of work."

Something fluttered in Megatron's stomach. "Thank you. Here's hoping."

Magnus went down. And when Megatron walked up the stairs into Ratchet’s temporary medibay he felt like a Titan, and this confidence lasted right up until Ratchet actually interviewed him.

“So. Megatron.” Ratchet squeaked his chair around. “Do you have any medical qualifications?”

He rattled them off. Combat First Aid, Emergency First Response, two years of extensive self-study - and about six million years of reverse-surgery.

“Huh.” Ratchet grimaced. 

The sawbones frowned at Rung’s little medical note like he wished it would disappear. And then he looked up at Megatron. He had eyes that said he’d seen every ugly fluid a metallic body could throw up, and that he viewed Megatron as something similar.

“Well,” he sighed, and threw the note on the table. “I can recommend several introductory courses in nursing and medicine, and if you’ve got emergency response training, you can volunteer here part time.”

Megatron felt full-body euphoria rush through him, like a fix of relief. “Thank you.”

“Don’t. Because I swear Megatron, if you hurt anybody, or upset anybody, or so much as sneeze on anybody, I’ll bury you so deep they’ll have to split the earth to get you out. We clear?”

Megatron shuddered. “Yes. Understood. Why are medics so violent?”

The corners of Ratchet’s mouth twitched in tired amusement. “It’s the constant late night angsting over patients. Makes us tetchy.” Then, because he needed to be prickly, the medic added. "And I am short-staffed, so be prepared for a lot of late nights. Last chance."

Megatron couldn’t help a smile.

At the end of the day, fear and guilt already stained his dreams, and they were stains that would never wash out. And at the end of the day, it wasn’t like Megatron thought ‘being a doctor’ would bleach those stains. It was more – that he had to. Had to try. Or else life wasn't worth living. So it was funny, really, that he might spend a thousand late nights angsting over patients. Constant late nights – as if Megatron’s sleeping schedule wasn’t already screwed. More insomnia? Oh no, how would he cope?

Sure, he might spend a thousand late nights angsting over patients. 

But at the end of the day, at least, he would be losing sleep over better things.

Chapter Text

“Where does evil begin?” Nautica asked.

“Define, ‘evil’.” Minimus said.

“Profoundly immoral.”

“Define, ‘immoral’.”

“Not conforming to accepted standards of ethics.”

“Define ‘ethics’.”

Nightbeat put his head in his hands. “No! Please! No! Please, let’s not start another moral debate. Lemon still hasn’t forgiven us for breaking his model train set, last time.”

“Oh, poor Lemon. I can alter his memory?” Airachnid offered, kindly. “Make him forget his train grudge?”

Nautica nodded peacefully. With a grand gesture, as if she were presenting a new guest on a talk-show, she bowed to Airachnid.

“Minimus Ambus, I offer you: the walking definition of evil.”

Airachnid folded her arms and scoffed. “Evil! Pfft! If you run over one person to save five, that’s not evil, that makes you a hero!”

Minimus grimaced. “It does not.”

“Does too!”

Nightbeat threw his hands in the air. “We’re not doing this again!”

The team of detectives had reached the point where their Mederi meetings had started to go spectacularly off course. With no new leads, and no way to investigate the actual Mederi building due to the prescence of a murderous security guard, their investigative options were limited. As an experiment, Nightbeat had camped out in the boat-shed opposite the hotel for a week. He’d gone armed with a pair of binoculars and a motion-activated camera, but the window photos he returned with weren’t exactly helpful. Pharma was posing in every single one. The experiment had not been repeated.

“I’m still asking though.” Nautica said. “Where does evil begin?”

Minimus rattled off a quick disclaimer. “Forgive me if I don’t want to examine ‘evil’ in the context of a criminal investigation, seeing as my strict adherence to the law – and loyalty to Tyrest - has left me with a flawless legal history but a poor moral performance.”

“I was more referring to Skids.” Nautica said. “I lent him a book before he left, but he forgot to return it…”

“That’s the evillest thing I can imagine,” said Airachnid, “and this is me talking.”

Minimus put up a finger to signal an impending joke. “’Evil’ is the Constructicons only giving us a week to formalise the blueprints for the fifth floor renovations.”

“Can’t Brainstorm…?”

Minimus pulled out his projector - he was still paying Swindle instalments on it, but it really was useful. “Here was Brainstorm’s blueprint. As you can see, he has dedicated fifty-per-cent of this floor to ‘extra lab space’.”

“Ah.”

Minimus brightened. “But! I revised his plans. I added a security room, a communications room-”

Nautica looked over his shoulder at the projected plan. "It just looks like you've given yourself a massive office."

"Er - private offices for certain high-ranking crew are a necessity." 

Nautica screwed up her chin in wrinkled disgust. “U-huh. U-huh. Sounds great. But just in case – just as an idea – here’s my proposition.”

Nautica fumbled in her plating for a second, then handed him a sheet of drafting paper. Minimus held it out, and frowned at it. It was blurry. He squinted at it from a greater distance. He frowned.

“Nautica, this blueprint is fifty-per-cent ‘library’.”

"And?"

"Nothing. Do you prefer alphabetisation, or Dewey Decimal?"

Megatron followed routine, cleaned the medibay, and wrote up patient files with Ratchet glaring a hole in his back. 

“That’s it.” Ratchet finally growled. His voice was like a gravel driveway: and an engine pulling in. “Over here. Sit down.”

“If it’s about Crosscut’s file, he’s vitreous negative-“

“Your ass. Over here.”

Megatron got his ass over there. Yet the slightest sting of humiliation kicked him in the chest. He’d thought he’d last longer. Really. But-

“All right. How long has this knee been a problem?”

Ratchet reached for his knee all slow, all careful movements, and it was only this consideration that stopped Megatron kicking him. If Ratchet saw that stifled violent instinct he didn’t let on. He just calmly moved the leg through its range of motion, and watched the engineering musculature involved.

“First Aid looked it over before Getaway tried to kill me.” Megatron said. “And you fixed it after I was first rescued from Tarn.”

“And it’s still bad?” Ratchet made a ‘tch’ noise to himself, and a concerned frown wrinkled his nose. “Well. You could just be old.”

“Pleasant.”

“Better than the alternative.” Ratchet said, darkly. “Help me out, since you’re training to be a medic. What causes a bad knee?”

“Stressed joints. Slipped gears.”

“First thing I checked, first thing I fixed.”

“Slow trauma. System death. Faulty self-repair…?”

“You’re doing good. Go on.”

Megatron folded his hands in his lap and frowned out the window. In the glass, his reflection looked a little uncertain. “I don’t know. Apart from that, there’s only exitium meum…”

Ratchet was watching him very closely.

Megatron took a mental step back. “'Exitium meum'? A sub-space infection?”

“I’ll need to run some tests but… yeah. Faulty self-repair is an early sign - plus the fact that your frame’s been modified for mass-shifting… an inbuilt connection to the void of space puts you at pretty high risk.”

“A sub-space infection.”

“The later symptoms include extreme temperature fluctuation, followed by spark-surge.” Ratchet was speaking kindly. “And I’m afraid when I say extreme, I mean extreme. Boiling energon and freezing fuel, extreme.”

“A sub-space infection.”

Megatron couldn’t help but imagine it. He’d read the text-book definition, naturally. But it was one thing to know the definition, and another to have it made personal. He couldn’t help but imagine the infection in full swing: self-repair failures, stressed joints, a system clogged with error-messages. At this point, the body said ‘enough is enough, thank you’ and began the process of trying to burn it out. With only one problem. Cybertronian bodies started to melt at the temperature the infection died. So what did the body do? It melted you, but a little bit at a time.

“I’m sorry,” Megatron said. “It’s just unexpected…”

“The good news? It’s not fatal.”

“No?”

“No.” Ratchet definitely didn’t seem anxious or worried. “It goes fever, temperature fluctuation, spark restart. The only danger is the melting fever, and the cold drop into permafrost. After that - after it's faded to almost nothing - your spark surges, effectively jumpstarting your system, and bringing you back. Like disconnecting and reconnecting a battery."

Because you couldn’t generate cold. You could only lose heat. Heat was energy – molecular vibrations. The only way to balance it out was with extreme cold – and what was colder than the bone-deep freezing void of sub-space? Icy stillness, cold dead emptiness. Open a connection to that, and you started to lose heat dangerously fast.

“But,” Ratchet said gently, “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of warning – plenty of symptoms beforehand. Mild hot-cold flushes. That scar, reopening. But then, it already hurts, doesn’t it?”

Megatron fidgeted evasively, not wanting to show weakness. “Sometimes.”

“U-huh.”

“On occasion.”

“I see.” Ratchet said, with a certain softness. “I’ll run some tests.”

“Please do…”

“And if I were you, I’d consider using a cane.”

“A cane?”

The affront in Megatron’s expression made Ratchet laugh outright. “The less stress you put on that joint, the better.”

“But – a cane?”

“Do you really think anyone at the Lost Light cares?”

Megatron was still reluctant. “I don’t want to appear feeble.”

“No one here thinks you’re feeble, believe me,” Ratchet said, wryly.

Megatron suggested. “You don’t think - since I don’t have much time left – there’s no point taking care of myself?”

“’No point?’” Ratchet was an incandescent combination of outraged and flabbergasted. “No point?”

“I take it you disagree?”

“No point-!” Ratchet could hardly speak from rage. “No point! If I put a patient’s legs back on, and they drive right back out into gunfire, was there no point my fixing them? Since we all die eventually, what’s the point in my fixing anybody, huh? I should let everyone kill each other, as Primus intended! I should only fix people who aren’t going to get hurt again, ever! People who deserve fixing! No bloody point!”

Ratchet’s rant lasted fifteen, twenty minutes. Megatron didn’t mind. He found the doctor’s honest anger refreshing.

“Great!” Rodimus entered Nightbeat’s office without waiting to be let in. “You’re all here, and you’re all late! We’re searching for the Knights people, chop chop.”

Minimus checked the time. “I’m not dressed – I’m not ready. The search was scheduled for this afternoon.”

“Aw, Mags, what’s the harm in starting early?”

Minimus frowned thoughtfully. “True. However, I was hoping to give Nightbeat’s office a deep-clean beforehand…”

“No need.” Nightbeat refused. “This is organised mess.”

Minimus looked around, horrified, at the cobwebs covering the rusted filing cabinets, the stacks of books Nautica kept intending to read, a long-abandoned pair of Brainstorm’s safety goggles on the top shelf. If this was ‘organised’, Minimus didn’t want to see ‘messy’.

“Please.” Minimus turned to Nautica. “It’s only several hours of back-breaking work, sifting through decades of termite ridden files! It'll be f- f- hold on, I can say it - fun.”

"It'll be a legendary labor, is what it'll be. Thanks, great hero, but I'd rather douse myself in burning acid."

Nightbeat gave Nautica a very uneasy look.

"Oh," said Minimus, with the enthusiasm of the condemned.

Nautica elbowed him. "Chin up. I bet Rodimus has something fun planned.”

“Joy.”

Rodimus shook his head and wagged a finger. “No, no, planning gets in the way of fun! Fun has to be… what’s the word, what’s the word… extraneous? Simultaneous?”

Minimus was temporarily distracted from his gloom. “’Spontaneous’?”

“That’s the bastard!”

“Rodimus Prime!”

Rodimus grinned. “Me?”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times-!”

The ensuing vocabulary lesson made Minimus forget all about the mess, and his disappointment. And this was, of course, what Rodimus had completely intended to happen.

“If you’re going out,” Airachnid asked Nautica, as Minimus droned in the background, “Would you mind looking for Starscream’s ceremonial cape? Only I’ve lost it.”

“How?”

“I was hanging it out to dry, when the wind took it on a bit of adventure. It’s purple. Hard to miss. Last seen: flying off into the atmosphere.”

Nautica bit her lip in amusement. “Yeah, we’ll keep an eye out.”

In the end, Megatron decided to accompany the search for the Knights, if only because someone needed to keep order.

He was also using the opportunity to try out Ratchet’s ‘cane’ suggestion. But, shy of drawing attention, he walked at the back of the group.

Every so often – about once a fortnight – Rodimus would be utterly filled with restless energy. Megatron attributed it to the lack of messes at the Lost Light: recently, the most interesting thing Brainstorm had made was a bed, and something about this lack of excitement sent Rodimus absolutely mad. He wanted to get out. He wanted to explore.

And he wanted all the Lost Light to come with him.

“Right, so if anyone has any stupid ideas, don’t keep them to yourselves.” Rodimus called out from the head of the pack. “You never know where the Knights might turn up!”

“The acid wastes?”

“There’s stupid and there’s stupid, Riptide. Why would we go into the acid wastes? It rains acid.”

“I did leave my acid umbrella at home today.”

Rodimus nodded. “There you go.”

“So it has to be convenient and fun - like, um – the Little Caminus fun park!”

“Genius, Riptide!”

“But it’s from Caminus.”

“So?”

“Aren’t the Knights Old-Cybertronian? Like, old-old?”

“They might have gotten lost! You never know!” Rodimus gave a golden smile. “I say we check it out.”

Riptide kicked a piece of metal rubble off the side of the road. He kept kicking it along as they walked, bouncing it ahead of them, until it made a brave escape down an alley and was lost. Riptide clicked his tongue forlornly at the loss.

Pipes elbowed him. “Hey!”

“What?”

“Do you like water?”

“Yep! I’m a boat.”

“Fantastic! The beach is down that way, if you want to – er – go look for the Knights there with me.”

“But Rodimus says…”

“We’ll just check it out!” Pipes bounced around him like an eager cyber-puppy. “Just you and me! If there’s no Knights we come right back.”

“Just you and me?” Riptide pondered this. “Why?”

“I like you!”

“Aww, I like you too.”

“No, I mean I like-like – oh, forget it. You coming?”

Riptide gave a sheepish, sharky grin. “Yeah, sure.”

Rodimus was walking deep in conversation with Drift. Pipes hovered behind them, fluttering back and forth, clearly unwilling to interrupt. He finally gave up and just waved at Megatron. Megatron nodded permission, and Pipes and Riptide bounced away down an alley and were lost.

The Lost Light. What an odd name.

Finding the Knights was their core quest, but somehow it always fell to the wayside. There were always other threats. Other distractions. This was all very well when they were doing odd-jobs for the city – finding lost pets, cleaning windows, fixing broken things - Megatron liked being able to clear some of the blood off his name. But sometimes it meant distractions like this. Chasing ghosts. Where was the direction? Where was the sense of purpose? Without a mission, the Lost Light was a glorified friend group, using ‘work’ as an excuse to do whatever they wanted. Yes, the search for the Knights should be their top priority. But the lack of order – it rankled.

“Are you – er - doing all right?” Magnus asked, quietly.

Megatron nearly answered before he realised, with some embarrassment, that Magnus wasn’t talking to him.

“I’m doing fine.” Nautica gave Magnus an odd look. “Why do you ask?”

There was the almost audible grinding of gears as Magnus struggled, against all his internal firewalls and defensive programming protocols, to ask a personal question. “You’ve seemed… down. About Skids. Lately.”

“Magnus.” Nautica had a smile in her voice. “I’ve never heard you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you care.”

“I care.” Magnus objected hotly, and then immediately became embarrassed. “Er. Don’t tell anyone.”

Megatron noted to himself that Nautica had dodged the question. She was ribbing Magnus about the relevance of certain methods of investigation, which – yes, that would distract him, all right.

And then Magnus stopped at the entrance to a small street.

“Magnus?” Nautica said.

He didn’t answer, not even when she reached out and shook his shoulder.

Megatron stepped in. “I can take care of this.”

Nautica gave him a far too knowing smile. “Oh, can you.”

“Nautica.”

“Going, going, gone.”

Megatron stood beside him, silently, and waited for Magnus to either keep walking or explain his hesitation. But Magnus did neither. He was just staring at the tree-lined street with blank contemplation, while the wind whispered through the branches, watching the leaves spiral in quiet circles to kiss the ground.

Megatron looked at Magnus, asking the wordless question.

Magnus’ face was the picture of still calm. He said nothing.

“Hound’s idea.” Megatron said. “Perceptor managed to revive a pre-war genetic strand of tree with green leaves. There are plans to make proper gardens, again.”

Magnus nodded: but of course he already knew. He’d sent Megatron the memo.

In the hubbub down the green street someone barked in annoyance, or passion, and in the next mercurial moment there was bubbling laughter. The speaker was hidden, somewhere further down, in one of the ground-level storefronts or upper-story apartments. Or maybe they were behind one of the young trees. The branches that arched above were strung with little wire-lights, so that when night fell, the place would be illuminated by a thousand faux-stars.

A slight breeze made Magnus close his eyes.

“Does this place hold some significance?” Megatron asked, thinking Magnus was remembering something.

“No. It’s just a street.”

Megatron brushed his free hand against Magnus’, as if by accident. Magnus took it, and squeezed, and used his body to shield the affectionate contact from the eyes of passersby. Amused, Megatron returned the pressure quietly. Magnus drifted that much closer, just as if he was a scaffold leaning the wind, his head tilted towards Megatron.

“’Pleasure is a distraction from the pursuit of truth’.”

It could have been chastisement, except Megatron recognised the quote. “The Ascetic Cybertronian. Dominus Ambus?”

“Indeed. Considering his relationship with Rewind, it seems hypocritical in hindsight…” Magnus mused.

“What do you think of the statement?”

“It depends on what he meant by ‘pleasure’. If he meant something along the lines of ‘comfort and complacency’ then I would say yes, those are detrimental to the pursuit of truth. But if he meant ‘desire’ or ‘falling in love’… I would disagree.”

“Why?”

“It would take too long to explain.”

Megatron almost smiled. “Try me.”

Magnus turned to face him properly. Megatron lost his breath for a moment. Most people could be intimidated when Magnus gave them his full attention: according to Riptide the expression was ‘a teacher catching you cheating in the middle of a test’. But Megatron found being critically appraised refreshing. There was no false forgiveness in that gaze. There was no artifice, no humour. There was only the sense that Magnus was weighing the statement in complete seriousness, and that kind of unfiltered attention – it was breathtaking.

“We’ve already lost them.” Megatron jerked a thumb towards the distant Rodimus. “We could sit here, and you could give me the complete lecture.”

Magnus sighed in regret. “No, no. Someone has to go with them and keep order.”

There was no other answer he could have given. Megatron nodded in complete understanding, and let go of Magnus’ hand. “It’s a discussion for later.”

Magnus nodded, but spared one last wistful glance for the bench, surrounded by green.

“Do you want to come?” Megatron asked.

Magnus blinked. "I have the choice?"

“Well, if you want to inspect this street for safety violations…”

“I… yes. That would be… thank you.”

“You’ll find me back at the Lost Light.” Megatron raised a hand in farewell, and departed. His last image was of Magnus sitting down on the bench, to one side, as if he was used to leaving room for another person. Then the trees sighed, and he was gone.

Magnus just – sat.

Just for a while.

He wasn’t really expecting an interruption, but when Rewind tapped him on the shoulder, he answered politely enough.

“Rewind,” Magnus said, and nodded to the person trailing behind the memory-stick. “Brainstorm. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re enjoying the scenery.” Rewind said, and then slapped him on the shoulder. “But you, Magnus! What are you doing here?”

“The same. Enjoy.” Magnus said, shortly, and turned his back in a clear dismissal. If it was a bit cold, it was only because he hadn’t expected to be interrupted.

“It’s really pretty, yeah.” Rewind said, softly, like he was trying to be nice. “Reminds me of those gardens Dominus used to like, back before the war. He ever take you to any of them?”

