Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Megatron found the list, he’d been suffering from a bout of insomnia. 

Fluxes had plagued him the moment he entered into recharge, forcing him awake, and then bubbling back up whenever he went back to sleep. No two were alike; from the pits of Kaon to watching the Lost Light leave without him while he heard others chant about betrayal. More than once he saw Ravage simply sitting there, staring at him with vacant, unfeeling optics. It was better to just be awake, running on caffeinated midgrade. 

Work was never ending. Magnus was a stickler for organization– Megatron appreciated this to no end– but it did mean a high amount of datawork. Much of that datawork went ignored by Rodimus until he was pressured into doing it. Going through his own files, eventually he came across Rodimus’ folder, seeing that it was, surprisingly, recently edited. And unlocked. 

It wasn’t as though the work files were private. Megatron opened them. There had been plenty of complaints from their mutual second in command about spelling errors from Rodimus. By all means, editing his shoddy reports would be a favor. What he wasn’t expecting was to find a text file merely labeled THE LIST.

THE LIST, Megatron came to find after opening it, was a list of names. Not even alphabetized , but done seemingly as Rodimus thought them up. 

Skids

Trailcutter

Ambulon

Ravage

Ten

Mirage

Pipes

Nightbeat

Atomizer 

That wasn’t where the list stopped, but it was where he stopped reading. By Ravage, the theme of the list had settled in. Each one was a member of their dead, listed out as they came to Rodimus. Megatron sighed, pinching his nose bridge as he closed the file. Instead, he opened up a report and began to edit, pushing the macabre list of names to the back of his mind.

Despite his best efforts, Megatron still found himself at Rodimus’ door come the hour the mech usually stirred himself from recharge. Or when he, Magnus, or Drift came to wake him up if he was oversleeping. They had been in weeks of relative peace, with little adventure. Boredom never made a happy Rodimus so Megatron was usually inclined to let him sleep at least a little bit. They all deserved that after four millennia of war. 

He rapped on the door, just loud enough to be heard, “Rodimus? It’s Megatron. I wanted to speak with you.” 

“Come in,” said a familiar voice that was distinctly not Rodimus. 

Megatron frowned as the door slid open. Drift was sitting, full-lotus, on Rodimus’ floor. Blue optics looked up at him– he had changed his biolights when he switched sides. Or was it more accurate to say he changed them back? Either way it unnerved Megatron. But Drift, even as Deadlock, never did something by half-measure. What happened with Turmoil was old news to him now. When he was first told, back during the war when they thought Deadlock dead, Megatron deeply regretted not promoting Deadlock sooner. 

He should have raised Deadlock up to be by his side with Starscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave. There were many roles that the other could have filled for him. A ground troop commander. A personal assassin. But, not promoting him was perhaps the best thing to ever happen to Drift. Between the two of them, Drift was living his best life… Megatron was still struggling to figure out what his best life was. But he imagined such a life involved Drift not looking at him with thinly veiled distrust. 

“Shouldn’t you be with Ratchet?” he asked, not meaning to sound rude. The question was a mix of worry and mere curiosity. It was Velocity’s shift right now, but if there was an emergency Ratchet would have been roused first. ]

Drift frowned deeply, “Respectfully, Captain, that is none of your business.” 

The words stung. Megatron did not flinch, but each syllable felt like a lash to the face. Why won’t you trust me? Haven’t I proven myself to you yet? At least, it confirmed that there was no pressing emergency that the commanders hadn’t been alerted to yet. Next to Drift, on his recharge berth, Rodimus was rubbing sleep from his optics, blue biolights flickering as he attempted to force himself to wake up. A yawn escaped him. 

“What’s up, Megs?” 

He loathed all three words. From the informality of the first two to that wretched nickname, it was enough to make his protoform seize within him. This was how Rodimus expressed friendship, however. Those three words held more respect for him than Drift’s Respectfully, Captain did. At his hip, he flexed his servo. 

“I edited the spelling on your reports. Save us the trouble with Minimus,” he told him. 

Rodimus beamed in a way that reminded the old poet in Megatron of a sun, “Really? Thanks. I write ‘em so quick just to get them done, I forget to run the spellchecker half the time. When’d you find time to do that?” 