Magnus nearly crumpled in his seat; he was hit between the eyes with such a sharp shock of dismal blank dispassion. He was, suddenly, so emotionless it hurt.

“Once or twice.” Magnus said, and his voice was so far beyond cold you could have used it to medically flash-freeze sparks.

“Yeah. Me too.” Rewind said, and then, thankfully, mercifully, he stopped being nice. “Did you know he wore armour?”

Magnus frowned. “You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t-“ Rewind swore, “-ing know he wore armour. What was his original alt-mode?”

The rest of the house of Ambus was no more. The world was not as castiest as it had once been. His brother was long gone, and it was his brother’s widowed husband asking, and yet still Magnus hesitated before revealing Dominus’ original alt-mode.

“A turbofox.” Magnus eventually said. “Why?”

“It’s only the first real lead I’ve gotten in years. Would have killed you to mention it?”

“I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why are you asking now?”

Rewind’s ruffled plating settled down, in the death of aggression. “Airachnid said she’d read it in someone’s memory.”

“You do know she works for Starscream? He would love to see the Lost Light ruined. She’s trying to make trouble.”

“Was she right, though?”

“She was.”

“And that’s got me thinking, see, because ‘turbofox’ – that rings a bell. Something Velocity said? Something I saw, somewhere? Primus, I need to re-check all the morgues…”

“He’s dead.” Magnus said. “Do you really need to keep searching? Do you really need to see the corpse?”

Rewind pulled up short. “You really don’t want to know?”

“I really don’t. Why would I want to hurt myself, knowing?”

“It already hurts.”

“Hmm.”

Rewind paused, and he gave Magnus a sidelong glance, as if deciding whether to tell him something. Eventually he shook his head.

“Nevermind. You do you, Magnus.”

Rewind and Brainstorm were halfway down the scenic street before Magnus thought to stand up. He hesitated, but then called out:

“Rewind – if you – if you find anything-“

But because he didn’t want to shout, Rewind didn’t hear, and Magnus sat back down extremely dissatisfied.

And his gaze fell on the plaque across the street.

Immediately, Magnus was a black ball of righteous rage, and he had never felt happier to be an enforcer, because it meant he could direct his dissatisfaction towards a productive goal, and towards someone who might deserve it, please, let them deserve it. Across the street was a plaque advertising a psychopathology service. It was faded bronze, barely legible. It looked seedy as all hell.

It was emblazoned with the name ‘Froid of Scarvix’.

The same Froid of Scarvix who had gone missing with Sunder.

The same Sunder whose mnemosurgical fingerprints were all over the Mederi code, according to Airachnid.

That Froid of Scarvix.

Magnus stood up.

Thanks to Metroplex and his root-mines, Autobot City didn’t want for energon - but it did lack other things. Namely, art. Yes, there were people like Crosscut who wrote plays, and people like Rewind with personal databases, and people like Nautica who collected books. But it just didn’t compare to Caminus - a culture that valued fine art over martial arts - a culture that hadn’t had six million years of war.

Rodimus punched Megatron in the arm. “Nice cane.”

Megatron tried to hide it behind his leg. “What cane?”

“Found the Knights yet?”

Megatron sighed. “Why this pointless search?”

“We’re the Lost Light! We find lost things.”

“What could we possibly find here?” Megatron gestured to the Little Caminus fun park – a Ferris wheel, a roller coaster, and a tree-lined picnic area. As he watched, Whirl and Cyclonus played some kind of ball game, with Tailgate replacing the ball. Whirl executed a particularly beautiful maneuvour in order to catch the minibot mid-air. He then immediately slam-dunked him into Cyclonus’ arms.

“It’s not a pointless search.” Rodimus shrugged. “Where will our fears finally be at rest? It’s so much easier to wake up every day and go to war. Past that… what is peace like? I don’t know. You don’t know. But it’s still worth searching, don’t you think?”

A Camien couple nearby laughed. Megatron recognised Windblade, City-speaker for Metroplex, third most powerful person in the city. She was balancing a ten metre high lance on the palm of her hand. It fell forward, and Windblade, the professional delegate that she was, went past at a dead run trying to keep it upright.

Megatron felt awkward. He cleared his throat. “So. Er. Any ideas for the fifth floor renovations?”

“A bar, I reckon. I was thinking fifty-per-cent of the space…”

“You don’t think we need - I don’t know – somewhere to go over reports and direct operations from a centralised command area?” Megatron suggested, dryly.

“Nah.”

“What if it had a captain’s chair?”

Rodimus paused. “I’m interested.”

They were interrupted when, out of nowhere, Windblade sledgehammered Rodimus from the side.

“Oh - I’m so sorry - I wasn’t watching-!“

Rodimus was laughing.

“Solus save me.” Chromia griped, and gripped Windblade by the back of the neck and bodily lifted her up. Being a jet, Windblade was designed for lightness, and practically floated in Chromia’s grip. “You steamrollered them.”

Mid-air, Windblade grinned, undaunted by her dour bodyguard. “Sorry! When I merged with Metroplex this morning he was happy, and I was happy because he was happy, and so on and so on. We’re bouncing back! The city is healing! Sorry about that dent.”

“But.” Chromia looked at Windblade sternly.

“But.” Windblade agreed.

“But?” Megatron asked.

Chromia put her down gently. “Nothing.”

Windblade shook her head mutely, blankly.

Rodimus’ curiosity was piqued. “What?”

“Metroplex.” Windblade stared off to the side to hide her expression. “The root-mines.”

“Ah.” Rodimus said.

The mood fell.

“But! Metroplex doesn’t want me crying.” Windblade clapped her hands together with deliberate cheeriness. “Come on Rodimus, I’ll show you how to play.”

Windblade balanced her sword on the palm of her hand. The balancing game had her dancing back and forth to keep it upright. When the sword threatened to fall forward, she had to take a couple of steps forward. When it tilted towards her, she stepped back – but to no avail, and it fell into her arms. When Windblade caught it she was already laughing at her own mistake, laughing for the sheer joy of doing something fun and stupid, and her laughter was like sunlight in shallow water.

Chromia sighed. “I haven’t seen her this happy in ages.”

Megatron felt awkward. “Mm.”

He watched Rodimus’ attempt to balance the sword, laughing and smiling up at it, optics crinkled.

This was nice, Megatron reflected. He was enjoying simply standing, not talking. Not everyone appreciated long, drawn out stretches of silence.

“Thanks for the invite.” Chromia said, eventually. “Windblade needed this.”

“Invite?” Megatron frowned.

Chromia gave him a funny look. “It was a week ago. We got an invite to this spot, at this time, to hang out with the Lost Light. And here you are.”

“We only decided to come out here today.” Megatron said. “It was extremely spontaneous. Who sent the invite?”

Chromia slapped herself in the forehead and groaned.

“What?”

“Fragging Airachnid.”

Froid of Scarvix couldn’t hide his fear when Magnus walked in.

“Uh! Ultra Magnus! Hello!”

“Froid. I was under the impression you were dead.”

“You were delightfully mistaken, haha.” Froid had an oily little laugh.

Magnus was glad he'd gotten dressed - glad of the armour. It allowed him to loom. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the Tetrahexian Ripper, if you don’t mind.”

Froid backed into the table without realising, and knocked over a cup of stationary. Only his unnaturally long arms helped him catch it in time. “Of course I don’t mind. Why would I mind? Haha?” Froid laughed extremely insincerely. “Besides, I thought Sunder was…”

“Dead?”

“Yes! Dead!”

“We thought the same about you.” Magnus said. “And look how that turned out...”

Froid’s general temperature had increased: Magnus could see him lit up on infra-red. He was radiating heat, he was fogging up the office window. And yet he was shivering. Froid went to the corner of the room, where there was a small refuelling station. “Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you a cup of energon?”

Magnus sat down, but refused the offer. Froid bustled about for a bit, carefully heating the fuel to a comfortable temperature. It was both a transparent attempt to soothe his rattled nerves, and to encourage Magnus that waiting was too much effort. It didn’t work. Froid sat down behind his desk with his steaming cup, and gave an affected sigh.

“Now. I thought Sunder was dead?”

“Your psychoanalysis helped in his capture. We’ve discovered a hotel in the north of the city, on the edge of the acid wastes, which lures in guests and subsequently kills them. It does this by means of an automated mnemosurgical program. The program’s code perfectly matches Sunder’s modus operandi.”

For the first time, Froid relaxed. “Primus, Magnus.” Froid sat back in his chair. He actually reclined, the bastard, as if posture was utterly unimportant. “Why didn’t you say? Maybe I could even join your investigation, give you a few hints in the right direction… no, by your expression I suppose not. Well, I’ll help you out anyway. How do you know Sunder’s behind it?”

“Only Sunder is good enough to do something like this.”

“Oh, Magnus, Magnus,” Froid’s eyes narrowed in smug amusement. “No matter how good you are, there’s always someone better.”

“The mnemosurgical code matches the autopsies of his earlier victims.”

Froid tipped his head back and half-laughed, half-sighed. “The code? The code? Magnus, please, anybody can copy code. Where’s the heart in that? Where’s the life? As if Sunder gets off on clinical, impersonal murder… come back to me when you find bodies turned inside out, hmm? That’s more his style.”

Magnus didn’t say anything.

Instead, he examined a card on Froid’s desk, advertising his psychopathology services. Magnus held it out, and frowned at it. It was blurry. He squinted at it from a greater distance. He frowned. ‘Froid and Co.’ it read. Who was the ‘Co.’?

“In fact, Magnus, why are you here?” Froid asked, sickly-sweet and kind. “The Immortal Lawman himself. I’d have expected you to be down in Metroplex’s root-mines, hunting down Tarn…? He is still alive, isn’t he? He's desperate and heartbroken, isn't he?” Froid paused for a while, giving him the analytical stare of the psychoanalyst. “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want to kill Tarn. Unless you’re using Sunder as a distraction. Unless - maybe - you're postponing something...”

It was true that once Tarn was captured, they would hold Megatron’s trial. A fair trial. And no fair trial could fail to execute Megatron for his crimes-

Magnus stood up and slammed his palms down hard on the table.

"My interest," Magnus lied to himself, "is merely professional. There’s nothing more to it. That's all it is.”

When Magnus leaned forward, he was glad of the armour. It allowed him to loom. It was impossible to be more confrontational than by pushing right into Froid’s face, scowling, physically using his superior height and mass to intimidate. His invasion of Froid’s personal space was an unequivocally aggressive act. But when Magnus spoke, it was very quiet, and very low, like the roar of a distant storm.

“Tell me, Froid. Why were you so scared when I walked in?”

“Uh.” Froid’s optics were wide. Nose to nose, Magnus could see the coolant beading on Froid's forehead.

“What are you hiding?”

“Everyone has,” Froid turned his head away, but didn’t dare break eye-contact. “Everyone has something to hide…”

“It’s about Sunder, isn’t it?”

“…just because I’m hiding something doesn’t mean it’s to do with your something…”

“Who’s Sunder working with?”

“…never heard of the place, don’t deserve to be interrogated just because I’ve got something to hide…”

“Where is he now?”

“You brute! I don’t know.” Froid babbled. “Missing? I thought he was missing!”

“Not dead?”

Froid’s face froze when he realised how he’d slipped up. Magnus sat down in satisfaction at a job well done.

“Here is what’s going to happen. Sunder’s going back to Garrus 5. That’s certain. But whether you’re going with him or not depends on what you tell me, right now.”

“He went missing a month ago.” Froid croaked. “I was – was – feeding him victims, I had to, or he’d eat my brain. But one at a time! Personally! Not in some – some – systemised mass-murder, not in this blasted hotel of yours. In the sewers. Underground. And in exchange he helped me with my patients…”

Magnus pulled out his memo-pad to take notes. Sewers. Underground.

“But one day I went down into the dark and he was just – gone! I can’t explain it. It doesn’t fit with his profile at all. Where’d he go? Why did he just disappear? Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

It was a strange detail to bring up, and Froid seemed genuinely agonised over it. Perhaps, in some twisted way, the two of them had been genuinely close. Shockwave Syndrome, perhaps. Or the co-dependency equivalent. Rund would know.

“So he’s gone?”

“Vanished, missing, I don’t – I don’t know…”

“How long ago was this?”

“A month ago, I already said. What did he do?” Froid asked. “Really, I mean.”

“I told you. The hotel.”

“Code is easy to fake. Apart from that?”

“We found a semi-sentient amalgamation of drained spark energy in the basement.” Magnus said, dryly.

Froid pulled up short. He blinked, shook his head and blinked again. He looked completely blank.

“A what?”

“A massive spark-battery. Metroplex massive."

Froid blinked in complete bemusement. “What for?”

“Er, we don’t know.”

“…Okay. But did you find spinal stems floating in chemical soup?” Froid sounded scared, and hopeful. “Did you find the words ‘Mortilus, death-bringer’ scrawled on the walls in five different dialects? Did you find bodies, still breathing, but turned inside out?”

“No.”

Froid slumped gracelessly in his chair. Relieved? Disappointed? He could have been either. “It’s not him.”

“No one else could have done it.”

“Are you sure?”

Magnus was dead certain. “The Lost Light is investigating.”

“Oh.” Froid brightened. “You’re with the Lost Light. Do you know my old rival, Rung? How’s he doing - still practicing?”

Magnus didn’t answer. He was too busy pondering Froid’s story. If Sunder wasn’t behind Mederi, that unravelled their entire hypothesis. But if Froid was being careful not to give himself away… yes, that still fit. Sunder was being careful, the monster, and avoiding his usual modus operandi, because he knew it would identify him. But he couldn’t lie to code. That had to be it, because who else could it be?

But Magnus’ certainty had been shaken loose.

There were too many discrepancies. Too many questions. The missing murderer, for one. And the star-spark battery in the Mederi basement… who had made it, if not Froid? Someone else? But then again, Froid could be lying, Magnus supposed. It was all too confusing.

“Thank you for your co-operation.” Magnus said, as he stood up.

Froid laughed, an oily little laugh. “Phew! Thanks. So, we’re done?”

“Done? You just confessed to being Sunder’s accomplice. When did I say we were done?”

Upon coming back to the Lost Light, Megatron found Pipes and Riptide had beaten them there – and had picked up a new fashion accessory along the way. Pipes twirled around sheepishly, attempting to billow the glittering purple cape he was wearing.

“Where did you find that?” Nautica asked, cheeks dimpling with the effort of not-smiling.

“The beach.” Pipes swished it from side to side to watch it flutter. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“It suits you. But. It’s Starscream’s. And if he catches you wearing it…”

“Who’s gonna tell him?”

Riptide put up his hand. “I won’t, if you let me have a turn.”

Starscream’s aide, Airachnid, cleared her throat from three inches behind his spine. Pipes jumped about ten metres.

The mnemosurgeon leaned forward.

“I believe that’s mine?”

Pipes chuckled nervously. “Oh, yeah! Yeah! Here you go.”

She ceremoniously accepted, and with a dramatic flourish, turned and offered it to Riptide.

“Oh, cheers.” Riptide draped the cape over his shoulders.

Megatron remembered Chromia – and the invitation he hadn’t sent – and frowned at Airachnid. “Why are you doing nice things?”

Airachnid stared at him in mock affront. “Why, I never, Megatron! You suspect me of ulterior motives? Me? I am just a nice little prophet.”

Pipes nodded. “It’s true. Every day she gives me a nice little prophecy.”

“That reminds me. Pipes, tomorrow you’ll find some spare change somewhere unexpected.” Airachnid said. “See?”

Megatron twisted his mouth sceptically.

“It’s the truth!” Airachnid placed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Truly! I know the future, and I want to use it to help people.”

“Why?”

“So they worship and appreciate me - why else?"

"There it is."

"Ah - Riptide – Riptide, come back! When I gave you Starscream’s cape I didn’t mean to keep-“

Airachnid chased Riptide inside the open doors of the Lost Light help agency, and laughing, Pipes and Nautica followed. The evening called them back to their habsuites. Megatron paused a moment before ascending the steps after them, and turned to survey the twilight street. He paused for a moment of peace at the end of the day, and in the crowd, he saw Magnus walking down the street towards him. 

Megatron smiled.

Maybe he was lucky not to be immortal. If he had forever to wait for the perfect moment, there would always be 'one day', or 'next week' or 'next year'. But he didn't have time to postpone love - he didn't have time to procrastinate forever. And yet! Why was it, that with every one of Magnus' memos, Megatron could only reply 'noted, with thanks'? Why could he never summon the courage to write more? Every time, he could only pour the deep well of his gratitude into those three words and hope - pray - that they conveyed the full weight of his feelings.

But Magnus was hardly a conversationalist. Maybe, for him, that small confirmation - that small courtesy - was enough.

"Ah, Megatron." Magnus looked pleased to see him waiting. "Are you doing all right?”

Megatron waited until Magnus was a little closer, so he could answer quietly. "Minimus, I've never been happier."

Magnus smiled back at him so openly. "You said I would find you waiting back at the Lost Light.”

"I said you would."

"You did. And I believe we shelved our earlier discussion for a moment like now, if we have time."

"We have time." Megatron's spark flickered in his chest. "You could give me the complete lecture somewhere private...?"

"Why?"

"So you can take off your armour."

Magnus' breath hitched, and he turned to stare at him. "I..." He seemed to be flushed, in the violet evening light. "I still have to formalise the fifth floor blueprints. I still need to notify Ironhide of Froid's incarceration. Sunder is still the priority, I still have work to do..."

"Right now?"

Magnus' smiled like he did for no-one else. "No, not right now."

Just as he said this, the streetlights flickered on.

And because both Minimus and Megatron understood the value of a quiet moment, they both just stood there in the growing dusk - until the scattered pedestrians slowed to almost nothing, and the empty evening street became a private place.

“’Pleasure is a distraction from the pursuit of truth’.” Magnus said, to the empty street. “The Ascetic Cybertronian. Dominus Ambus. If he meant 'pleasure' along the lines of ‘comfort and complacency’ then I would say yes, those are detrimental to the pursuit of truth. But if he meant ‘desire’ or ‘falling in love’… I would disagree.”

“Why?”

“Because love - like poetry - carries us outside ourselves. Outside our everyday constraints. But also deeper into ourselves... and it is there, balanced on the edge of desire, that we might discover some kind of – of – deeper truth, something ecstatic - something beyond what we already know and think.”

"Exactly." Megatron said. "You have a beautiful clarity of thought. It's poetry, really it is."

"Oh no, I could never compare-"

"Minimus. You're really good." Magnus wouldn't look at him, so Megatron walked hesitantly closer. "I'd love to - if you ever want to discuss-" Megatron cut himself off, unable to summon the courage to continue.

Magnus took a deep breath, and turned to face him properly, giving him the full weight of his attention. There was no artifice, no humour in that gaze. There was only warm stability, like a sunbaked wall at the end of a hot day. There was only the sense that Magnus was weighing the statement in complete seriousness. 

"If we were to what?" Magnus asked.

"Discuss poetry together sometime." Megatron continued. "The Lost Light renovations will take a while..."

Magnus answered very softly - so softly, in fact, that Megatron didn't hear him.

"I'd like that."

"...So maybe at home, in private, I could show you my drafts-"

"Megatron." Magnus interrupted. "I'd really like that."

"Oh."

They stayed poised in the delightful awkwardness, the quiet evening light. Magnus was so close. Megatron desperately wanted to kiss him. He imagined leaning in, cupping Magnus' face and bringing him close. He imagined the violet twilight on his eyelids, the too-sweet moment of sensation. He imagined Magnus kissing back.

But he couldn't summon the courage to go through on it, and so it stayed a fantasy.

"It's a plan, then?" Magnus asked eventually, awkwardly.