“A sleepless night. Nothing unusual,” he said, waving his hand dismissively as Rodimus began to protest the idea of someone missing a recharge cycle. 

Drift spoke over him anyway, “Is that all you came to talk about?” His tone was protective, skeptical. The warrior hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, but Megatron could visualize the protective hand the other was placing over Rodimus’ spark. 

He shook his head, “No… I happened across a file, titled THE LIST. All capital letters with a list of names of the dead. What is it for?” 

With a sag of his shoulders, Rodimus rolled his neck back. From the corner of his optics, he could see Drift’s less than amused look that Megatron had stumbled upon the file. It hardly surprised him that the white mech knew the very list he spoke of. Rodimus and Drift shared everything, like two younglings who could not help but depend on each other to survive. Despite being conjunxed to Ratchet, it was hard to tell where Drift and his amica endura ended and the other began. More than once, he had watched them order different drinks at Swerve’s only to take sips of the other’s drink without asking. Even now, Drift hardly looked out of place sharing Rodimus’ habsuite.

“You want the truth?” he asked, though it was clear he hardly expected an answer, “...I want to find other versions of the people we’ve lost. Like when we found Rewind. He’s the inspiration, really. I’m not looking to take some happy Skids with a family from his home dimension, but if we found one in need of help or looking for an adventure…” 

“You can’t replace our dead,” Megatron told him flatly, “Even Rewind is different from the Rewind you lost.” Not to mention, he had been an identical copy to the Rewind they had lost, not some wayward counterpart who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I know, I know…” Rodimus said, finally standing, popping back struts as he stretched, “But I feel like giving a home to bots in need who happen to be bots we lost…Well, it’s a way of honoring their memory. Besides, it’s not like we won’t take on people who aren’t from our original crew if they want to join. Especially if they need a servo.” 

Megatron nodded slowly, “Don’t let this consume you, Rodimus.” Before Rodimus could protest, he turned and added to Drift, “Don’t let this consume him… Please.” They both knew what happened when the former Prime got an idea into his helm much less when guilt tore at the back of his mind. 

They could really use a psychiatrist. 

“I won’t,” Drift agreed, in perhaps the most agreeable tone he had directed towards Megatron in a long time. 

“Hey,” snapped Rodimus, shoving Drift’s knee lightly with a pede. 

Megatron sighed. It was not an immoral quest. In fact, he admitted he quite liked the idea. Even he could feel the selfish guilt of missing Ravage’s presence and would happily take on one that desired to come aboard. At first glance, Rodimus would always appear reckless and childish. There was a certain extent that he was, but it never outweighed a spark that cared far too deeply about others. His care for Megatron was evidence of that. 

“That’s all then,” he replied, nodding, “I’ve sent our reports to Minimus so I’ll check in with him. And I think Brainstorm wanted to show us a new dimension to map to at some point today.” 

Another beaming smile from Rodimus nearly blinded him, “Sweet! Get some recharge, alright? Can’t have my co-captain running on empty.” Megatron rolled his optics, turning on his heel to leave, catching Drift tell Rodimus some snide comment about him. Their peace had been nice while it lasted.

Chapter Text

Being on a spaceship, no one exactly had “mornings” or “nights”, but Fulcrum found that he was fascinated with the ship’s ability to slightly replicate the feel of natural daylight for when the main crew was supposed to be up, slowly switching to less natural light as they moved through a solar cycle. He was by no means an engineer, cyber-forming was a particularly unique and defunct skill set much like being a bomb, but the process of it really did fascinate him in comparison to the W.A.P. 's eternal sameness. There were some days that he missed it.  

He had long ago come to care about their little crew of Scavengers. Even if Misfire hardly let the ship remain quiet , it was nothing in comparison to the hubbub of the Lost Light . Everyone took turns on being the skeletal night crew that remained awake long after Swerve’s closed. It meant that there was always noise, but the ship became a regular city during the day. Fulcrum didn’t know even half the mechanoids present well yet, usually sticking with those the other Scavengers befriended. 