"Yes." Megatron answered, and smiled. "It is."

It was a small confirmation - a small courtesy - but maybe it was enough.

Chapter Text

People didn't usually get what they deserved.

They got the consequences of their actions - and nothing more.

There was no inherent fairness to the world. Even the law - even justice didn't exist, not in the way Minimus wished it did. Justice was a community outcry, community outrage. Punishment did not correspond to the seriousness of the crime - it corresponded to how much everyone, as a community, thought the criminal deserved to be punished. There was no justice in the world, Minimus believed, except what people created. And even then, criminals didn't usually get what they deserved.

Minimus sat in his brand new office, at his old desk. It felt silly to wear the Magnus armour, and so more and more these days, Minimus delegated it to the corner. The shadow it cast did not reach the desk.

"I saw Skids the other day." Minimus said at the end of a meeting.

Nautica stiffened in the doorway, and affected a casual air. "Oh? What's he up to?"

"He seemed..."

Skids had seemed happy enough. Magnus had only seen him for a moment, however. He'd walked past an unfamiliar bar, on the other side of the city, and he'd seen Skids sitting inside at the bar piano. He'd thought about stopping to say hello, until he noticed Getaway standing beside.

And Getaway had seen Magnus.

But instead of expressing aggression, or bitterness, Getaway had done something unexpected. He'd nodded. Just once. He'd raised his glass in tired acknowledgment to Magnus - and then he'd turned back to Skids.

Skids played on, learning as he went, and Magnus had been forced to keep walking or hold up traffic.

It was more than Getaway deserved. But then, people didn't get what they deserved.

"He seemed - like Skids," Minimus answered. 

"That's good," Nautica said, unenthusiastically. "That's good..." 

"He was with Getaway."

"Ahh."

Nautica seemed to be waiting for something more.

"He was playing the piano." Minimus added.

"Look, Magnus, what are you trying to say?" Nautica said, impatient.

Minimus didn't know what she wanted. "I thought you'd be interested in his wellbeing..."

"You're rubbing it in, is that it?"

"No!" Minimus frowned. "''Rubbing it in'? What? Is that an idiom?"

Nautica gave a harsh sigh, and spoke in a mocking way. "'Oh, Nautica, you've been real sad about Skids lately. Are you all right?' As if I'm grieving, or something. Solus, I mean, it's not like he's dead. He's just..." She trailed off, trying to find the words. "He's just gone, that's all."

Minimus didn't know how to answer this.

In the tense silence, Nautica shrugged apathetically. 

"I suppose you think it's stupid."

"No." Minimus immediately said. "No, not at all..."

"I just... miss him. I miss having him around. I suppose you think it's stupid."

"Not at all. You and Skids were close. I'd be more worried if you were unaffected by his absence." Minimus frowned down at his desk, and pretended to be reading his paperwork, so he wouldn't have to make eye contact. Awkwardly, he coughed. "You're still friends, you know."

Nautica blinked in surprise.

"I know!"

"If you reached out, I'm sure he'd be only too happy to 'hang out'. As Rodimus calls it."

"Haha, I know, I know." Nautica started to shuffle towards the door, awkwardly. "I might reach out. Maybe. If I feel like it."

"If you feel like it." Minimus shuffled a form aside so as to appear busy. It was blurry, and he had to squint to read it. Did he need glasses?

It was silent for so long he thought Nautica had left. 

"...Minimus." 

Minimus blinked and looked up. "Yes?"

"Rubbing it in." Nautica hovered awkwardly. "Means 'to keep talking about something that makes someone else feel upset, or embarrassed'. It's an idiom. Anyway. See you at Swerve's, tomorrow night?"

"Megatron and I have responded in the affirmative, yes."

"You gonna let loose?"

"I might... have one or two drinks."

"You rascal." Nautica grinned and started to leave, but threw the last word over her shoulder. "Oh and Minimus - thanks."

Minimus gave her what he thought of as a warm, yet serious look. "You're very welcome."

"Long we try in vain to speak and act

Our hidden self, and what we say and do

Is eloquent, is well - but 'tis not true...

"...What do you think," Minimus asked, "After 'hidden self' should it be a comma, or a full stop?"

"Comma." Megatron advised, looking over his shoulder. "It flows better with the comma."

Minimus made a note on his memo-pad.

Today, they weren’t seated opposite each other - they were side by side on the couch, so that Megatron could give constructive notes on Minimus' drafts.

Megatron did not underestimate the raw emotional vulnerability in showing someone else your draft. Particularly for Megatron, who hated to appear vulnerable, and for Minimus, who hated to open up at all. But since they understood this about each other – they understood the fear, the uncertainty – it made it easier to show each other their unfinished, imperfect poems.

Their drafts. 

Primus, but the act was practically a Disclosure all its own.

That was how it had started.

Poetry.

Their evening routine existed outside the normal schedule, in between the transition of day to night. It was around this time that the evenings started to get really dark, to the point it was practically night. But Megatron still thought of their ritual as an ‘evening talks’ because – well, that was their ritual. Admitting that night was starting to come earlier these days would mean admitting the evening ritual was leftover from a lighter time. Literally. They should've renamed them to to 'night talks'. But renaming the tradition would've meant drawing attention to it. And neither of them wanted to scrutinise something that had become so important to their relationship. 

“I read a poem recently,” Minimus said, glancing up at Megatron to make sure he was listening, “about a poet who jumps into a volcano.”

Megatron hadn’t read it, so he nodded, and let him explain. Minimus was a delight to listen to. He structured his points so clearly, and he was so informative on the subject matter, it was almost as good as reading the poem for himself. It allowed Megatron to sit in fascination without any tangents or distractions. But if they did go off on a tangent, where was the harm?

“In the end, the core reason he jumps into the volcano.” Minimus said. “Is because he is weary, and feels that he is past his usefulness. I was struck by that. When you read a lot of other literature, you notice it’s a common theme. Of course for the poet, death in the end becomes a kind of freedom-“

“It’s not like that.” Megatron interrupted, to his own surprise.

It was so rare that he spoke over the top of Minimus at all, that for a moment Minimus just stopped dead, eyes wide in shock. He seemed slightly hurt. Megatron didn't blame him. He eventually waved for Megatron to explain, but there was still a bit of a bad feeling, which was why Megatron took so long to actually talk.

“It’s not – like that.” Megatron could feel a lump in his throat, and rubbed it absentmindedly. “It isn't freedom. It isn't a pilgrimage to the peak of a mountain. It’s not some final, grand gesture… that seems to happen only in poems.”

It wasn’t like Megatron to be so obtuse. Minimus stared in silence, and felt at his throat as if there was something there, as if he was choked up too. But they weren’t seated opposite each other today. They were side by side on the couch, and so when Megatron looked off into the distance he could pretend he was almost talking to himself. He could pretend that these were just things he happened to be saying while Minimus was in the room.

Their talks weren't always this serious.

It wasn’t as though, when they sat down, they set out to discuss the heavy issues looming over them. But if it sort of worked out that way, neither of them mentioned it afterward. And these deeper, more serious conversations only existed in the dark evening, and nowhere else.

“You want to defer it.” Megatron said. “Like a daydream, or a fantasy, you want to defer it… you imagine having just a little bit longer, just a week, just a day. Postponement.”

Minimus perked up. “That is in the poem. You actually understand it very well.”

Megatron was a bit annoyed: he felt like Minimus was missing the point of what he was trying to say. “Where? Where in the poem does the poet state he wants to postpone jumping into the mountain?”

“Nowhere.” Minimus spoke very clearly, very measured. “But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have spent fifty stanzas debating the issue to himself. He’d have just jumped.”

Despite himself, Megatron snorted. That was the good thing about a joke; laughing communicated agreement. If you could joke, and laugh, you didn’t need all the bother of in-depth conversation to relate to other people. Megatron wished he had Minimus’ skill with humour.

It was a good joke, if a little dark, and he wanted to hold onto the warm glow for a little bit longer. But then Minimus said:

“It makes sense. One always wants to defer the metaphorical volcano. Even if…”

The mood came crashing back down.

“Always.” Megatron said. “You always want to put it off a little longer. A day. An hour. You don’t want to let go. You don’t want to say goodbye. Because of course we don’t. And like a fantasy, like a dream, we imagine a separate reality where the volcano doesn’t exist, where time split down the middle, where we never walked that path to begin with.”

“What kinds of things would you imagine?” Minimus asked. “In the separate reality.”

“Oh, nothing special. Work.”

“Work, yes.”

“It’s more about having the time to do it…” Megatron trailed off.

“An eternity of work.”

“Yes, that’s the dream.”

But Megatron still hadn’t quite got across his main point.

“The point I was making is that even if you come to terms with it, even if it’s unavoidable, even if it’s for the best. Even if… all of that. Even then. You still want a little bit longer. You want just one more perfect day. Just a day. Just talking. Because even then, even at the end, you still don’t want to go.”

Megatron had to stop talking because his throat had completely closed up, and in fact, his voice had broken on the last words.

His face was hot. Too hot. And his optics were blurring out.

He was terribly grateful Minimus wasn’t sitting opposite him, this evening, because it meant he could turn his head to the side and hide it.

“My whole life.” Megatron heard himself say. “What a waste.”

Completely unexpected, Minimus – awkwardly, unsurely - reached around Megatron’s shoulders and pulled him in.

The shock of it, the utter surprise and comfort of just being held, all at once, floored Megatron completely. It was so strong that for a moment he just froze. Past this shock, though, he used his mass-displacement to shrink down, to let Minimus hug him more easily.

If Minimus had hoped to soothe Megatron by doing this, it didn’t work. The awkward comfort of the gesture touched him so deeply it unstuck something visceral, a stressed joint – a slipped gear - the lever holding all the hotness back. It was so careful and genuine it broke him, deep inside: as if every cog in him had been pulled loose, as if he wasn’t a person even, anymore, he was heat and shell and a throat.

It wasn’t soothing. But it helped.

In feeling so exposed, Megatron’s old instincts took over. Show weakness? He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. For the sake of propriety he pulled himself together.

“Thank you.” Megatron said, stiffly.

Minimus quickly let go. He sat very awkwardly, very tensely, and very warm beside him. “Don’t mention it.”

“We’ve gotten off topic.”

“We have.”

“What were we talking about?”

“We went off on a tangent…”

“That’s right: an eternity of work.”

“And other things we’d do, if we had the time.”

Such overt emotionality had left Megatron feeling wiped out, but he was still able to recognise this conversational lifeline.

“Like?”

Minimus thought about it, and then said, “I want to visit a professional art gallery again. Not one of those basement-studios you see in bars – no offence to Ten – but a big one, an organised one. But no-one’s built one yet.”

“Oh. A shame.”

“Everyone is too busy, what with Tarn, and rebuilding. Either no-one’s had the time or no-one remembers how. But it would be nice. And Ten could submit his artworks there.”

“That would be nice.” Megatron agreed, knowing full well that organised art galleries were in Autobot City's far off future, in a time when his trial would be distant history.

“Caminus has a couple, I'm sure-”

"-But it wouldn't be the same as having one here." Megatron finished his sentence.

Minimus hummed in agreement. "Exactly."

Megatron said, “One day, we should go to an organised art gallery. Together.”

Minimus was quiet for a while and then agreed, softly, “Yes. That would be nice.”

There wasn’t a clean answer.

But if there was – and Minimus wasn’t saying there was a clean answer – it was no, he and Megatron were not together.

They were just often in the same place.

As for the dates – and Minimus wasn’t calling them dates – those were harder to explain. They made sense at the time.

An outing to a seminar was perfectly rational, as they’d both been looking forward to a speaker. The candlelit evening meal was chosen for privacy, because Megatron – the slagmaker - could hardly walk into a crowded restaurant. And the night at the orchestra, that was just embarrassing. Megatron had bought a ticket for Minimus, and Minimus had bought a ticket for Megatron. A terrible coincidence. They’d had no choice but to go along together.

They’d spent a lot of ‘coincidences’ in each other’s company.

But they weren’t dates. That was forbidden. Because there were a thousand legitimate reasons Minimus Ambus could not be romantically involved with Megatron: he was his guard, his co-worker, and his roommate. And it didn’t matter - they could have dealt responsibly with all of it - except that Megatron didn’t have much time.

There would be a trial. A fair trial, Prime had promised. And no fair trial could fail to execute him for his crimes.

And so while Minimus and Megatron couldn’t be together, together, they could be often in the same place, and go on ‘coincidences’ in their spare time.

“For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne…”

Swerve’s patrons sung loud, off-key, and far too late into the night. It was coming on midnight, and still nobody looked like going home. Nautica, in particular, was having a lot of fun she'd probably regret in the morning. Minimus was keeping half an eye on Rodimus to check the captain had a handle on things. He and Drift swayed together and laughed at the group table. 

But in the background, at the bar, Minimus was wrapped in his own conversation.

“Minimus,” Megatron was saying. “With such overwhelming evidence. How did you not detect that Runabout was flirting with you?”

Minimus struggled to recount the event, which had involved a security guard, a suspicious duck-shaped bag, a high-security building, some very expensive technology, and two minibots named Lug and Anode. The specific details came up blurry. Both he and Megatron had imbibed sensibly, yes, but perhaps Minimus had over-estimated his tolerance.

“The duck.” Minimus enunciated, clearly and slowly. “Was very suspicious. It distracted me. I was distracted. Admittedly, Runabout did shake my hand for more than five seconds-”

“Minimus.”

“I was distracted.”

“You said he complimented your work ethic. Several times.”

“I – yes. Twice.”

“And he frequently made grammatical errors around you.”

“Yes.”

“He invited you to a training seminar.” Megatron repeated, to confirm it.

“I thought it was a professional invitation.”

“He was flirting.”

“He was irritating. Lug and Anode ran off with the duck while I was talking to him at the security gate, and it took me an hour to chase them down-“

“Minimus!” Megatron was looking at him in faint horror. “You distracted the guard?”

Minimus pulled up short. “I – what?“ He reached out and gripped Megatron’s forearm, disorientated. “I did what?”

In the foreground, someone messed up a line, and Rodimus thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He grabbed Drift by the shoulders to hold himself up as they both rocked back and forth in mirth, and Drift reached up to hold his elbows, hold him close. In the foreground, their joy spread out from their bodies to infect everyone in the crowd around them. The rest of the Lost Light laughed loud and bright. But at the bar behind them, Megatron and Minimus sat shoulder to shoulder, and had their quiet background conversation.

“Of course,” Megatron said, seriously, “While I know the technicalities, I am not exactly an ‘experienced flirt’.”

“Likewise,” Minimus said, a little despondently, a little maudlin. “Runabout was flirting with Ultra Magnus. But – hah! – not even that. His idea of Ultra Magnus, based on the one time he fought him. He doesn’t really know me-“ he felt an overwhelming relief, mixed with sadness. “Not – not Minimus. Not me.”

“Minimus, you-“ Megatron began to say something, but stopped himself with a fist pressed to his mouth. His fist creaked as metal clenched. He spoke out. “You don’t seem to realise how attractive you are.”

Minimus choked on his drink.

“Objectively!” Megatron hastily clarified. Minimus could feel his face heating up, but Megatron kept talking. “You are,” he cleared his throat, “an objectively handsome bot. All of you. Not just physically, but. In personality. You’re charming. You don’t seem to realise your own. Ah. Allure.”

Minimus’ face was doubtless a mirror of Megatron’s: he’d never seen anyone so utterly mortified. It was impossible to actually die of shame, and yet, and yet. He wanted to. Megatron looked like he was about to. If this was flirting, Minimus couldn’t see the appeal.

After what seemed like eons, he spoke.

“Dominus was always the charming one.” Minimus croaked. “I’ve never been called a-alluring. Before.”

“I only say it.” Megatron said. “To point out your own internal bias. You think yourself unlikely to be found attractive, and so dismiss the evidence of reality. But you have been tragically misinformed,” he said, as clinically as was physically possible. “It’s a fact: you are exceptionally handsome. Anyone who said otherwise has tragically misinformed you.”

Silence. Megatron tapped his hand against the bar. Stopped himself.

“Handsome.” Minimus said.

“Hm?”

“Am I…?”

“Primus, yes.” Megatron said, with more than professional intensity. “Objectively and inherently. Yes.”

“Hm.”

He - Magnus – Minimus - was attractive. Objectively and inherently. It was a new concept to consider. Certainly worth thinking about.

Alluring.

Hm.

The foreground bar crowd, somehow, made it to the end of the song.

“…We’ll tak a cup of kindness yet

For auld lang syne.”

“That wasn’t too bad.” Drift lied, somewhere behind him.

Minimus could hear the smile in Rodimus’ voice. “Oh, you charmer.”

“But the point of everyone singing together is that it doesn’t matter.”

When Rodimus laughed his whole body leant backward with it. He tilted back his head, and he rocked back on his chair, and just gave himself over completely to laughing. Minimus admired that radiant, open emotionality. And he trusted Rodimus – he felt comfortable leaving him responsible – enough to brush against Megatron’s hand, and say something in an undertone, and finish his drink.

“Rodimus, we’re going home.” Megatron tapped him on the shoulder, making Rodimus turn around mid smile.

“Oh, all right! Thanks for coming – see you in the morning. Probably late. Noon. Let's say noon.”

The city was still in pieces, and during the dark walk back to their apartment, Minimus had to step over chunks of rubble. Tarn’s handiwork. Buildings, when you got down to it, were only so much metal and concrete around a hollow shell. Tarn had deconstructed them so beautifully they were almost like scientific diagrams, autopsies of buildings. One skyscraper hung half over the road, shored up with steel beams. It was a sculpture caught mid-tragedy, frozen before the fall.

Shadowed beneath it, Megatron and Minimus were very small.

Minimus couldn’t help but remember and compare to the last time he’d gone out drinking. Thankfully, tonight was different. He was only lightly tipsy, for one thing. And he wasn’t being carried, for another. But the night sky above was just as dark, and just as huge, and the scattered stars were just as beautiful as they’d been back then.

And Megatron was walking beside him, tall, grey, and stoic. He was familiar with his cane, by now, but still he walked at an unhurried pace. Minimus did not mind.

“Megatron.”

“Hm?” Megatron turned to look down at him, red optics soft.

Minimus brushed the back of his hand against Megatron’s. “It’s a quiet night.”

“Indeed.” Megatron’s expression turned to one of fondness, and he took Minimus’ hand casually in his without breaking stride. “Then again, this street hasn’t any bars.”

“Ah, that explains the quiet. Everyone is somewhere else.”

Megatron chuckled deep in his throat. “Indeed.”

“Would you mind if I sang?”

Megatron’s step stuttered for a moment, but he looked down at Minimus with nothing but rapt attention. “Please.”

The empty street was too great an invitation. Minimus gave in to temptation, and exorcised the song he’d been mentally humming since Rodimus had led the first chorus, back at the bar.

“For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne.

We’ll tak a cup of kindness yet

For days of auld lang syne.”

Megatron breathed deeply. A faint breeze stirred the dark branches somewhere down a side-street.

“Thank you.” Megatron said, quietly. Reverently.

Minimus squeezed his palm in acknowledgement.

“Do you know the Four Acts?” Arcee asked, sitting on a hospital berth. Megatron sat on a chair, beside her, and picked out the appropriate welding tool to use on a knuckle fracture.

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something profane.

“Aileron and me.” Arcee explained. “Conjunx Ritus. She told me something private - the Act of Disclosure – I showed her how to use a sword - Intimacy – and she gave me a creeping crystal. You know. So I could keep something alive, for a nice change. Profference. And when it came my turn to do something spectacular – the Act of Devotion – I thought it would be romantic to punch her boss in the face.”