Swerve was the one they all knew best. He and Misfire had hit it off like on-fire gasoline. Both of them were currently flunking shooting classes some of the others had decided to give them. Megatron was always friendly with them, despite how it could have made him look. If he had switched sides, would he be concerned about what other bots thought about him talking to Cons? But, if it bothered Megatron, he never let it show. Even now, he spared Fulcrum a friendly wave as they passed each other in the hall. 

“Morning, Captain!” he called. 

“On your way to the medbay?” asked Megatron, stalling to talk to him. 

Fulcrum could have blushed. Not only did Megatron know the names of all his Decepticons, he knew everyone on the Lost Light and kept track of their needs. Though, Fulcrum supposed his needs were a bit more obvious than others. 

“Yes… First Aid wanted to look me over one more time before they attempt to fix my scanner and t-cog,” he explained. 

Briefly, he saw the pained look on Megatron’s face, before the other reached over and squeezed his shoulder, “I am deeply sorry. But the Lost Light has a medical team like no other. You’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

This was hardly the first time Megatron had apologized for Fulcrums’ K-Class fate. Regret seemed built into the former Decepticon’s coding these days. At first, it had been off-putting, but Krok had surmised that it meant that he truly cared about them all. No one deserved a forced suicide. At one time, Megatron would have thought the practice barbaric and it seemed he had finally returned to that line of thinking. 

“Nothing to apologize for, sir. We’re getting me fixed up,” Fulcrum replied. Speaking to Megatron should have made him nervous. Whenever he talked to Magnus or even the lackadaisical Rodimus, his anxiety seemed to claw at him. Yet, talking to Megatron was calming. 

“I won’t keep you then,” Megatron replied, dropping his arm.

Both parted ways as they often did. They had forever after all. Or, at least, until age-related burnout or tragedy caught up with them, but their species was built to survive far longer than others. And who knew what kinds of loopholes their motley crew might find?

BOOM! 

First Aid jumped practically all the way to the ceiling, whipping his head to look behind him to see Spinister with his gun pointed at whatever object had received his ire today. This time, it was a speciality laser scalpel, a unique and fine tool that would now have to be painstakingly repaired. 

“Dammit, Spinster, I needed that!” snapped Ratchet, marching over to scold the Decepticon medic. 

If Spinister wasn’t so gifted, the damage he did to their medbay would hardly be worth it. Everything inanimate seemed to look at him the wrong way. Their ship really could have used a good psychiatrist, a field that each of their regular medics were lacking. Meds didn’t seem to affect Spinister’s mood positively even if they calmed his paranoia. Therapy would have been ideal and First Aid had tried to study datapads. He was learning, but so much of it was lost on him.

“Frag’s sake!” Ratchet continued as First Aid tried to focus on his x-rays for Fulcrum and organizing the files for the others who were scheduled to come in that day for routine exams, “Can’t you stop being defective for a klik? A nanoklik?” And that First Aid couldn’t ignore. 

“ Ratchet ,” he all but hissed at the CMO. He didn’t need to say anything else. The flinch from the older medic said it all. Upon Spinister’s joining, the word defective had been disbarred outside of clinical terms. Functionalists would have said Spinister was defective… But he didn’t control the way his CPU ran. Even if Cybertronians liked to pretend they could fix helm issues physically or that they simply couldn’t develop them, it clearly wasn’t true. 

His mentor and friend never meant to be cruel. In fact, he agreed it was good practice to stop saying it altogether. Most days, everything was fine. Yet, according to Velocity when First Aid came in to relieve her from night shift, Ratchet had stormed into the medbay hours earlier, muttering angrily to himself. He had said he was fine when she had asked which meant he was absolutely not , but that no one was to bring it up. 

They really needed a proper psychiatrist. How did they make it this long without one? First Aid swore that they hadn’t but… He supposed he was remembering things wrong. 

“Sorry, Spin,” Ratchet replied, sounding weary, “I didn’t mean that. Just not… We gotta find something for you to shoot when you don’t like the look of something.” 

“I’d like that,” Spinster said immediately, before looking mournfully at the lost tool, “Putting up a target or something. Doesn’t mean I’ll always remember to aim for it, though.”

“You and I can work on that,” promised First Aid.