“I assume you forgot Aileron’s boss is Optimus Prime?” Ratchet said, dryly. He sounded absolutely done with everything.

“I didn’t forget!” Arcee snapped. “She is the one bloody person in this city who hates the Prime. I don’t understand it, but I support it. Damn. She’s just so bitter.” Arcee said ‘bitter’ like it was the sweetest thing she could possibly imagine.

“Your arm?” Megatron asked, politely.

Arcee offered Megatron her right wrist, which hung limp, and was broken at the knuckles.

“Prime was quite sweet about it, though.” Arcee said, casually, while Megatron re-aligned the broken struts. “He apologised. Said I could try again once my hand was fixed. Said we could stage a proper confrontation, even, if I wanted.”

Megatron bit his lip in quiet amusement, imagining Prime in a fake altercation. He could see it all too well, unfortunately, and for all the wrong reasons. Prime was far too genuine to make a convincing liar. Whenever he tried, his body language froze up, and his sentences came out stilted, as if he was reciting lines from a script. A fake fight would play out like an over-the-top wrestling match. Fun to watch - but not very convincing.

No, Prime couldn’t lie. But on the other hand, he could refrain from telling the truth with bedrock conviction, and had fooled Megatron on multiple occasions.

“Cheers, Meg.” Arcee hopped off the berth. “See you, Ratchet.”

“Yeah, yeah. Try to take care of yourself, kid.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

Once Arcee had gone, Ratchet turned to Megatron.

“Getting better. You’re still a bit slow, but better slow than sloppy.”

“Thank you.”

Ratchet ducked the gratitude with a grumbled ‘yeah, yeah’. “So long as Arcee’s around, you’ll always have practice with asshole fractures.”

Megatron blinked wide-eyed at the profanity. “’What’ fractures?”

“Those two knuckles? That specific break comes from a punch. You get a lot of assholes on a Friday night with their knuckles broken like that.”

“Oh.” Megatron nodded in relieved understanding. “As in ‘contemptible person’. I see.”

“What? –Did you think?” Ratchet shook his head and cleared his throat. “Anyway. Don’t feel obliged to stick around. Your shift ended half-an-hour ago.”

Megatron stood up partly with the help of the nearby berth. Ratchet eyed his bad knee suspiciously, but relaxed when Megatron picked up his cane.

“I mean it, Ratchet.” Megatron gave him a serious look. “Thank you.”

Ratchet started to grumble again, but broke off, and sighed. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. Now go on, shoo.”

Megatron lingered just a moment, just to make sure. “You’re taking tomorrow off, aren’t you?”

“You can call me at any time.” Ratchet pointed a finger sternly. “For anything. I’d rather you asked, than if you made a mistake.”

The corners of Megatron’s mouth curved in a smile. “Enjoy your break, Ratchet.”

“Anytime.” Ratchet emphasised, as Megatron walked out the door. “For anything!”

Megatron held up a hand in farewell as he made his way carefully up the stairs to the fifth floor. It had taken Ratchet ages to approach the idea of a ‘break’ with anything other than suspicion, and longer still to trust Megatron in the medibay on his own. But even if Ratchet was too much of a workaholic to relax properly, and called Megatron every hour for a medibay update, it was still a step forward. Eventually, maybe, Ratchet might even sleep in a proper habsuite - instead of in a cot, in the medibay office.

There was a first time for everything.

Magnus had an office, now.

It had a desk. It had a holo-board. And best of all – it had a door with a lock.

He was currently making the most of all three, as part of the Mederi investigation, with a wonderfully informative lecture on Froid. Magnus loved details. He loved delving into the relevance of a semi-colon, and small technicalities. It made him an excellent lawyer. First class. But as a teacher?

A hungover Nautica had fallen asleep on Nightbeat’s shoulder.

“Nightbeat.” Magnus whispered, chastising. “Nightbeat! Wake her up!”

Nightbeat spread his hands helplessly.

Nautica snored.

“This is important!”

Nightbeat winced painfully at the loudness, and put a finger to his lips.

“Fine-“ Magnus fumed – but quietly, so as not to disturb her. “She can read the notes later. How does that sound?”

In the back corner, Airachnid held up a pad, where she’d written the word ‘Terrific’. For a psychopath, she had beautiful handwriting.

“Thank you. Now,” Magnus was unused to whispering. His usual monotone was suited for one volume, and one volume only: sonorous. In fact, the only time he spoke quietly was when reading his poetry aloud to Megatron. “Now. While Froid acted clueless, we can of course assume he was acting-“

“No. No.” Nightbeat whispered his deductions carefully. “There’s more to this. What if Froid is genuinely clueless - what he’s a red herring? A scapegoat? What if he and Sunder are being set up to take the fall?”

Airachnid’s eyes glittered. She quickly scribbled something on her pad, and spun it around. In beautiful serifs, she declared Nightbeat’s theory ‘Radiant’.

Magnus was hesitant to accept it. “But Sunder is – was - a world class mnemosurgeon. No one else could have…”

“Forget that for the moment." Nightbeat whispered. "Let’s talk about the mnemosurgery. Why would they need to download a lifetime of memory? It’s overkill. It’s not vital to those illusions. So why? Because - for whatever reason - they needed those memories. And the basement spark, true, it could be used as a bomb to hold the city hostage. But you’d do more damage if you pointed a gun at Metroplex’s spark. Have you ever thought about what would happen if Metroplex died?” Nightbeat was on a roll. “Really thought about it? His root-mines are our primary source of fuel – no fuel means restrictions – restrictions mean conflict. Metroplex is all that stands between us and a full-blown resource war.”

“Your point?”

“Why make a second spark? Why make two bombs? Unless it’s not a bomb. Unless it’s a battery.”

Airachnid made a shushing motion.

Magnus frowned in bemusement. “But what is it for? Nightbeat? To what purpose?”

“And that, Magnus, is the million dollar question.” Nightbeat’s optics flared. ”Why.”

“Mrfmm.” Nautica said, blearily.

Nightbeat’s face immediately fell as he realised he’d woken Nautica with his theorising. She blinked awake, bemused, and lifted her head off Nightbeat’s shoulder. “Wh’d I miss?”

Nightbeat’s hand hovered over her head as if he wanted to pat it, but he drew back awkwardly. “I cracked the case wide open.”

Airachnid spun around a sign that said ‘Humble’.

“Nautica, I’ll write you a summary.” Magnus said, at his normal volume. “Nightbeat, that’s a wonderful theory, but it would be better if it was supported by tangible evidence. I think that’s us for today, so if there are any questions – no? I’ll see you tomorrow. See you tomorrow.”

Magnus sat down at his desk and started to write up his report, as Nautica and Nightbeat filed out. Gradually, he became aware of a very eerie feeling, as if he was forgetting something. He felt his armour-plating rise.

He looked up.

Airachnid was standing in front of his desk, completely silent, staring at him in a decidedly creepy way. It was a scientific stare. As if Magnus was a turbo-rat in a maze, or an experiment subject – or a thing – as if he wasn’t a person at all.

Her head tilted to one side.

“When are you going after Tarn, Magnus?”

Magnus didn’t meet her hollow eyes. “Sunder is the priority.”

“Darling, I love the ghost hotel.” Airachnid shook her head dramatically. “But is it more dangerous than Tarn, crying down in Metroplex’s root-mines? He’s a devastated, heartbroken mech. And we both know sad and desperate people can do dangerous things.”

Magnus shuddered: both at the guilt-trip, and because what she was implying could all too easily happen.

“Tarn is wounded. He poses no threat.” His desk fascinated Magnus. Airachnid’s emotionless stare was like a sandblaster; something about it stripped away all edifices, all untruths. “I have other priorities.” He reiterated.

She stared.

“Tarn is wounded.” Magnus said feebly. “Sunder is the bigger threat.”

Airachnid nodded in grim acknowledgement. “You’re sure? Well, darling, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

This, coming from a fateweaver – a prophet - was almost enough to give Magnus chills. He didn’t relax until Airachnid had left his office, and she’d closed the door behind her. Only then did he shudder.

Magnus was very, very glad to have an office he could lock. In fact, he was about to stand up and do so, when there came a polite knock.

Just once.

An informal request.

“Ah.” Magnus relaxed. “Come in, Megatron.”

Megatron shut and locked the door behind him.

It wasn’t just about privacy. When work discussions could last hours – at a minimum – it paid to prevent interruptions.

They had their usual evening talks in the apartment living room.

Megatron never got tired of the view. The window took up the entire wall, thick glass that gave a panoramic view of Autobot City at night. The dark swept over Metroplex, calm and warm, and although the city never slept, it had moments where it was - almost - peaceful. There were actually stars outside. But it was still an evening talk. It was still their usual ritual.

“May I ask what you meant in your memo, earlier?” Megatron asked. “‘If I fail in my duty, I fail in my identity’?”

“I meant that I take my duty seriously.” Minimus answered. “Why?”

“Only it sounds a little egotistical, to be honest.”

“Egotistical! Well I never thought of it like that. It is, I suppose.”

“Minimus. A job is just a job. It has no reflection on your personal value, should you fail.”

Minimus shook his head. “I disagree: a job is not just a job. When you are responsible for lives, you cannot waive responsibility by saying ‘it’s just a job’. If it is a heavy role you must bear the weight. If you can’t, you aren’t worthy to bear the role.”

“True,” Megatron said, “and vividly phrased. But within your role, if you’ve done all you can, if you’ve done your job to completion and beyond, and you still fail in your duty… does that still make you unworthy?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that attitude a little extreme?”

Minimus fidgeted, looking away. “It’s hard to explain but… for those times when I did all I could and things still ended badly… I have to believe I’m to blame, rather than the law. Or else what would be the point?”

“It’s all right to acknowledge the law is fallible. For those times, I would say, forgive yourself.”

“And you’d be a hypocrite to say so.”

Megatron almost laughed. “True!”

There was something to be said for these frank discussions between them. They could start from the smallest thing. One of them would make an offhand comment, and the other would put more thought into a response than strictly necessary, and the other would read into that more than was strictly necessary. This would be followed by assumptions, misunderstandings, rewording the same sentence over and over to check they were both on the same page; and only after about ten minutes of debating definitions would they realise they’d been in agreement all along. There was nothing better.

Best of all was when one of them introduced a new topic in the middle of discussion. Inevitably, Megatron said something in relation to Topic A, and Minimus took it in relation to Topic B, or vice versa. For example: one time Megatron had said the visual form of a letter was implicitly tied to its meaning, and Minimus - who had already moved onto the importance of good handwriting - thought Megatron was speaking self-deprecatingly of his own frenzied scrawl. Once they’d worked out the misunderstanding it was quite humorous!

Really? Others would ask, dryly. Is it really that humorous?

A lot of voices asked a similar question of Megatron, and they asked it in a million different ways. The voices of his past. Late at night, they’d begun to sound like Tarn, insidious whispers coming up from the dark potential of his soul.

'Are you satisfied with this? Is this really enough for you, when you were once a warlord, when you once held the sun in the palm of your hand? You were once great! Where’s your rage now? You were monstrous! You were ruthless! You’d have sacrificed anything, gone anywhere, you’d have seen the imperfections of the world and burned it down to be born anew! Are you really happy sitting here, legs crossed, with your bad knee going to sleep?'

‘Are you really satisfied with this?’

But the whispers were ghosts: that was the whole point. They blew away like smoke in the daylight.

And the sun wasn’t something you held in the palm of your hand: it was something that came up every morning, and you were grateful it did.

Every day, he was grateful.

“Noted. Thank you,” Megatron said, as Minimus had just made a good point. “I never thought of it that way…”

'Is this really enough?' Tarn's voice asked him. 'There will be a trial – a fair trial – and no fair trial will fail to execute you for your crimes. You don’t have much time. Is this really how you want to spend it? Talking?'

Yes. By now Megatron had heard the question a million times, a million different ways, but every time the answer was always the same. Yes.

Ah, except for one thing. There was one thing left he wanted: and it was bitterly impossible. After all, an eternity of work was by definition, incompatible with a finite deadline. Forbidden. So Megatron didn't have an eternity with Minimus, and he’d accepted that. But he was making the most of the time he had.

“Ah,” Minimus blinked. “I have work to do…”

“Would you like company?” Megatron asked.

“I would. But it’s a lot of work.” Minimus warned.

“You said.”

“It will probably be a late night.”

“I expect as much.”

“It’s mostly filing. Statements. Claims. Letters. There’s always tomorrow.”

Megatron made a joke. “Today is the perfect time to do the work. What is our alternative? Postpone it? It’s ironic,” he clarified, “because we obviously shouldn’t postpone it.”

Minimus covered his mouth as he smiled. “Most amusing. It’s also a clever pun, you see, on account of the ‘post’ in ‘postpone’, which references the letters I have to ‘mail’.”

“Ha! I didn’t even think of that. Well spotted!”

It ended up being a very late night. Things to file. Things to sign. Things to read – which when Minimus was reading, he’d clumsily spin his pen on one hand, and on one occasion it flew across the desk. There were a lot of files, and requests, and claims, and letters. The work was deeply fulfilling. Extremely tedious. There was nothing better.

This was Megatron’s impossible desire: a quiet life beside Minimus. An eternity of work.

Every now and again Megatron could look up and see, lit warmly by the lamplight, dear Minimus working industriously across from him.

What he didn’t see was, that every now and again, Minimus would look at him in the exact same way.

“It would be nice,” Minimus said, offhand. “To go somewhere informative, though, don’t you think?”

“It would be nice.” Megatron agreed. “And if we went to the museum together next weekend, it wouldn’t be a date.”

”It couldn’t be.”

”Exactly. It would be a... an educational excursion.”

”Oh!” Minimus’ face lit up. “Yes, wonderfully phrased. Start at say – eleven?”

”I was thinking mid-afternoon. That way we can-

“-have dinner afterwards, yes, that sounds nice. Somewhere with soft lighting?” Minimus suggested.

Megatron nodded. “It’s truly appalling how many restaurants have harsh lighting, these days.”

“And nowhere popular, obviously. Just a nice evening somewhere…” Minimus trailed off.

Megatron finished his sentence for him. “...Private.”

“Yes.”

“And of course in no way could this be romantically construed.”

“Exactly. Next weekend.”

People didn't usually get what they deserved. They got the consequences of their actions - and nothing more. There was no justice in the world. No inherent fairness. But this - here and now - was already more than Megatron deserved. Was he satisfied? Yes. He really was.

Megatron finished off a form, and passed it across the table for Minimus to sign. “Thank you for the invitation.”

As he took the paperwork, Minimus’ hand brushed against Megatron’s.

The touch lingered a little more than it needed to. 

Minimus' voice was warm. “Thank you for accepting it.”

Chapter Text

The thing is, Nightbeat was right.

About the Metroplex thing – ‘you’d do more damage if you just pointed a gun at Metroplex’s spark’. He was right about that. Metroplex fuelled the city. With him dead, well… it wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for sure.

Autobot City was glass-fragile, but a resource war would really push them off the edge.

For the curious, here is how it would look:

If there was no fuel, Prowl, or someone, would prescribe rations divided equally among Metroplex’s citizens. He would impose restrictions. And this being Prowl, or someone, those restrictions would start to look stricter and stricter and to everybody on the margins it wouldn’t be a pretty picture: starvation a little at a time, bit by itty bit under the heel of the authoritarian Autobot regime. There would be a revolution. Prime would almost welcome it; he’d be relieved to be freed of the terrible responsibility of so many slow deaths. And there would be a war. Would it be more merciful? Do not go gentle, they said. At least if you died in war, you died in immolation, burning up for a cause bigger than yourself. At least it wasn’t dying lonely and small, an insignificant blip on the abacus of resource allocation - or not even that: dying under clerical error, the decimal on your ration being off by the tiniest measure, doomed to starvation by mistake…

Autobot City would be staring down the barrel of that final certainty today.

Except for Metroplex.

Metroplex had already thought all this out, you see. If your average Cybertronian brain was a puddle, the mind of a Titan was an ocean, and here’s how it worked: that within that vast mess of memory was the history of a civilisation, and within that massive imagination every possible outcome. He knew the city was terribly fragile. He knew that a resource war, yes, that would really push them off the edge. Who could really tell the future? If you’d seen enough of history, hell - you could hazard a decent guess.

That was what it was all about, really.

Resources. Fuel.

How did Metroplex manage it?

(But a warning to the curious - this was the part that made Windblade cry if you asked her.)

Metroplex’s veins had been small at first. Just here and there, hair-thin capillaries snaking out from the seams of his deepest bedrock joints. Seeking out energon deposits in the lower strata of the earth, deeper than the deepest mines, to places untouched since the earth was newly-molten. But it had been his choice! He’d chosen to displace half his circulatory system, to support the city with his life, he’d chosen to put out arteries like roots. Because Metroplex was an Autobot, remember? He was the Autobot: Autobot City. He listened very carefully, very slowly, to Prime’s talk of freedom and selflessness and kindness, and like a volcano growing up from the bottom of the ocean, bit by itty bit, he’d formed a sense of integrity the size of a mountain. And like a mountain, he would never move again.

He’d put out a thousand energon root-mines to fuel the city, a web of veins underground, more of them outside his armour than inside his actual body.

Metroplex was now so firmly rooted into the ground, that to tug free would bleed him to death. Those were the facts of it. Not pretty.

He would never transform again. He would never walk again. He would never move again.

He was Autobot City.

Now, and forever.

The point was, though, that because of his selfless, Autobot sacrifice, they had enough fuel to support everybody! And so the fragile peace held - because nobody would be so phenomenally mad as to uproot the guy keeping them all alive. Right? You’d have to be mad. Or sad. Or desperate.

You’d have to have nothing left to lose.

For the curious: no, Tarn wasn’t dead.

Tarn was mad, and sad, and desperate, but he was alive. And a reminder: sad and desperate people could be very, very dangerous.

There was, in the depths, a raw and wounded thing. It howled in the deepest root-mines of Autobot City, and sobbed itself to sleep. Down in the bowels of the Titan it festered, and cried, and planned. He was the last one - the rest of the DJD had been taken care of. Put to sleep. Executed. Legally, impersonally, and righteously - high command had had the meeting, and they’d all signed the paperwork. Paperwork was important! Paperwork meant it wasn’t murder, because look, everyone signed it, everyone agreed.

So no, Tarn wasn’t dead.

Tarn was sad, and mad, and desperate, but he was alive.

And he had nothing left to lose.

Magnus ducked his head and tried not to flinch at every ‘plink!’ of dripping energon. He tried not to think about where he was: a dark, echoing sewer tunnel. He tried not to think about what he was stepping in, and failed on all three counts.

“Ugh,” Magnus said, to relieve some of his feelings.

“Ew,” he added, for good measure.

And then, “Eugh.”

Ultra Magnus walked down into Metroplex’s maintenance tunnels, trying not to step on anything and trying not to breathe. According to Froid, Sunder was hiding out down here. And so here they were, him and Nautica and the rest of the team, chasing a murderous mnemosurgeon down in the bowels of the city with the sound of their footsteps following them like ghosts.

With the sewage.

And the recycled energon.

Yuck.

From a neighbouring tunnel, the echoes of a conversation carried.

“I’m hoping we trip over Tarn’s corpse.” Nightbeat was rambling. “That’d be great. Not having to worry about him, anymore. That’d be easy. We find his evil corpse sprawled out down in the depths, and we go home and put Megatron on trial, and it’s happy endings all – er, wait - did you hear that? Did that sound like a fusion cannon to you-?”

Nautica cut him off sympathetically. “Nightbeat, quit flipping out for five seconds, okay?”

“I’m sorry! It’s just, I can’t stop thinking about it, is all. If Froid is a decoy, then what do you think is really going on? A ghost hotel, a missing murderer - like, why download people’s memories? Why drain their spark energy? What’s the motive?”

“Yeah.” Where Nightbeat was buzzing with energy, Nautica just sounded tired. “And Sunder-”

“See, I really thought he was dead!”

“Ghosts all round.”

There was a long pause, and the sound of a rock being kicked into a puddle.

Nautica spoke up again, as if she couldn’t quite help herself. “There has to be a motive. Right?”

“Why?”

“Or – I don’t know. It’d feel pointless.”

“That’s just it.” The detective told her. “It is pointless. People die in war, and in peace, and it’s nearly always completely arbitrary.”

“There’s a motive,” she said, stubbornly.

“This time, absolutely. But we won’t feel any better for knowing it.”

“Then why chase mysteries? To stop anyone else dying?”

“Mostly, I just like the chase…”

It was at this point that Magnus walked face-first into a friendly cobweb, and spent the next ten minutes sputtering and trying to scrape it off his face. After this little field trip, his armour was slated for thirteen successive fumigations.

And an acid bath. Eugh. Two acid baths.

“Psst.”

Magnus’ pistons were playing up. There was no way he could’ve heard-

“Psst.”

He looked down.

A pair of feline eyes regarded him eerily. The cat was a black silhouette in the gloom, a patch of darker darkness in the void. Ravage regarded him with red, glowing optics, and vanished off along a side-corridor Magnus hadn’t noticed. A little way along, he stopped and looked back. His tail lashed from side to side: this was the only sign of his impatience.

“Do you want to show me something?” Magnus felt a strange mix of horror and excitement.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Ravage drawled. “Yes. This way, you big, brainless Autobot.”

“But Nightbeat – the others-“

“Call for backup later. Come on.”

Magnus went. It wasn’t like he had a choice, really.

He followed Ravage down the corridor, two staircases, and a sloped sewage tunnel that made him gag, and which automatically scheduled an extra acid bath for his poor armor. He stumbled down the last flight in a clatter of limbs, landed heavily, and got his weapons up primed for a fight that-

Wasn’t going to happen, it looked like.

Ravage had led him out onto an entirely open space. A little sunlight crept down through a hole in the middle of the ceiling. Magnus checked his Autobot Positioning System – on a map, they were directly underneath the Mederi hotel. But there was nothing here except cobwebs.

“Where-?” Magnus asked.

Then he realised, the faint light creeping into the space - it wasn’t sunlight.

It was spark-light.

When he looked up into the ceiling, far above, he could see the Mederi basement. He could see the massive ball of harvested spark-energy, and he could see it pulsing erratically, like a tiny star, far above. The massive battery. Metroplex massive. And there were these thick power lines clamped onto it, these massive cables, which snaked down past Magnus, down into a deeper pit, further down into the heart of Metroplex…

“What?” Magnus frowned, and stopped trying to make sense of the strange cables. Nautica would know. His concern was the criminal he’d come down here chasing.

Anyway, the question he should’ve asked was ‘Why?’

Motive, motive.

“Magnus! There you are.”

In her spider alt-mode Airachnid skittered out of the ceiling hole above him. She was moving slowly - stiffly - jerkily. She'd been sick, lately, and probably she shouldn't have come on the mission, but none of them had the courage to tell her 'no'. 

“You know these cables go all the way down to Metroplex’s spark chamber? I checked. It’s fascinating. Where’s Nautica, behind you? I want to hear what she thinks.”

“Er.” Magnus felt awkward admitting that he’d run off alone, chasing Ravage. “She’s on her way.”

“She’ll be able to appreciate this, don’t you fret.” Airachnid clicked her mandibles at him soothingly, and tap-tapped her way gingerly over the cables. Magnus shuddered instinctively. Quietly, he messaged Nautica with his location, and relaxed at the little ‘ping!’ of a message received. The sooner the others found him, the better.

“So?” Ravage said.

“So?”

“Your murderous mnemosurgeon. You’re welcome.”

“Oh. Er. Airachnid is – she’s helping the investigation. It’s true that as a fateweaver on Eukaris, she was arrested and exiled for unethical experiments-“

“Are you actually brainless?” Ravage looked at him with such pure and complete contempt, Magnus shut up. “I hate having to spell it out for you. Look around. Notice anything strange?”

Magnus re-examined the wide-open space. Apart from the cobwebs and the cables, it looked exactly the same as every other maintenance junction in the underground system of tunnels – except, wait. What was that? Over on the far wall, partially obscured by shadows and cobwebs he could see what looked like…

Well, it looked like a corpse.

Magnus looked down at Ravage in sudden hesitation. He sensed that once he walked over there, he’d face a realisation, and he didn’t want to reckon with reality just yet.

Ravage looked up at him with no sympathy whatsoever. “Well? Don’t you want to find out?”

“I won’t – get hurt, will I?”

“It already hurts.” Ravage said. “You might as well make it worth it.” And he vanished into the dark.

Magnus approached the corpse reluctantly. There was no sound but the plink of dripping liquids echoing down distant pipes. It was a big, evil-looking bot. He’d slumped against the far wall, a pool of dried blood mingling with the recycled sewage on the floor beneath him. His face was hidden. His paint was grey. The corpse wasn’t looking at Ultra Magnus, it was looking off to the side, and everything had gone terribly dark and still.

“Airachnid.” Magnus said, hoarsely.

“Yes, dear?” Airachnid said, distantly.

“I found a corpse.”

“Ooh, lovely!” and she was at his side in a blink, because Airachnid was a psychopath, and always a sucker for a good corpse. “Who?”

The corpse grinned humourlessly. It was a death-rictus, the face frozen in the moment a spark left the body. His eyes were rotten holes. His teeth were rusted. His head was concave-shaped, like a radio satellite, and there were cobwebs strung between the mnemosurgical claws of his stiff, dead hands.

“Sunder.” Airachnid confirmed it.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand… did Tarn kill him? This makes no sense.”

Airachnid looked up at Magnus. Her eyes glittered, dark and hollow. “Tarn? You think Tarn did this? But there’s no marks.”

“Tarn’s voice can stop a spark - er, that is, he talks people to death.”

“He’s not the only one.” Airachnid grumbled, which was a definite dig at Magnus’ soporific oratory skills.

Magnus rallied. “Besides - who else could have defeated such a powerful mnemosurgeon?”

Airachnid’s eyes flashed with a strange and sudden fury. But in the next blink it was gone, and she was frowning coldly down at the corpse again. “No matter how good you are,” she mused, almost to herself, “I suppose there’s always someone better…”

“This doesn’t make any sense. If Sunder’s dead - if he’s here - then who do I arrest?” Magnus clenched his fists. “What do I do, if Sunder’s dead?”

Airachnid’s eyes glittered. “Do you want to know the future, Minimus Ambus?”

“Don’t call me that while I’m in my armour.”

“You have to hunt down Tarn now. No more excuses. No more hiding.”

Magnus didn’t answer.

He didn’t want to answer.

“You have to hunt down Tarn. He’s wounded and desperate – if you take back-up, it’ll be easy to kill him. And once you do, Megatron won’t need your protection anymore. They’ll put him on trial. And you know what they’ll do then, don’t you?”

“I know,” Magnus said, in a futile attempt to stop her talking.

“They’ll kill him.” Airachnid said, with relish. “No fair trial could fail to execute him for his crimes. Are you ready to watch him die, Minimus Ambus?”

“Don’t-“

Call me that while I’m in my armour, Magnus tried to say, but his voice died in his throat. Only he calls me that while I’m in my armour.

Even in death, Sunder grinned, but there was no fun in it.

“My database is monstrous, darling. I’ve downloaded a thousand years of memories. I’ve pieced it all together. Who can really tell the future? If you’ve seen enough of history, hell - you can hazard a decent guess. I’m the only fateweaver who ever saw the full shape of the tapestry and do you know what I discovered?” Airachnid smiled sadly up at Magnus. “Prophecy is useless! The best way to predict the future, my dear, is to create it.”

It was at this point that Nautica came stumbling down the far staircase, making a lot of noise and not really caring, ready for a fight that wasn’t going to happen. If there had actually been a murderous mnemosurgeon waiting to pounce, Nautica probably would have died. When she saw the giant cables running down the centre of the space, she didn’t even scan the room.

“Nautica!” Airachnid made a beeline for Nautica. She half-transformed to let her extra legs suspend her off the ground and skittered around the engineer in manic excitement. “You know these power lines go all the way down to Metroplex’s spark chamber?”

“His spark chamber?”

“I checked! It’s fascinating! The effort involved-! You can appreciate it, right?”

Nautica, however, ignored her in favour of the cables. Airachnid realised she wasn’t getting any appreciation, and scuttled off somewhere to sulk. Nightbeat came down the staircase behind at a more sedate pace. He nodded at Magnus and made his way over.

“Sunder?”

“Dead.” Magnus confirmed.

Nightbeat tapped his chin. “…unexpected.”

“Pardon?”

“This is unexpected. Did injecting finally catch up with him? Did Tarn talk him to death? Or was it – hmm. Was it something else?”

“What else could have defeated such a powerful mnemosurgeon?”

“Hmm.” Nightbeat tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing. Don’t mind me. It’s just all these inconsistencies are nagging at me, and I can’t stop thinking… who first suggested Sunder as a suspect?”

“I believe it was you, Nightbeat. We all agreed that he was the only mnemosurgeon good enough to download so many memories.”

“What if – ugh, I hate admitting it – what if I was wrong? You’re the lawyer, Magnus do we have any evidence? Proof?”

“Honestly, Nightbeat. You were there when Airachnid showed us the Mederi code.”

“Okay. And Magnus - one last thing. What kind of psychopath would want to save Metroplex?”

“Save him? Hmm. True, I suppose all of us rely on Metroplex – even psychopaths. Someone with a saviour complex, perhaps. Someone with good intentions. Hmm. You don’t think – surely Prowl isn’t involved?”

“Not Prowl, no.” Nightbeat was watching something at the other end of the room, and his gaze was still and dark. “I think that’s all. I think I’ve figured everything out. The giant ball of harvested spark energy hooked up to Metroplex’s spark… the downloaded memories… why Froid didn’t know anything… yes, it all makes sense now. I just don’t know the motive. Why…?”

Magnus stared at him. “Well?”

“What?”

“You’re not going to explain?”

“It’s not obvious?”

“No! And considering the effort we’ve gone to for this investigation, your smug reticence is nothing short of-“

“No motive yet. I don’t know why. Give me time to sort it out. Anyway, don’t you want me to save the details for my final report? A wall of text, nine-point font, single-spaced, supplemented with evidence and footnotes…?”

Magnus paused. “You - er – well, when you put it like that. Thank you, Nightbeat.”

“It’s been good working with you, Magnus.”

“I…” Magnus felt a little teary-eyed. “I have also found our professional partnership to be productive.”

At this overt display of sentimentality Nightbeat reached up to Magnus’ elbow and went to pat him in a comrade-like manner, but then saw the layer of thin sewer-grime covering the armour, and thought better of it. His hand hovered sympathetically for a second. Magnus cleared his throat. Nightbeat pulled back.

“So… how does a shower sound?” Nightbeat suggested awkwardly.

“Oh, Primus.” If he’d been there to hear it, Magnus’ raw relieved groan would’ve made Megatron blush. “Please.”

If somebody had walked into the Lost Light medibay at that moment, it would have looked like Megatron was arguing with himself. In actuality, he was arguing on the phone with Ratchet, and he was having a very good time. He paced the length of the medibay at a sedate speed, cane in hand, and carefully didn’t smile as Ratchet informed him of his idiocy. He was getting the hang of the cane now. At this point, it felt weird walking around without it. It did mean he couldn’t run anymore, but that was all right too, because Megatron didn’t really feel comfortable running around these days. There was the scary thought that if he fell, his bad knee really wouldn’t like it.

“No, no.” Ratchet said, somehow managing to glower over the phone. “If you’d already washed him in anti-bacterial nutrients then he wouldn’t be infected.”

“I did, and he still is. Which means the rust-sores are a symptom of something else.”

“Such as…?”

“I’ll keep him in the nutro-bath - it won’t help it but it’ll halt it, which gives us time to find a tissue donor and inject it into his core distributor. Crosscut is also vitreous negative. He’s Ammo’s friend.” Megatron added. “He’ll help.”

“Why would you need a - no, you don’t think…?”

“It’s been months and he’s still not responding to the sub-zero nutro-bath. He’s recently undergone unsanitary trauma. And check his file – he’s got a history of CG.”

“Corrodia Gravis?”

“I still have to run a test.”

“CG?”

“And I’ll keep Ammo in the nutro-bath. It won’t help it but it’ll halt it.”

“Megatron.” Ratchet sounded extremely tetchy. “I know you’ve read a lot of fancy medical journals and articles and such. But if someone’s arm hurts, we don’t immediately assume it’s a symptom of spark-failure. It might be, down the line - but first we check the arm’s not broken. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now go run a test for CG.” Ratchet couldn’t hide the reluctant approval in his voice. “Just because you’re possibly right this time, that doesn’t mean you should jump to conclusions in the future.”

“Okay. Thank you Ratchet.”

As he hung up, Megatron couldn’t help but feel touched by those words – ‘in the future’! This, coming from ‘he’s evil and he’ll always be evil’ Ratchet. This, coming from the one guy everybody on both sides respected for his medical expertise. That Ratchet – thought he had promise, thought he had a future as a doctor! Maybe it wasn’t possible to dam a river of guilt with pebbles. But a million little moments could still change the course of the stream until it was something almost manageable – after a million years of saving lives, maybe then he’d almost be a salvageable person. It wasn’t impossible. A future, Ratchet said!

Well, if it weren’t for the trial, at least.

But it still meant a lot to Megatron that he’d said it.

Megatron fanned himself with a hand. Lately, the medibay seemed to be fluctuating between hot and cold at the drop of a hat. It wasn’t good for the patients. He’d have to talk to Ratchet about getting it fixed, at some point, because honestly it was only getting worse. And his knee was giving him trouble when it shouldn’t, and a million other little aches and pains had raised their heads….

And mainly, Megatron just wanted to complain to someone.

He checked the time – hmm, it’d be a while yet before Magnus came back from his little underground sewer-trip. And it’d still be hours after that before the armour was fumigated. But, say, if he let it soak in a weak acid bath, that could sit until tomorrow, and if Megatron finished on time without any surprise last-minute patients, perhaps their schedules would match up in the evening? Which was only two hours and thirty minutes away, no time at all, and it’d mean Minimus would walk through the door behind him as he was staring out the window.

That would only happen if he left the armour behind, but Megatron had hopes that he would. Minimus was willing to open up more often these days. A lot more. It was, Megatron reflected, a truly admirable thing, and honestly surprising that no-one else had noticed.

Minimus dropped his armour off in his office, and set it up to soak overnight in the decontamination chamber that Brainstorm had made him for the exact purpose.

Nautica tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ah- yes, Nautica?”

She fidgeted, clearly unwilling to ask. “About the investigation…”

“Yes, it’s over.” Minimus confirmed. But Nautica still wasn’t saying anything, and so he took the opportunity to extrapolate. “Well, not officially. It’s just a matter of Nightbeat’s final report, and then I can put together the court case.“

Nautica nodded unhappily. Minimus got the sense that she still hadn’t asked what she really wanted to, but he didn’t know how to approach the topic. What was the right thing to say? What closure could he give her? Sometimes investigations ended on a troubling note, and there was nothing he could do. That was how it was. What could Minimus possibly say to Nautica to soothe an unsatisfying reality? He nodded awkwardly and made a hasty exit.

“It’s just sad, isn’t it?”

Minimus froze. “Pardon?”

“Sad and pointless. I thought Mederi was a ghost story, you know – or a big mystery, like Nightbeat does – but it’s just sad. What do you think about it?”

Minimus turned around, but he couldn’t look Nautica in the eye. “I try not to.”

“Ghosts aren’t the real horror, are they? It’s not – something we can fight, is it? It’s too big. Death on an executive scale. Hotel rooms full of all those lost people, and it ends with just – a dead murderer? It just doesn’t feel… just.”

This conversation was exactly what Minimus had feared. He desperately wanted to make an excuse and escape, because he had no clue how to explain that this sort of dissatisfaction – that this wasn’t even the worst of it. That this was a happy ending, more or less. They’d found the accomplice, they’d found the criminal, and they would bury the bodies. That was winning, more or less. It was better than the thousands of cases Minimus had seen, all the same sad stories, where you knew who the criminal was but you just couldn’t touch them, even though the bodies piled up in their wake…

Criminals like Megatron, for example.

There had to be some justice in the world, or else what was it all for?

“Why? That’s all I want to know.” Nautica sighed. “It doesn’t feel right.”

And then Minimus did a very brave thing. He patted Nautica awkwardly on the shoulder.

“No.” Minimus agreed, with devastating honesty. “It doesn’t.”

Nautica snorted. “Comforting.”

“I’m not good at – I’m trying. Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s true. But I do understand, and if you want to – er – talk. I’m. Well, I’m usually in my office-”

Nautica’s expression grew more and more pained the longer he kept talking. “Cheers.” she said, seriously, once he shut up. “I appreciate it.”

It was far too friendly-casual for Minimus to feel truly comfortable. It didn’t have the formal simplicity of ‘noted, with thanks’. But it was a thesaurus away from something nearly similar, and it gave him the first spark of hope that afterwards – after the trial – he might not be completely alone.

That evening, Megatron stood at the window and stared out into the night. He heard the apartment door open behind him, right on time.

“Minimus.” Megatron said warmly, without needing to look around. He knew well those measured footsteps. Without so much as a greeting, Minimus joined him at the window, folded his arms behind his back, and didn’t meet Megatron’s worried gaze.

“Sunder is dead,” Minimus said, which was a hell of an opening statement.

Megatron felt very cold. Perhaps it was these hot-cold flushes he’d been getting, but his hands went numb, and he had to rub them together to warm himself up again. He regarded the peaceful city below.

“My trial is upon us, then.”

“I want to be orator for the defense.” Minimus said, quickly. “I wouldn’t let anyone else – I mean – there must be justice, you know.”

“I know.”

Megatron was unsure if comfort would be welcomed. In the end he just changed the subject. “How did you find my vacuuming, yesterday?”

“I have no negative comments.” Minimus said, which from him, was high praise. “I’m glad to see you did not neglect the skirting board.”

“You pointed out before that dust tends to accumulate there.”

“I know. I’m – glad you remembered.”

Minimus averted his gaze, embarrassed perhaps, at expressing emotion so easily. Megatron looked down at him. Minimus seemed sad, and serious, but mostly resigned. He was really quite a handsome bot, Megatron mused. Just as he was thinking this, Minimus glanced up.

Megatron quickly examined the city view. Far away, the desert was sprinkled with gravestones, and closer, Metroplex’s skyscrapers rose up out of the smaller, more solid buildings. Metroplex was a galaxy of window lights. Each little glow was a sign of life: like a thousand distant sparks, like a thousand little stars.

Gravestones and stars. Death and life. Metroplex, and a city of people that would never sleep easy again.

Megatron stared out the window and remembered the memo Minimus had sent him after their date at the orchestra.