Spinister went to clean up the mess while Ratchet went back to what seemed to be cataloging. As much as he wanted to go back to his work, First Aid turned fully around to look at Ratchet, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. 

“The hell was that?” he asked in a hushed whisper. 

Ratchet rubbed his temples, “Took my anger out on Spin. It’s over. I apologized. Don’t rag on me right now, please .” 

“I rag on you because I care ,” he reminded him,  “Why are you angry?” 

“Nothing that isn’t going to fix itself,” he explained, rubbing his servos over his face, “Look, I appreciate the concern. Okay? I do, kid. But let me worry about myself.” 

First Aid sighed, knowing there was know sense in fighting with him on it, “Alright. Let me know if Fulcrum gets here before I’m done putting his x-rays up.”

The old medic chuckled and he had to admit it was a wonderful sound, “Aye-aye, sir.” First Aid snorted to himself while he busied himself with loading up Fulcrum’s files. 

You okay?  

Another thing for him to jolt and jump at. He sighed… Why did he have to get roped into becoming a combiner? Days were hard enough with just himself in his head, but Groove thought it was his Primus-sanctioned duty to check in on him whenever he so much as felt a twinge of annoyance. It was nice to have someone who cared, but it could be draining in equal measure. 

Fine , he responded, doubting he would ever be used to speaking through the bond, Spinister just shot something again and Ratchet’s pissy. 

He’s always pissy.

More than usual , Aid amended, I’ve got it though. Mediated just fine.  

Good. Let me know if you need anything, brother.

First Aid sent a wave of affirmation before veiling off his part of the bond to focus. And to remind Groove once he couldn’t hear that they weren’t brothers. He had taken to calling all of the Protectobots that, but First Aid still couldn’t figure out if it was just his way of talking or not despite knowing him for some time. Being stuck as a combiner with a missing piece was hard . All of them felt the emptiness where Rook, as little as they knew him, should have been in the bond. He’d been their left fucking leg, in all of the irony that included. Using Ambulon’s corpse to form Defensor was nothing more than a temporary solution.

He wondered, briefly, if he was getting to be as bitter and surly as Ratchet or if he was also just in a bad mood. It wasn’t as though he was unhappy that their duplication plan worked as they sailed through dimensions which never ceased to fascinate him. But things had been quiet lately, which usually meant they were flying towards something big. Tensions were probably running high without anything to lose the adrenaline.

“Fulcrum’s here,” called Ratchet, so First Aid got up to put the loaded x-rays on a screen so his patient in question could see them.

The K-Class hopped up on the medical berth where Spinister, coming over from throwing out some of the mess, quickly grabbed Fulcrum’s face, “Don’t frag up his chin, Aid. Make sure that’s in your notes. We can’t lose this chin.” Fulcrum rolled his optics, shoving Spinister off him, though his smile betrayed how he really felt. 

First Aid snickered, “Noted. Chin will remain perfectly intact.”  

Spinister walked off to finish cleaning the mess, leaving the two to their appointment, though he noticed the other medic go still to stare at his servo. The x-ray screen finally flickered to life, showing the internals of Fulcrum’s helm which held his alt-mode scanner. Around it was a very small, nigh unremovable band that cut off its function. The second slide when displayed would be his damaged t-cog, a far easier fix that could not be done until Fulcrum could scan a new alt mode. It was a choice made simply out of precaution. Fulcrum’s current alt-mode wasn’t ideal. The Scavengers hadn’t had the resources on their old ship to perform the surgery, despite Spinister’s wild skills to heal out of scrap metal and determination. When it came down to it, First Aid had been the one given the procedure, however. 

“I still want you for CMO,” Ratchet had said, “And your hands are smaller than mine. Either you or Velocity have to do this and I want it to be you.”

Digging around in someone’s CPU was a dangerous game. One little slip could permanently injure a mech or worse. He wondered how many K-Class had actually been hastily damaged when turned into bombs. How anyone could do this to someone was beyond him… But then again he had never been a Decepticon.