“… A live orchestra is a marvel of timing, skill, and soul. It can’t ever be properly recorded; it never sounds the same… no other medium relies so solely on the passing of time, like music does. It travels down the path of its demise and leaves us – what? Afterwards, what can we hold onto to keep the music close? Music sheets? Memory? Some fleeting dream of melody, a shadow of a harmony? Our minds can’t fully capture it all: it’s an experience, like a rollercoaster or a poem. Live music is just that: alive. Recording it – to be played whenever – loses the mortal value of the piece. Like us, live music is only here once, and not for long: and for that we love it even harder…”

“You’re a very tidy roommate.” Minimus said, eventually. “Very careful. Very considerate. My whole life, I’ve wanted to share my apartment with someone like you. A hopeless desire. And now, just when that desire is within reach…”

Minimus sighed miserably.

“I set my standards too high, you know,” he admitted. “For a roommate. Someone I can work well with. Someone romantic. Good posture. A – a poet. Insanely, that someone was you, and to make everything worse, you were so considerate! I find myself torn into two contradictory halves. I hate you. I could never hate you. You’re the whole bloody war. You’re just one man. I want to drag you to your trial right now. I can’t bear to watch you go.”

Minimus shook his head helplessly.

“And you always vacuumed the skirting board. Do you how many roommates remember that one? Not many, I’ll tell you that.”

“In the spirit of confessions, I blame your memos.” Megatron said, dryly. “They were far too compelling. You bring my attention to the little things that matter most. Vacuuming, for example. Or – or poetry drafts. Or - music. You make it so very easy to remember even the tiniest details.”

“Megatron, you… you made it very easy to share them.”

Megatron turned, and shrunk down so that he could meet Minimus’ searching gaze head-on. Had it been cold, before? How strange, for now he felt so flushed, so hot. Almost feverish. They were so terribly close, no doubt Minimus could feel it radiating off him. Megatron went to lean away.

He stopped.

Minimus had reached out and was softly holding onto the collar of his armor, keeping him close...

He inhaled. His breathing shuddered. He leant in – a little too far, maybe. Was it unwelcome? It did not seem so. Impossibly bold, Megatron trailed a hand down the side of Minimus’ face, and did his best to keep from shaking.

“About the trial,” Minimus whispered. “When you- when you-“

“It’ll hurt.” Megatron told him, with absolute, brutal honesty. “But it was always going to hurt, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it was always going to hurt.”

“Then the question we need to ask ourselves is simple. And the question is this: is the hurt going to be worth it?”

Minimus’ optics widened. His grip tightened on Megatron’s collar, and Megatron cupped his lovely jaw, clumsy and unused to showing affection. And yet Minimus leant into it anyway. Megatron felt his breath leave him.

“Can I-?”

A nod: an unhappy inclination of the head, and Minimus closed his eyes. Megatron leant across the space between them – the impassable space – and was met halfway. He covered Minimus’ mouth softly with his.

The kiss hurt.

But then again, it was always going to hurt, so they might as well make it worth it…

“I wish I could say yes.” Minimus admitted, after a long, long while. “But no. It won’t be worth it. All I can think is – I just wish we hadn’t left it so damn late.”

Megatron flinched at Minimus cursing, but didn’t comment. If Minimus was almost swearing, that was a sign of how much he was hurting, and at that stage his language was the last of their concerns.

“I know how you feel. Anything less than forever would never have been enough. But there’s paperwork to fill, and forms to sign… do you want to get on with it?”

“I suppose we’d better.”

The thing is, Airachnid was right, too.

About prophecy - and the fact that it’s useless.

The gift of prophecy was in accepting tragedy before it arrived, after all. But who the hell wanted to know when disaster was right around the bend? Better to live in blissful ignorance, right? If prophecy could be a gift, it wasn’t one that many people appreciated.

Besides, what could you say to soothe an unsatisfying reality? What could you possibly say to warn people? ‘Watch out. Brace yourself. Yes, it’s going to hurt. I’m sorry, this next part isn’t going to be much fun, but it needs to happen…’ Even if it was the kind of hurt that you needed to feel before you could move forward – even if it was a necessary pain - people didn’t like hearing that kind of thing.

Watch out. Brace yourself.

For the curious: yes, it was going to hurt.

But would also maybe - in the end - be worth it.

There was a knock at the door.

It wasn’t Megatron. Megatron had left for an early shift at the medibay at an early hour of the morning. Minimus vaguely remembered it. He’d been half-asleep, and Megatron had kissed his cheek chastely, and said goodbye so tenderly that Minimus hadn’t wanted to let on that he was actually awake…

So the knock on the door wasn’t Megatron: that was certain.

But nevertheless, Minimus expected nothing strange as he walked to answer it. He expected nothing, in the mundane way that when opening the fridge, you don’t expect to see a severed head. How could he have expected anything? No one is ever truly prepared for tragedy. In the end Minimus was doomed by his love of politeness. Someone knocks – you open the door. It was a basic little rule of society, and Minimus took comfort in rules. He was ruled by rules.

Minimus opened the door at a neat forty-five degree angle, and didn’t expect anything.

He didn’t expect to see Tarn in the hallway, purple and massive and pleasantly humming the Empyrean Suite.

Tarn.

Tarn was here.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like a bad dream. In fact Minimus thought it was actually a nightmare, at first, and in that absurdity he acted as if nothing was wrong. He was in denial.

“Tarn, what a surprise.” Minimus gave the standard ‘Autobot Code etiquette’ answer for an uninvited guest. “You might have given me warning.”

“Warning you had, and then some.” Tarn answered levelly, politely. “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

“Of course, of course, forgive my manners.”

Minimus stood back and opened the door wide for Tarn to enter.

What choice did he have? Fight back? The double fusion-cannon on his arm was purring and primed to fire. The humming harmonized with Tarn himself - was that B minor? Minimus preferred G minor. Tarn had some trouble with the doorway: his tank treads were almost too wide for the small entrance, and he had to shuffle in sidelong, awkwardly. And when Tarn ducked his head, there was definitely something - a wince - a partial beheading? Something that soaked his neck and chest in old blood. Something Minimus could take advantage of, perhaps. A definite something.

This was happening.

“Ah. What a wonderful view. So high up.” Tarn strolled across the room to the wide window. “How does one afford a view like this?”

“Budgeting, and a second source of income.” Minimus answered. “Do take a seat. May I offer you a drink?”

Tarn nodded graciously. “That would be polite of you.”

It was the work of a moment to duck into the kitchen and return. If Minimus clung to his rules, if he clung to the conversation, maybe he could keep things normal. If he just kept Tarn talking, maybe everything would be all right. Because if it came to a fight, he had no hope. No hope save Tarn’s wound, of course, that congealed weakness Minimus could take advantage of, perhaps…

“Forgive my intrusion, but,” Tarn said, gently, “had I given you more warning, you would have left before my arrival. You understand, right? One has to take some precautions when one is a villain.”

“A villain!” Minimus couldn’t help his surprise. “You admit it so openly.”

“I’m sorry, does it shock you? But you must know that I have come here to kill you. I haven’t hidden that. You must know, don’t you?”

“I know.”

“There you are then. I am your villain, since I have come here to kill you. So it doesn’t matter if you see me that way… in truth I wanted to talk. I feel we have a lot in common.”

Minimus sat down in Megatron’s chair, and gestured for Tarn to sit opposite. He couldn’t stand to have Tarn sit in Megatron’s usual chair. He couldn’t. The cognitive dissonance would have been too great. And so Tarn sat politely in Minimus’ usual place, which was wrong and weird in an entirely different way.

“Thank you.” Tarn said. “You’ve been very polite. That’s what I mean, I’m here to kill you, but there’s no reason we can’t be polite about it…”

“I agree wholeheartedly. When you said we had a lot in common-”

“We do, we do. We are both men of justice, both men who don’t give up on our ideals, both lovers of classical music – yes, I think Megatron sees a lot of me in you.”

“You aren’t wrong…”

Tarn’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You disagree?”

“No, no, you’re not wrong…”

The fire dulled into peaceable politeness. “I don’t want you to hold back, please, share your thoughts.”

“If we have one thing that separates us,” Minimus said, “I think it would be ‘restraint’. Where I am restrained and restricted, you hold nothing back, you let nothing stand in your way.”

“Restraint…” Tarn pondered it. “Yes, I’m proud to say that I’m not restrained. No shackles hold me, no chains weigh me down. Restraint! Yes, so this is the dividing factor? Why Megatron chooses you over me? Ah, I see he is restraining his desires… settling for less.”

“I’ve always thought so.” Minimus agreed.

Tarn looked pleased and shocked. “You admit it so openly!”

“No, it’s true, I’ve always thought so. He is only settling for me as an afterthought to Prime. I hold no illusions about it.”

“Aha,” Tarn laughed gently. “The difference between us is that I can strip him from Prime, in a way you never could, restrained as you are. I intend to rip him from Prime’s custody and into mine, I intend to make him mine under Decepticon law. Under which Prime’s deals and Prime’s mercy cannot touch him. And then, in Metroplex’s sparkchamber, I will make him nobody else’s, ever again.”

Minimus could hardly breathe for pain. “You will kill him?”

And here Tarn leaned forward in Minimus’ usual chair, and braced his elbows on his knees, and looked right through him.

“Minimus, we are both men of justice.” Tarn said, straightforward and professional. “You know, no doubt, that the DJD are not assassins on paper. We are executors of a sentence, hence, ‘execution’. Words are important, are they not? But the sentence is not death, it is pain. And yes, often the torture kills the criminal, and in death they are redeemed, but it is pain that has been sentenced. Pain that is carried out. I don’t want to kill Megatron. I want to hurt him. Which again, is why I’m here.”

“I don’t quite understand you.”

Tarn leaned forward and gripped Minimus’ shoulder with a massive, clawed hand, ready to crush his shoulder if Minimus showed the slightest hint of fighting back. Minimus almost did. He almost took the plunge and lashed out. Almost aimed a kick at that wound, that weakness. But it would never have connected -the length of Tarn’s arm put him just out of range. And as Minimus twitched Tarn’s grip tightened slightly, threatening, ready to crush his shoulder in a second.

“Why you? Why the Lost Light? Everything I did – the war - was it all for nothing? I don’t want to hurt you, Minimus.” Tarn said, ironically. “I want to hurt him. And yes, in a minute or so, I’ll throw you out that window. But I mean you no ill will, truly. There’s no reason we can’t be polite about it.”

Minimus picked up the energon glass – Tarn hadn’t touched it – and tossed into his face. He was too far away to glass him, but he took some bitter satisfaction in humiliating the villain.

Fresh energon dripped down over the sockets of Tarn’s mask, and pooled in the congealed mess of his neck wound, fresh blood on old blood.

He stared right through Minimus with blank, fiery eyes.

“I expected more of you.” Tarn said, with a note of disapproval.

“You did come here to kill me.”

“Still, there’s no need to be rude about it.”

Tarn stood up, and as casually as Minimus might stretch, he raised his fusion cannon and fired it at the giant glass window. Both the shatter and the shot were completely unexpected, and Minimus jumped.

“You might have warned me.” Minimus objected, peeved.

“You were warned, and then some.” Tarn replied, and walked him over to the cold abyss, and the waiting violence in his iron grip compelled Minimus to follow. He felt utterly helpless. The gap in the glass was freezing cold, and windy, and the edge seemed to pull at him. Tarn let go, only to rub Minimus’ back with a warm palm, steadying him, and looked right through Minimus with expressionless optics.

“I’ll give you the option of jumping.” Tarn offered, politely.

The edge sucked at Minimus like a black hole, an empty void yawning below. He didn’t want to jump. “I confess I – I didn’t expect this to be so sudden. It hardly feels real. Like a bad dream, or a nightmare. Was I warned? Perhaps I ignored it; perhaps I didn’t want to see… I was dreading his end, not mine.”

“Which do you fear more, Minimus Ambus? Grief, or death?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think of it like this – if you jump, you fear grief more. If I have to throw you, you fear death more. Are you scared of jumping, or being pushed?”

“Both. I don’t know.”

“Decide.”

Minimus made a joke. “I’m scared of landing, I suppose…”

Tarn’s optics widened behind the ruined eyeholes of his mask, and he burst out into beautiful, musical laughter. Below, the cold and snowy pavement waited. But the harsh wind blew away the grey clouds on the horizon, and for a moment the sun came out, and while the world was still cold and dreadful, for a moment a flicker of light burned in Minimus’ spark. The hopelessness, for a moment, became beautiful.

On that temporary rush of lightheartedness, he walked forward right to the edge and teetered there for a moment.

“Living is a hard habit to break,” Minimus admitted, eventually.

“Do you need a push?”

“I wish you hadn’t given me the choice. A knife down the spine would have been kinder.”

“I apologize, I apologize, I truly didn’t want to hurt you. I only want to hurt him, when he sees your crumpled body at the base of the building, that’s all. Close your eyes. I hear your favorite musical piece is also the Empyrean Suite, isn’t that a coincidence? We have such a surprising amount in common. Yes, just close your eyes, Minimus. Close your eyes.”

The sudden nuclear rage thrumming under the order was a tacky strategy, but effective. Minimus shut his eyes. Tarn started to hum the final piece of the Empyrean suite, which really was a beautiful piece of music. But in B minor? B minor? Tacky, tacky, tacky.

“In G minor, if you don’t mind.” Minimus said, testily.

“I prefer B minor.”

“Of course you prefer B minor - you prefer the colder, dramatic version. Well. I prefer G minor. It offsets the sadness of the piece in a way that gives warmth, and without which, it’s just sadness for the sake of sadness, as cold as stone. No. Give me G minor, my last request. Give me a dirge sung in seriousness, with the gravity of true grief. Give me something bittersweet.”

“The final piece of the Empyrean Suite in,” Tarn sighed long-sufferingly. “G minor. Very well.”

Ironically, the Empyrean Suite was rather restrained. It was the saddest thing ever composed, but not in a depressing way. Rather, it was astonishingly beautiful. A deep longing, a deep sorrow, crying out, but restrained. Ironic, compared to Tarn’s usual practice of overdramatic brutal dismemberment. Ironic, that he’d chosen a piece of such blissful sadness to complement his tacky tortures.

But back before the war, before Tarn appropriated the Empyrean Suite for his executions, Dominus had loved it as well. It had been the one thing Minimus and his brother had held in common. A shared love for music. Dominus had always preferred the more classical pieces, like the Empyrean Suite. Minimus had tended towards the ballads, the crooners, but had put preference aside for the sake of family. For the sake of connection. That one thing they had in common.

On that last note of pure and heartrending melancholia, Minimus fell. But if he jumped, or if he was pushed, from a distance it was impossible to say.

The apartment was empty in all the ways it shouldn’t have been.

Megatron came back home to a shattered window, energon on the floor, and a note on the table.

He read it very carefully, and then he peered out over the gaping drop, all the way down to the pavement below. There was a stain, but no crumpled body. No corpse. Tarn must have taken it. Him. First he cleaned up the broken glass, and the spilled energon, because Minimus always hated when people made a mess and just left it, and then he checked the rest of the apartment, just in case. And then he called Rodimus, just to check. He did it by the book. And after all this Megatron read the note again, and took it up to high command, and handed it to Optimus Prime.

Megatron felt very calm as he did so. There were no tears. No urges to scream.

It was curious, actually, how completely blank he felt.

“Primus,” said Rodimus, once Optimus Prime had called the meeting and everybody had heard what Tarn’s note said. “He’s actually mad.”

Mad, and sad, and desperate, Megatron thought. It wasn’t Tarn’s fault. He’d made Tarn that way. He’d taught him when to fight, and when to keep fighting, and that if it came to the worst, take everybody else down with him. Tarn was the monster Megatron had created. So he deserved this, really, no matter what they chose…

“Tarn wants Megatron.” Prowl grimaced as he realised how the phrasing sounded. “Legally, I mean. He wants us to hand him over into Decepticon ‘DJD’ custody, and you know what? I say we do it.”

“I don’t want to,” Windblade began, and her voice quavered on the beginnings of a ‘but’.

“But?” Chromia asked.

“But if we don’t, well – do you think Tarn would actually shoot Metroplex in the spark? No-one would be that mad, that desperate, that-“

“Yes. He would,” Megatron interrupted, and then fell silent.

After, there was a bit of an awkward pause in the conversation. Perhaps it was something in his voice – the way every syllable was as hollow and empty of feeling as his death-grey armour. Perhaps it was just awkward to discuss ‘guillotine versus gallows’ when the condemned was right there in the room with you. But after he’d spoken, slowly and measured, every syllable slotting into place, everybody else in the room looked at each other, and the walls, and anywhere but Megatron.

It was just – well – hard to look at him.

Prowl looked across at Starscream’s face, and saw mirrored there his own discomfort. If it was just the execution it would’ve been fine, no problem. The guy deserves it. Let him burn. But it was just – well – the other thing. The thing no-one was mentioning. Megatron was a bastard right down to the spark but still, it was hard to look at anybody in that much pain, anybody hurting that badly. It made them all a bit guilty. They weren’t hurting that badly, after all, and they were better people, weren’t they? It felt weird, somehow, after all the thousands he’d killed, to see the slagmaker honestly grieving…

As for Megatron, he was operating on a level so low that he didn’t even notice the awkward pause. He was carefully, and very deliberately, not thinking about anything at all.

“If we don’t give him to Tarn.” Starscream said. “Tarn will shoot out Metroplex’s spark. The city-mines will go dark, and thousands will starve. It’s that simple.”

“Tarn will shoot Metroplex no matter what we do.” Soundwave said. “He is a killer. He doesn’t know how to stop.”

“Sending Megatron down is our best shot.”

“It won’t work.”

“It might.”

“It won’t.” Soundwave repeated. “And Megatron is still owed a fair trial. What’s one last mercy, at a time like this?”

Starscream sat back in his chair and smirked faintly. “You’re still loyal to him. Aren’t you? You’re still in love with his ideals.”

Soundwave didn’t answer.

Prime, sitting next to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

Soundwave was part of the reason Megatron was so deliberately not thinking about anything. He’d always held a soft spot for his most loyal Decepticon, and he didn’t want to hurt him. Soundwave was a telepath. And since he couldn’t help but sense Megatron this close, Megatron kept his mind locked down. Shields up. Steel wall. It was an act of mercy. But he could still feel Soundwave’s telepathy skittering helplessly, apologetically, at the edges of his mind, and then flinching away as he sensed everything Megatron wasn’t thinking about.

A stain on the pavement…

“Anyway - a fair trial? Tarn will be fair.” Starscream continued. “More than fair. No fair trial could fail to execute him – for his crimes, he deserves far worse! I call for a vote.”

They voted.

It so happened that the vote was a draw.

The split was not based on sympathy for Megatron, no, rather think of it as faction indecision. Autobots and Decepticons, yet again. Night and day. Mercy and justice. On some levels, at least, the war would never be over.

Prime had voted for mercy. He’d voted to give Megatron a fair Autobot trial. A painless injection. A kindness. It was the last love he could legally give.

Starscream had voted to send Megatron down into the dark. He’d voted for justice. And it was justice, not just in the moral sense, but in the legal sense as well. The minutia was hard to explain. Simply put: Tarn had as much legal jurisdiction as the Prime (according to Decepticon law, anyway) and so whatever drawn out torture he contrived would be just as much a trial: just as final a sentence. The last word. Beyond Prime’s deals, beyond Prime’s mercy.

But in the end, the vote was a draw.

“We need a tiebreaker. An impartial party.” Prime said. “Ratchet, maybe…?”

And Megatron felt a great internal wrench. No. He knew, with weary certainty, that he could not have anyone else decide his fate for him. And more than that: he could not have one more person suffer on his behalf. Not Prime. Not Ratchet. It was not self-loathing that ultimately decided him: but selflessness. Even if Tarn shot Metroplex anyway. Even if it was ultimately futile. And who knew? It might work. It probably wouldn’t.

But it might.

Megatron closed his eyes and opened his mind.

“Ah-“ Soundwave cut it off quick, but it was still an awful little noise. It made everyone fall silent, some in shocked confusion, and some – Prime, Prime with his hand on Soundwave’s shoulder – in horrible understanding.

“I think-“ Soundwave tried. His head was tilted to one side, as if listening to someone. “I…”

Soundwave was Megatron’s old third in command: his confidant, his friend. Still loyal, even now. And Soundwave was a telepath. A neural surgeon, a cerebral voyeur, a reader of minds. Megatron opened his mind to Soundwave’s tendrils of soft thought, and prodded them fondly. He was certain. Whatever drawn out torture Tarn contrived, he would face it. It would be a legal trial: a final sentence. The last word. Beyond Prime’s deals, beyond Prime’s mercy.

“Ah.” Soundwave said, aloud. It was a horrible noise. Only Prime really seemed to get it though, because only Prime had really thought about it: for a telepath to touch a mind in that much pain, a walking wound, what it must have felt like…

“Query.” Soundwave said, thickly. “Permission to change my vote?”

“Are you sure?” Prime said, guilt-ridden.

Ah, poor Optimus. If the planet itself were split in two, he’d still find some way to blame himself.

“Certain.”

Minimus opened his eyes, and was surprised to find he wasn’t dead.

However, when he realised everything had gone black - and that nothing hurt - he re-evaluated this immediate assessment.

If he was dead, though, why could he see the damage report laid out onto the inside of his optics? The green text walked across the blackness with startling clarity. If this was death, it was remarkably more boring than he’d expected. It was just lines of medical code. Outer armour compromised, spark at fifty per cent and climbing, brain stable, fuel levels dangerously low, left leg reattached, nervous system at sixty per cent functionality and climbing…

If the afterspark was just wall after wall of boring reports – which based on the evidence, appeared to be the case – Minimus thought it was rather more than he’d deserved, on the whole. If he was dead it was a bit late to be having regrets. He hated being late. Minimus had never been late to anything in his life. And that was the exact issue, when you thought about it…

Regret number one: he’d really let himself go, at the end. Had too much fun.

Regret number two: if only he’d had more fun, and earlier, to make up for the waste that his life had turned out to be.

Regret number three: he’d wasted his life.

The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord had been his job, his life, his purpose. It was a bit like being a lawyer, and a bit like being a policeman, and both together meant he hadn’t been liked very much. Minimus had liked to think that The Law - with the capital letters - was unblemished by the unpleasantness of everyday existence in a war: that The Law was an immortal, no-nonsense person, someone fair in an unfair world. Being dead was very good for crushing his illusions. There was no higher court to appeal to. The Law? The law was fallible. But Ultra Magnus had obeyed it anyway, desperately, no matter what. Because if the law was wrong, then, then, why, why hadn’t Minimus done anything about it? Because Ultra Magnus had had the power and authority to change the law - but he hadn’t. He’d had the power to change things, so that people like Megatron never again became necessary – and he hadn’t. He’d regret it as long as he lived, but that was the problem right there, though, when you thought about it…

Except something was happening in the afterspark.

Heaven was–

Heaven was waking up.

The scrolling lines of green-on-black text were saying half-hopeful things, ninety per cent functionality, and so on. And just as Minimus read the line ‘audio input: you need to make a decision’, he was hearing Pharma actually say it out loud.

“You need to make a decision.” Pharma said, coolly and confidently, smooth and professional. “Considering you were wreckage, it’s a tiny detail, I know, but I am nothing if not a perfectionist. It’s the simple matter of your voicebox. Voiceboxes, that is. I only have the parts to fix one, so which will it be?”

Minimus tried to swallow.

He tried to explain to the phantom doctor that he always used the Magnus voicebox, always, even outside the armour, which was something no other Magnus had done. Because of the aforementioned tiny detail, however, Pharma didn’t hear him.

“Try using your inter-Autobot radio, dear. I am an Autobot, remember, no matter how much Ratchet tries to forget. Which voicebox? The well-used one? Oh Primus, this other one looks almost new. Very neat and tidy. When did you last use this?”

Minimus swallowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used his own voicebox. Not even at Visages, not even with-

-maybe it wasn’t too late.

‘The neat one.’ Minimus sent over the local Autobot radio. ‘The new one. That’s my voice. That’s mine.’

“All right dear. I’m putting you under again. This might sting a-”

Megatron walked down into the pulsing blackness.

His head was throbbing terribly, and he was leaning heavily on his cane, and why was it so damn hot down here? He felt almost feverish, as if there was something burning him up from the inside. But when he braced his hand against the wall of Metroplex’s tunnel, the metal was cool. It didn’t make sense.

“Psst.”

Megatron didn’t hear, at first. It was all so hot, and his armour was steaming in a very unhealthy way.

“Psst.”

He looked down. A pair of feline eyes regarded him eerily. Soundwave’s cassette was a cat-shaped silhouette in the gloom, a patch of darker darkness in the void, and he was radiating utter disdain.

“You utter buffoon.” The cat said, and walked away.

Megatron didn’t answer, but followed.

“You’ve backed yourself into the perfect trap.” Ravage said, as he led him down into the dark, down a long spiraling staircase. “Prime can’t help you now, he can’t give you any more deals or escapes – you’re in Tarn’s legal custody.”

Megatron didn’t answer. He’d kissed Minimus goodbye that morning, a chaste peck on the cheek. If nothing else, he’d kissed him goodbye, but there was still so much he’d wanted to tell him…

“Why? That’s all I want to know.”

Eventually Megatron said, “It was Metroplex’s death, or mine. And all of us rely on Metroplex – the Autobot City - his buildings, his highways, his energon mines. Tarn would’ve killed him if I hadn’t gone down, and he might yet kill him anyway, but at least now I might be close enough to stop him.”

“You utter buffoon.” The cat said, without heat.

The staircase wound down into the depths.

Megatron slowed his stride. He did this partly because he felt like he was melting, partly because he was so incredibly grateful for the company, and partly out of reluctance. He didn’t want to die. But with all the people he’d killed, he’d long since given up his right to choose his death. He owed it to them not to hesitate now. He owed it to those whose lives depended upon Metroplex. In an ironic way, he was still doing his Lost Light job. Helping the city. Minimus would have been-

The need to make amends became so immense he stumbled, and almost collapsed. But he kept walking. Even though it was terrifying, even against his own instincts – he couldn’t stop walking. If he stopped, he might not be able to start again.

Ravage led him out into Metroplex’s spark-chamber. False sunlight shone down from the massive spark in the centre of the ceiling, far above. He could see it pulsing and glowing, like a tiny star. Metroplex’s massive battery. The heart of a Titan. And there were these thick power lines clamped onto it, these massive cables, which snaked up into the ceiling, up into the world of the living, reaching for something far up above…

“Why?” Megatron asked, which was the right question.

He frowned for a moment. He’d seen a thousand sparks before, and none of them had ever had those weird clamps. Then he stopped trying to make sense of it. His concern was the criminal he’d come here for.

“Megatron! There you are.”

Tarn stood on a metal bridge crossing the entirety of the wide-open space.

He spread his arms invitingly, for all as if they were just old friends meeting up at the end of a very long day. He was a tiny figure in comparison to the surrounding chasm. Far above him, Metroplex’s spark flared. Megatron took a tentative step out onto the walkway. It creaked dangerously. Far below him, there was a waiting vat of boiling energon.

Tarn was rambling. “The DJD are not assassins on paper. We are executors of a sentence, hence, ‘execution’. But the sentence is not death, it is pain! And yes, often the torture kills the criminal, and in death they are redeemed, but it is pain that has been sentenced…”

Ravage had vanished. The burning heat of the journey was fading fast, and Megatron’s temperature was plummeting like a rocket to earth. He was shivering, now, he was so cold, and steam was coming off his armour again – but it was like dry ice, it was going down. Somewhere in the back of his brain Megatron remembered he was sick, technically. Exitium meum – ‘my end’ – the subspace infection. How did it go? Extreme temperature fluctuation? His subspace opened up a link to the void, somewhere? It was, he reflected wryly, a funny thing to happen at a time like this.

“…Pain that is carried out. This is your execution, Megatron. I want to hurt you. That’s why I exist.”

“Don’t kill Metroplex,” Megatron said. “And I’ll comply with whatever sentence you have in mind.”

He took another step. The walkway underneath him wasn’t very stable. Neither was Tarn. He was rambling, and his eyes were wild. “-and in death they are redeemed-“

“Tarn. Do we have a deal?”

Tarn’s gaze focused on him like a laser. “A deal?”

“Don’t kill Metroplex, and I’ll comply.”

But Tarn was shaking his head sadly.

“No deals,” he said. “No mercy.”

And he fired at the walkway, which collapsed.

The second time, Minimus jerked into the land of the living with an electric jolt.

“Don’t panic, just a spark-jump, perfectly procedure.” Pharma soothed him, and it must have been a cold day in hell, because his bedside manners actually worked.

“I-“ Minimus started, and stopped. His voice. It was so long since he’d actually heard it. But he had more pressing concerns. “Tarn-“

“Yes.” Pharma said, and only now Minimus noticed that the doctor’s optics were white with pure mania, that his hands were flickering between scalpel-knife-chainsaw with a very worrying energy. “Yes, yes, Tarn. The deal. I was promised an execution, and where is Tarn?”

“Metroplex’s spark chamber, he said-“

Pharma stood up.

“Here’s a tip, Minimus, because I don’t like my new boss any better than the old one. Psychopaths will sometimes insert themselves into their own investigation. Oh! And tell my darling Ratchet - I win. You fell fifty stories, and your armour helped, and your internals are very neatly organised, but still. I’d like to see Ratchet fix that.”

Pharma turned his unreadable gaze on Minimus for one last moment, and it pierced him right through, pinned him to the ground. For the first time, Minimus noticed that he wasn’t in his armour. He wasn’t in any armour, actually, not even the middling one. For the first time in a long time, Minimus was utterly irreducible, and very vulnerable, and very, very small. 'I’m the monster he made me. It’s only my right. It’s my only right,' Pharma was muttering, and Minimus realised that those mad-pinprick optics were looking through, at something beyond him. Pharma didn’t see him. He was fixated only on the idea of Minimus, not the real person.

“Justice.” Pharma said, smoothly, “is something you have to create for yourself.”

And then he transformed and flew away, leaving Minimus in the wreckage of his old armour. Minimus stood up: he was still alive. His body was screaming in pain, and everything hurt, but that was how he knew he was alive. Life was pain, after all.

And maybe it wasn’t too late.

Look, Megatron should’ve died.

He should’ve splatted on impact, except the vat of boiling energon broke his fall. And he should’ve melted within seconds, except because of his subspace infection, Megatron was just too cold to melt properly. And Tarn should’ve watched him hopefully for a while anyway, but he fished him out in the end, and he moved onto old-fashioned tortures. It was all of it agonizing, obviously.

But (a stain on the pavement) he’d felt worse.

He should have died, and absently, Megatron wondered why his spark hadn’t given out yet. Tarn was talking in that measured way that suggested he was trying to kill him, but there was no buzz under the words. Wait - there – when he threw his head back, there was definitely something under the mask. A partial beheading? Something that soaked his neck and chest in old blood? A weakness? And then Megatron realized - maybe Tarn couldn’t talk people to death anymore. Maybe his voice had been damaged too badly.

“A resource war, yes, that would be the end of peace.” Tarn was saying cheerfully. “Metroplex dies, the root-mines go dry, and it’s Autobots and Decepticons all over again-“

“Tarn-“ Megatron’s voice went harsh and desperate. “You can’t. Tarn.”

Tarn was beyond listening. Megatron grabbed at him, and he moved out of the way utterly casually. Every part of him was loose and calm, and there was a complete lack of aggression in way that, as easily as stretching, Tarn pointed his double-fusion cannon directly upwards. At the giant spark.

“Don’t. Please. Millions of innocent people will die.”

Tarn heard this, but he just laughed. As if Megatron had told a fantastic joke, and that he, Tarn, he got the reference.

“No-one is innocent,” Tarn said, and shot the city in the heart.

Far away, Metroplex screamed.

Tarn laughed that same delighted laugh. At that point, two things happened. The first: Megatron, with the last of his energy, heaved himself forward and ripped off Tarn’s double-fusion cannon. It was deep-wired, but Tarn was so absorbed in the fireworks he didn’t have time to react. Megatron threw the cannon into the smelter and collapsed.

The second thing that happened was this: Pharma.

Pharma happened.

He landed like an avenging angel, like a lightning strike. He landed on Tarn’s broad shoulders and almost carried him to the ground with the force of his impact. He landed, and Tarn howled, but his dead voice was useless to stop Pharma raising the roaring chainsaw.

“-!” Tarn cried out a single word, completely silently.

It might have been ‘mercy!’

But Pharma just laughed, cool and calm and professional, and his chainsaw gleamed in the light of the dying Titan’s spark. He swung back.

“Hold still!” said Pharma, grinning madly, “This might sting a little!”

The chainsaw came down.

This ended up being a lie. When the chainsaw came around in a bright arc, and carved Tarn’s head off his shoulders, it was over almost instantaneously.

Tarn never felt a thing.

But Metroplex was still dying, and Megatron was still dying. His spark was fading out. When you’re dying, you’ll cling to anything, any little detail, any distraction. And as Megatron was dying, he became aware of the sound. It wasn’t the distant scream of the Titan, although that was there in the background. It was a droning sound, the great howl of steadily building electricity. It filled the whole spark-chamber. It was like a migraine in the air, in the ground, in his whole body, and it was only getting louder.

Slowly, Megatron’s gaze focused on the giant power cables in the ceiling.

“Pharma,” Megatron said, barely.

Pharma looked up from savaging Tarn’s corpse. “Yes?”

“Clear.”

And there was a lightning strike, like thunder, which was so loud it wasn’t sound at all, it was like the whole universe had been ripped in two, and that underneath, it had all turned out to be made of light.

It was a spark-jump from up close.

A Titanic spark-jump.

Megatron should have died.

He should have died for a thousand practical reasons, like illness and torture and so on, but mostly – and this is the important part – he should have died because he didn’t deserve to live.

But then again, we don’t always get what we deserve.

Minimus knew Megatron was dead as soon as he saw his legs.

No-one alive would lay like that, sprawled and uncomfortable. But he still went closer to confirm it. He noted Megatron’s glassy optics, stiff half-melted limbs, the slight smell of burned circuitry. But the greatest confirmation was the legs, the way they lay, and even though his body was still mostly in one piece…

“That’s the end of it, then.” Minimus said to himself.

Having confirmed this he took stock of the rest of the scene. Tarn’s body lay a little to his right, but Minimus didn’t feel the need to go closer to confirm he was dead: the masked head that had rolled to his left told the whole story. Minimus went about the rest of his business before he thought any more about Megatron’s corpse: there were still things to do, still crimes to solve. Across the room, Prowl was examining a trail of blood leading into a lower tunnel, where it looked like there’d been another casualty, but that corpse had gone walk-about.

Minimus waved silently. Prowl looked over. He jerked his head towards Megatron’s body, and some sickness in his face told Prowl the situation.

“So he’s dead?” To his credit, Prowl neither smiled nor pretended to be sad. “Well, he lived a good life. No, I can’t say that. He lived a full life.”

“Yes.” Minimus said. “I would say it’s a shame, but…”

“I know what you mean.” Prowl knelt first, and put out a hand to check the cables in Megatron’s neck. They didn’t bend under his touch. They stayed frozen stiff. Prowl stood and pulled out his personal memo-pad. “Yep. Dead. There’s no fuel movement whatsoever: I’d almost say the fuel in those veins has coagulated. We’ll need a full autopsy to know the full story, but of course, we don’t need it to write up a death certificate…”

To his credit, Prowl looked away as Minimus knelt down and touched a cold grey cheek. The gun-metal grey didn’t necessarily signify death: Megatron’s paint had been stripped by the smelter, and anyway, he’d been grey already. But it was the cold that really shook away Minimus’ disbelief. Here was a dead thing. There was no warmth here whatsoever, no life, no minute flicker of the optics in reaction to his touch. 

And the metal was so cold, so cold, so cold it burned…

“I can confirm that this is Megatron of Tarn.” Minimus said. He quickly pulled his hand back to his chest: it felt numb. “Where do I sign?”

“Right here.” Prowl handed Minimus the form, and as Minimus signed it, he came home to himself a little bit. Something about paperwork always grounded him. How had Megatron put it? It was one small thing he could control.

“Great.” Prowl took back the paperwork. “I’ll organize the autopsy.”

“I’ll go get forensics-” A sudden fear struck Minimus so entirely he could barely breathe, barely stand upright, and he burst out. “Prowl! Don’t bury him without me.”

“We won’t.”

“Thank you.”

As Minimus left to go get forensics, Prowl spoke, almost to himself. “It’s strange. I thought I’d feel… happier?”

Minimus pretended not to hear. But as he made the pilgrimage back up the stairs to the surface, Minimus reflected that he was the opposite. He’d thought he’d be more sad. In hindsight the worst part had been the waiting – now, he was curiously numb. But he couldn’t get the smell of burned circuitry out of his nose, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the poor twisted spirals on Megatron’s chest, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t forget how cold, how cold, how freezing cold Megatron’s face had felt.

As cold as permafrost. As cold as the void of space.

Prowl left. Deep underground in Metroplex’s spark chamber, in Megatron’s spark, the last little ember threatened to fade…

And froze.

And surged.

The funny thing about mass-shifting, is that the mass didn’t go nowhere. Call it quantum. And the place the mass went was cold, absolutely cold, cold as permafrost. Cold as the void of space. Cold enough, for example, to freeze the fuel in your veins.

And the funny thing about the Lost Light. All those stairs. Megatron took them every day, he could do it in his sleep, and had, once. When your memories control your body, sometimes you don’t even notice that you’ve missed the exit you were going to take, and that you’re driving to work on pure habit.

Megatron stood up.

Routine was a powerful thing.

It didn’t hurt – pain would come later. The thing is, that somewhere in Megatron’s slowly thawing brain, he was climbing the steps to the medibay like he did everyday. Or maybe he was climbing the staircase to the Lost Light office, because he’d done that enough for his body to remember. But it wasn’t the stairs to Minimus’ apartment, for two reasons. One, because he always took the elevator, and two, because Minimus was a stain on the pavement, wasn’t he…?

It wasn’t love that made Megatron walk up out of the dark.

It was duty. It was muscle memory. It was the force of sheer bloody-minded routine.

Living is a hard habit to break.

Ten was working on a heavy metal sculpture when the monster came up through the floor. The basement of Visages was situated right on top of a maintenance tunnel, but until today nothing had come up through the little trapdoor save the rare turbo-rat and a confused janitor. The sculpture was very heavy. Megatron was a lot bigger than a turbo-rat. Ten reacted appropriately.

“How?” Was all Minimus could ask, once Nightbeat explained.

“Ask Ratchet. Something about a spark-surge, or a jumpstart-“

“But the sentence was carried out.”

“Technically, yeah.”

Minimus sighed, shook his head. As badly as he wanted this – and as badly as he didn’t – it was a cruel hope to be given. Hope interrupted grief, halted it, made it worse when reality came crushing back. Minimus refused to hope Megatron might actually survive, because he had no idea how to handle the future. Megatron would know. Minimus wanted to discuss it with him. And the fact that he could, feasibly, go discuss it with him… no, he didn’t want to hope.

Nightbeat was chipping away at the little details. He turned to Minimus.

“Convenient, isn’t it?

“What?”

Minimus was taken aback. Nightbeat’s face was very serious. He wasn’t looking at him, he was looking through him, beyond him. “Convenient: that a titan-sized ball of spark energy happens to be available? Just when we need to spark-jump a Titan?”