“I’ve been able to enhance the x-rays,” First Aid explained, zooming in on the band, “And confirmed it’s about the size we estimated. Only off by .01mm smaller. You’ll be under for as long as I need to remove it without harming your CPU. Once done, you’ll be able to scan an alt mode. You’ll stay overnight to ensure nothing went wrong with the first surgery. Once we are certain of that, we can do the second surgery.” 

“Great,” Fulcrum said, though his voice had the same nervous tilt to it that it often did when discussing his CPU surgery, “I’ll be ready by the end of the week. Spin is still going to be the one helping you right?” Ratchet had wanted it to be Velocity, but First Aid insisted on Fulcrum’s trusted friend. 

“Correct,” First Aid assured, sliding over to the t-cog x-ray, “And if something happens, Nickel said she could be on call. I want to update you on something she brought to my attention. Scanning a new alt-mode is almost certain to remove your explosive lines, but on the off-chance they reactivate them, we’ll have to remove them when fixing your t-cog, but that also means longer PT.” 

His patient winced, “Longer? I’m already gonna be stuck with it for two megacycles.” 

“If we have to remove the explosive lines, your body will be incredibly sensitive on top of the disuse of your t-cog,” First Aid explained. Fulcrum could transform, but it cracked his t-cog each time whenever the explosive lines didn’t work, “Any good medic would up you to three megacycles. I’m gonna give you a quartex.” 

“A whole quartex ,” sighed Fulcrum, hanging his head, “Fine. If that’s what it takes.” 

“If you do well enough, we can ease up,” assured First Aid, “My job is to get you back to functioning again, not let you break yourself trying to transform at every given opportunity.”

At that, Fulcrum smiled which eased his worried spark that he might get ignored. He knew how to talk to his patients– Fulcrum was a survivalist at spark. That meant that Aid had to make sure to speak his language. You want to not break? Doctor’s orders are to be followed, but I’ll work with you. Usually, mechanoids liked some variant of that. Others, like Rodimus, had to be reasoned with in different ways. If Ratchet wanted to retire, at least partially so he could step down from being in charge of the medbay, then First Aid knew he had to know his patients. Most people simply didn’t argue with Ratchet. He didn’t have that reputation yet, so he would have to keep up a good communication. 

Though, he doubted he would ever truly operate like Ratchet. Working under him, First Aid knew that each medic had to craft their own way to deal with patients. No one would ever be Ratchet again, no matter how many duplicates he might have across the multiverse. But no one would ever be First Aid, either. 

Above them, an intercom crackled to life, Magnus’ voice echoing around the room, “ Ratchet, come to the bridge post-haste for an impromptu meeting. ”

“Uh-oh,” Ratchet said, “Nothing he hates more than an ‘impromptu meeting’.” 

“He definitely hates things being out of regulation more,” First Aid teased as he started to double check Fulcrum for anything that might cause issues with the surgery one more time.

Ratchet nodded, smirking, “You might be right. Close second, though. Wish me luck.”

Exploring uncharted dimensions had no precedent. Magnus liked precedent. When assuming the armor, he had plenty of those to follow. Laws, regulation… Maybe he wasn’t as strict as he used to be, but that didn’t mean he would have to like playing pioneer with the ship he was supposed to protect. Could they really sustain this forever? What an equally exciting and terrifying thought. 

“What’s going on?” asked Ratchet, as he came up to the bridge where both captains, Magnus, Drift, Red Alert, and Brainstorm stood. In the middle of them was a big map that Brainstorm had projected of what he hoped to make their next course. Instead of the wild symbols of the one Rodimus once carved into his desk, it was a plain map using green gridlines to show how they would travel from Point A to Point B through dimensional barriers, flattened into a two-dimensional space rather than the three-dimensional barrier lines the quantum engines allowed them to cross. They had done so before, but he still always hated the risk. 

“Percy and I got a hit on another dimension,” Brainstorm told the CMO, giddily, pointing to the Point B location, “Apparently, I need all of Commands’ approval now.” 

“It takes a lot to jump,” Megatron reminded Brainstorm, “And our last hasty one got our lifesign scanners eaten by Insecticons.” 