“Convenient?” Minimus frowned, offended. “I don’t follow.”

It was hard to think about it: over a hundred bots had died in Mederi, and their spark energy had saved Metroplex, which had saved the whole city. It was horribly pragmatic. Who could have been so cold-blooded?

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nightbeat said. “You’d have to stockpile energy years in advance, way back before Tarn was even a threat. How could anyone have predicted the need to jumpstart a Titan? How could anyone possibly have known? It’s such a small probability. It’s impossible. You’d have to–“

Nightbeat paused for effect.

“You’d have to know the future.”

Everything went terribly dark and still.

“…Do you have any evidence to support that theory?” Minimus asked.

“No. And I don’t have a motive, either.”

“Lucky, then, that I have a confession from Pharma. About his boss. Did you know psychopaths will sometimes insert themselves into their own investigation?”

In the Lost Light medibay, Ratchet did his best.

Brain, t-cog, spark. All three were intact, and so long as those three things were intact, a Cybertronian could survive. That was what Ratchet kept telling himself.

He had to pull Brainstorm and Perceptor in after thirty-six hours, because half the pieces were beyond repair. He had to call First Aid, and when he said he couldn’t do it, Velocity. Ten apologized profusely for the thing with the sculpture, and had to be convinced that no, he hadn’t done that much damage, considering. But at no point did Ratchet stop and think ‘maybe it would be better to let him die’. Megatron should have died. But he hadn’t, and right now he was on Ratchet’s table, so the doctor did his best and damned the consequences.

Halfway through the surgery, Airachnid limped into the waiting room. She wasn’t moving very well - very stiff, and very jerky – but she wasn’t a priority. She sat down on a table to catch her breath, and watched Ratchet work.

Ratchet did his best, washed his hands, and sat down with a sigh. “Be with you in a moment,” he told Airachnid. “Quick rest, that’s all I need.”

“Perfectly fine, darling.” Airachnid rasped cheerfully.

When Ratchet passed out, she got up.

Megatron watched her approach in a half-aware state of anesthesia, while the monitor screamed. Unable to move while a mnemosurgeon messed around in his mind – it had happened before, with Trepan, and it was the one thing he absolutely wouldn’t be able to bear.

Airachnid slumped against the operating table to catch her breath. She raised a hand-

-and patted him on the shoulder.

“Well done.”

Megatron looked up at her with an expression of strained relief. He didn’t say anything. Words could not describe how he felt.

“It was touch and go there, for a bit. Thought Pharma wouldn’t make it. Thought the spark-jump would be too late.” Airachnid closed her eyes for a long moment and drew in a rattling breath. Then she smiled. It wasn’t a very nice smile – but this was comforting, in a way, because it would’ve been weird if Airachnid was anything other than a creep.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said.

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“Mnemosurgeons don’t last long,” She explained. Her eyes were glassy. She was wheezing for air. “Especially when you download centuries of memories, and use them to predict the future right down to the last second… so here’s the deal. If you’re dead in the morning, I’ll pass on a message to whoever you like. And if I’m dead in the morning, you do the same for me.”

Megatron’s neck creaked: some of the cables were brand new, and some were fragile. It was a very tiny nod.

“Thank you, darling. Is there anything you’d like me to pass on…?”

Megatron’s voice was rusty and faint. He had to mouth the word a couple of times before she got it.

“After? After what?”

He told her.

“Afterlight. The poem! I understand, you want them to recite it at your funeral-”

A creaky, slow shake of the head.

“No?”

He had to mouth the word a couple of times.

“Oh, not yours. Very well, dear. And as for me, darling, if I’m dead in the morning…”

Airachnid hoarsely told him the message she wanted delivered, and who to, and received a creaky nod of acknowledgement. Megatron only said one word after she’d told him what it was. One word. A question.

“Why?” Airachnid shook her head. Her eyes were completely void of any humour, any emotion at all. “I’m sorry to disappoint, dear, but I don’t have any dark ulterior motives. But I’ll give you this – I’m definitely not a hero, either. It’s very simple. So simple. The simplest. I know the future, and I want to use it to help people. Why? To be acknowledged and appreciated. Why else? That’s all I ever wanted, really. Appreciation.”

And then she walked – very stiffly, and very jerkily – over to her side of the medibay. If any one person was the sum of Megatron’s fears and regrets, it was Airachnid. Starscream’s aide. Murderous mnemosurgeon. She sat in a waiting chair, and curled up and went to sleep.

Ratchet, who’d worked for so long without rest that he’d worked himself into a coma, woke up in the early hours of the morning, and found the body.

It was a peaceful death. It wasn't fair - but it was peaceful.

After – everything – Minimus had no desire to live in his old apartment. It was hard enough moving out: packing away all his datapads, all his music, all his cleaning supplies into boxes, and then repacking them into his new quarters at the Lost Light. Rodimus offered to help. Minimus declined on the basis that Rodimus’ desk was an organisational disaster, and the phenomenon might apply to anything he touched.

But anyway. That was how he came to be standing in the middle of an empty habsuite. The berth was big enough for the armour – big enough for two, Minimus thought, despite himself – and there were all these empty shelves, and just the one desk, and no kitchen or anything. And yet it still felt too big.

That was how he came to be standing in the middle of the habsuite, holding a datapad, and wondering where to put it when he just had so much space.

That was why, when the door opened behind him, he thought it was Nightbeat coming back to chase up the Mederi report.

The light of the hallway was golden. The shadow on the floor was familiar.

Minimus turned.

He dropped the datapad, which clattered under the desk.

Megatron – and it was Megatron, even though his armour was ever-so-subtly different, even though there was a strained look in his optics that hadn’t been there before – was peering into the dark. The lights were out: Megatron couldn’t see him, perhaps. He thought about picking up the fallen datapad. His body didn’t move.

“Ah.” Minimus said, experimentally. It was all he could come up with to say.

At the sound, Megatron hastily stepped back. “I apologise. I was looking for an empty room – my old apartment is – I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He thought Minimus was a stranger. He could, Minimus reflected, be forgiven for this: not only was it dark, he was irreducibly tiny, and his vocaliser was strange even to himself. A part of him missed the Magnus voicebox. Another part, a larger part, wanted to try out all the songs he hadn’t been able to manage, before…

He considered telling Megatron who he was. He couldn’t quite manage the words. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to – it was just, the emotions would be too intense, and it was terrifying.

“I quite understand.” Minimus said, politely, in his strange non-Magnus voice. “I’ve only just moved in.”

Megatron nodded professionally, as if to a stranger. He paused. In the dark, Minimus saw a flicker of melancholy wash over his face. “You know for a second there you reminded me of – nevermind. I apologise.”

“What for? You’ve done nothing to offend.” Minimus massaged his throat. Really, this new old voice of his – it wasn’t bad, it was just strange. Would he still be able to give soporifically longwinded lectures? A thought occurred to him, a bit late. “Forgive me if this is a personal question, but you are – that is, Ratchet was able to – it’s only that I signed your death certificate, you see, and here you are walking around-”

“My death certificate?” Megatron sounded – not exactly amused, because he rather understandably seemed a bit haggard. But – relaxed. It was as close as he came to amused when he was in a poor mood.

“The evidence was… convincing.“ Minimus remembered how cold the grey metal had felt. He swallowed thickly. “Circumstantial, in hindsight, but convincing.”

Megatron was quiet, and then he said, “What was your question?”

“Oh. Forgive me if it’s too personal.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s a strange question, so if you judge me I won’t hold it against you.”

“Ask.”

“Are you - here?”

Megatron didn’t answer. Minimus found himself unable to face the impossible shadow in the doorway. He turned his back and rummaged around in one of his moving boxes. Just for something to do with his hands.

“I’m here.” Megatron said.

He said it very hesitantly, and very quietly. Minimus couldn’t help a shudder of awful relief, and braced his hands against the desk. He immediately felt embarrassed for having needed to ask.

“Thank you.” Minimus said, still with his back to the doorway. “Ah. What a mess. I really must be getting on with-“

“Minimus Ambus is dead.” Megatron’s voice was completely and horribly flat.

Minimus froze.

“I saw the shattered window. The stain on the pavement.”

“Are you quite certain,” Minimus’ tongue cooperated long enough to say, “that the evidence was not circumstantial? Did you see him dead?”

There was no answer from the doorway behind him. There was no answer for so long that Minimus thought Megatron had left, and he didn’t blame him, because this intense emotion rolling over him was just too much, too much to be dealing with. His hands clenched on his brand new desk. His posture was so rigid his spine ached. Megatron was, suddenly, directly behind him and had been standing there for a while.

“I had a question.” Megatron said, and by the direction of his voice Minimus realised he’d mass-shifted quite considerably. Rather than towering over him, he was only shying just taller than Rewind. This was still taller than the irreducible Minimus. But it was not, as before, a mountain of shadow…

“Ask.” Minimus said.

“Are you alive?” Megatron’s voice broke.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“What a strange question.”

“If you judge me, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Am I? Yes. I suppose I am. That reminds me – I owe it to Pharma to deliver his last message to Ratchet.”

“Pharma.”

“Saved me, Primus knows why. Without my armour, however, he did say it would have been-“

Minimus never got to explain what it would have been, because as soon as he mentioned his armour, Megatron gave a deep groan and fell forwards. The desk creaked: he’d had to put a hand on it to support himself, which he did over the top of Minimus’ shoulder. Pinned between him and the desk, Minimus could only sort of half-turn around. He craned his head back. Megatron’s eyes were clenched shut.

“Er – Megatron –“ Minimus started, unwilling to raise the issue of their awkward position. Megatron seemed beyond hearing him, anyway. He touched him on the chest lightly to bring him back to reality. “Megatron?”

Megatron opened his eyes. It clearly cost him a lot of effort to do it, but he did.

“You signed my death certificate?” he asked.

Minimus swallowed thickly. “You were dead and cold.”

“Mostly dead,” Megatron corrected him.

From this close, Minimus could feel the soothing heat radiating off his subtly-strange new frame. Parts of it were clearly as-yet unpainted, his chest was a slightly different shape, and the curling decorative loops were freshly engraved. To assure himself of its reality, Minimus put palm to it. The metal was warm.

“Not dead,” Minimus whispered, and for the first time, he let himself believe it.

“Nor are you.”

“No.”

“Minimus,” Megatron said, and his voice was crushed into calmness by a phenomenal amount of restraint. “Would you object to being picked up?”

“No,” Minimus whispered.

Megatron lifted him onto the desk. He did it with a lot of effort, actually, which proved that maybe he wasn’t as healed as he wanted Minimus to believe. His knees almost buckled. There was a definite shake in the mechanical musculature of his arms. But he did it, and he was, Minimus realised, level with Megatron now-

Who wasn’t looking through him at all: he was looking right at him, and there wasn’t a shred of distraction in that focused expression. It was terrible, to feel so seen. It was wonderful. It was both.

“Would this be an appropriate moment for a hug?” Minimus asked, awkwardly and genuinely concerned.

Megatron laughed brokenly, as if on the verge of tears. “I believe this would be a fitting occasion, yes.”

Minimus fell forward around Megatron’s neck and held him close. Under him, Megatron did not relax even the tiniest amount, but shook with the effort of remaining gentle. It wasn’t – a bad hug. Necessarily. Then Minimus shifted so that his head could rest against Megatron’s collar, and something in Megatron gave way with a creaky, shuddering groan, and then he was crushing Minimus and it was perfect. Because now Minimus couldn’t breathe, and didn’t need to, and didn’t want to. He could take it. He was a loadbearer, wasn’t he? He was built to take it. And all that emotion, all that intensity, was absorbed in the pressure like the earth absorbing lighting. It was grounding. It was safe.

Yes, it hurt.

But oh Primus, it was worth it, it was worth it.

People don’t always get what they deserve.

Later, when Megatron had healed enough to be walking around again, he would go down to a certain hab-suite and deliver a message.

“My daily prophecy?” Pipes’ eyes crinkled in confused amusement. “Why can’t she tell me?”

Megatron pretended not to hear the latter question. ”She says - tomorrow, you and Riptide will walk down to the beach. If you’re brave, ask, and Riptide will kiss you. Your favourite song will be on the radio.”

“Oh!” Pipes eyes were huge and hopeful. “Tell her I appreciate it?”

Megatron pretended not to hear.

At the last building of the city, next to the desert, Minimus stood outside an apartment door. Dimly from within he heard muffled voices having a surreptitious conversation. He knocked. The voices broke off.

“Minimus.” Cerebros took his prescence with grace, and ushered him in. “I assume you’re checking up on Prowl. Can I get you anything?”

“Fuel would be nice.”

“I’ll be right with you.”

Prowl’s work was spread out all over the kitchen table. He, like Minimus, favored an organized system. And so Minimus was easily able to see how these files interacted with those files, and those forms with this form, and in this way the physical neatness made it easier to see the absolute chaos laid out behind it. This was paperwork at war with itself. Prowl himself was slumped in the centre of it, staring at his memo-pad.

“What a headache.” Prowl had his head in his hands.

“Any progress?”

“Minimus.” Prowl twitched upright, and then immediately slumped. “No. Things would be so much simpler if Megatron were dead. If I were dead. If the war had killed everyone and atoms had inherited the earth: things would be much simpler.”

“It’s that bad?”

“You’ve got no idea.” Prowl used his pen to point to one stack of paper. “See, this is high command signing off to send Megatron into Tarn’s custody. And this, underneath, is Optimus Prime’s little form saying he can’t offer Megatron any more deals. Simple enough. But this-“ Prowl jabbed at another stack as if it had personally insulted him. “This is a complete compilation of Decepticon law, and guess what! ‘Prisoners handed over into Tarn’s custody automatically void all their rights to the prior court’. In this case: Autobot court. That’s a nasty clause. Still not the worst part. The worst part-!“ Prowl’s voice jumped in sudden rage. He took a moment to breathe deeply and recover. “The worst part. The worst part. Is that the sentence has already been carried out. And I signed the bloody death certificate.”

“Ah.” Minimus winced, because he’d signed it too. What Prowl was saying, was, that since Megatron had been processed and executed under Decepticon law, an Autobot court couldn’t touch him.

There had been a trial. A fair trial. And it had already executed him for his crimes.

At this point, Cerebros came in with three cups of heated energon. Fort Max came in behind him, and patted Prowl on the shoulder sympathetically. His large hand unbalanced the unsuspecting bot. Prowl nearly fell off his chair.

“But surely, the Tyrest Accord-?” Minimus asked Max.

Fort Max shrugged. “Probably not. If I swoop in after another court has dealt out a sentence – urgh. No. It’d be like the Tyrest Accord saying ‘your system of law isn’t good enough’. It sets a very bad precedent.”

“But it’s Megatron.” Prowl pleaded. Minimus got the sense they’d had this argument before.

“He’s a signee on the Tyrest Accord. All the more reason to stay impartial.”

“Oh Primus, I’m so tired.” Prowl rubbed the red thing on his forehead. “I wrote to the colonies, but they want nothing to do with it. Even Caminus won’t touch him. There are no courts of law left.”

A thought occurred to Minimus. “If I might suggest something?”

“Anything.”

“The Knights of Cybertron.”

Prowl looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“I take it back.” Prowl said, flatly.

“It’s legal.”

“They’re a fairytale.”

“There’s precedent.”

“They don’t exist!”

Minimus shook his head. “What’s our alternative? Megatron cannot be allowed to walk free.”

Both Fort Max and Prowl went very, very quiet.

It became clear after a long pause that neither of them was saying anything any time soon. Minimus took the opportunity to finish his fuel. Usually with heated energon, he never drank it at the exact right temperature. It was always either scalding hot, or disappointingly lukewarm.

But here, for once, Minimus had timed it perfectly, and he drank his fuel at exactly the right temperature.

“Think about it. He’s a monster. His crimes – no, we can’t let the world’s worst criminal walk free. There must be some justice, or else, what’s the point? But if we use the Knights of Cybertron to hold him on trial ‘in perpetuum’ we can set conditions on his parole, we can impose restrictions on his movements. Harsh restrictions. We could even assign him community service.”

Minimus paused to let the others laugh at his joke.

When there was no reaction, he said, soberly, “Yes. Things would be simpler if Megatron were dead. We could have let the war die with him. Our society would have healed. But, alas! The war isn’t dead, our society may never heal, and we all might spend forever patching up the cracks. A task, I suspect, that Megatron might be willing to spend centuries in service to… it’s just a thought. I’ll let you decide.”

Both Max and Prowl were dead, dead quiet. Minimus decided it was time to leave.

“Prowl. Max. Thank you for the energon.” Minimus put the empty cup down. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Neither of them got up to show him out, so Minimus made his own way. As soon as he shut the apartment door behind him he heard the dim whispers start up again, hushed, like a conversation at a funeral. He didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were discussing. ‘We can’t let him walk free’ – ‘there’s no courts of law!’ – ‘the knights’ – ‘we could set conditions of release’ – ‘community service?’- ‘he can’t walk free’-

Part of Minimus hoped they didn’t give Megatron community service. He hoped Prowl and Max would find another court of law, and they’d give him another trial, and execute Megatron. Properly. Again.

But another part of Minimus was fiercely happy – guilty, but happy - because he really doubted that they could.

That was the end of it, then.

No, they never managed to sentence Megatron to anything. But then again, Getaway never saw justice, and neither did First Aid, and neither did Airachnid, and neither did Pharma at the very end of it. And even Tarn only – ahem - lost his head because he’d driven Pharma mad all those years before. That part - it wasn’t justice, it was vengeance: which is a little bit like justice except you make it yourself.

But it was like this: if you lined every Autobot and Decepticon up against a wall and said, all right, let’s kill the criminals and leave the good guys alive, there wouldn’t have been many of them left.

No-one is innocent.

Probably the only innocent guy in the whole city was Metroplex. And that was just because he felt so guilty about being so big and inconvenient, and would’ve done anything to make himself useful. Windblade cried about it. She was maybe the second-most-innocent person in the whole city because she hadn’t been involved in the war – but then again, she was also a politician, and it’s hard to stay clean in a dirty job like that.

The point is, the point is. That yeah, the world was unfair and cruel, and bad people did bad things and sometimes got away with it. And worse: they sometimes got appreciated for it. And even worser than that: they’re sometimes even necessary. The point is. That there isn’t a point, really, that when you got right down to it, it was all empty, like the glitter in a cocktail or the glass-dead Matrix. It was all sad and pointless, and what could you say to soothe an unsatisfying reality? Nothing. It’s not fair, that’s all there is to it. Sorry, but it’s true.

But if there was a point, it’d be this: love.

Not true love, not some perfect destined soulmate, such as – for example – two destined enemies who’d spent the last four-billion years beating the tar out of each other… although that would’ve been a very good story. It might’ve already been written a couple times, though. Look it up.

So no, not true love, but something – real, nevertheless. Two people who just happened to get along, over paperwork, and conversations, and who, deep down, might’ve both been poets at heart. Not true love. A lawman could never truly forgive the worst criminal that ever lived, even if he did do the vacuuming. It’s more about the fact that the worst criminal that ever lived probably didn’t want to be forgiven, and that if he was going to live at all it had better be spent making amends for everything he ever did.

An eternity of work.

It wasn’t romantic. It was backbreaking, and late nights, and tense conversations at three in the morning. It was early starts, and nightmares, and both of them not all that comfortable with touching or feelings. It was painful. Life is pain. An eternity of work? Who could possibly find that sort of thing romantic?

There was nothing romantic about an eternity of work.

Unless, at least, your name was Minimus Ambus.