It had been an absolute infestation . All of them were smaller than regular Insecticons, but they packed a punch, chewing through parts of the ship and the scientists’ precious lifesign scanner. Previously, they had increased the range to focus on dimensions that had been located. Doing so made certain they would not land in Dead Worlds, which had faced some sort of extinction event making them entirely void of life. Those were undeniably eerie and they all agreed it was best to avoid them since nothing could be done there. Still, it had taken nearly fifty jumps before they could even control where and when they jumped. That was how they found the first Dead World they encountered.  Another ten jumps after learning how to direct the Lost Light where they wanted it to go would go by before the lifesign scanner had been functioning properly.

Each jump was a new normal, a new discovery. There had never been anything like the Lost Light ’s second quest. Magnus doubted that there ever would be anything like it again. Still, if there was, he had to record every major decision as a precedent . 

“And I’d like this one to not be boring like the last five,” mused Rodimus with a smirk. 

“Well, we think we fixed the lifescanner so we should be fine!” Brainstorm explained. 

“You think ,” repeated Red Alert, vocalizing Magnus’ thoughts exactly. 

Ratchet walked around the bridge, settling into the open space next to Drift. All taking place in seconds, Magnus watched the tension between them unfold. The medic rested his servo on top of Drift, wrapping his hand around his fingers. They both shared a look, Ratchet staring into the optics of  his conjunx as though he were begging for something he needed while Drift could barely express anything in his own optics beyond exhaustion. Everything in the other’s frame spoke of being tired, Magnus realized from the tightness of his shoulder struts to the dimness of his biolights. Drift was the first to break, looking away, back to the map with a tight, unreadable expression. Neither moved their hand, however. 

There were many things Magnus disliked. A lack of order, uncleanliness, impromptu meetings, and tension between crewmates were a handful of them. The latter only led to an eventual boiling over of emotions which could range from a small spat in front of the crew to a nuclear-level destructive event. Like a crew member deciding a coup was necessary. 

If only they had a therapist to send them both too. Perhaps they’d find one in this dimension. 

“Like ninety percent sure,” Brainstorm told Red Alert as he patted the other mech’s shoulder which he immediately jolted away from. 

“Ninety,” Magnus reiterated, making sure his tone conveyed just the right amount of skepticism. 

“Okay, more like Eighty-two-point-five,” corrected Brainstorm, “But that’s still a passing grade!”

Rodimus leaned toward the map, the green lighting up his silver faceplates, “I’d stake a bet on those odds. Can we tell anything about the dimension before we go yet?”

Brainstorm shook his head, “We still haven’t figured out how to look into the other dimensions since we had to fix the lifesign scanner. If it’s fixed, which it is , swear on my spark, that project is back to number one!”

After he said that, Rodimus smiled brightly, his biolights increasing their glow with pleasure. They had been bereft of excitement for a while. Worse odds had gotten them victories before. Not to mention, it was always hard to argue with Rodimus when he wanted something. He would fight for them to jump. That was the purpose of this aimless quest anyway. 

“Approval granted from myself,” hummed Magnus, “Though I’d like better odds in the future, Brainstorm. Do you understand?”

“Hah! Sure, Mags!” 

Magus felt a headache coming on–in his frame and in the armor itself– when he heard that horrid nickname. Approval fell in place after him. There was still a power to his approval. Safety was his number one priority. Everyone understood that his decisions could be trusted, no matter how he actually felt about them.  None of them wanted to lose anyone else. Not after everything that they had gone through. How long could they delay the inevitable?

“You heard ‘em!” cheered Rodimus as Red Alert finally agreed, “Crankcase, set course. We’re sending you the coordinates.” 

“I’ll put out the message to prepare to jump,” said Megatron, going to the intercom. 

Magnus stood back, staring at the map, zooming it out. There were named worlds, numbered in the order that they found them. Point B was in an odd spot… It was not quite parallel to their homeworld which they had called World-Prime. Naming it that rather than 1 or 0 had been a joke that had refused to unstick. The mark was low along the quantum lines, but it was curious to see how it lined up with their world. 

He took a digit, tracing from Point B to World-Prime and then to their current location, World-83. It wasn’t a Dead World, but was wholly inhabited by single-celled organisms. Brainstorm had been told they were strictly not to interfere with this universe’s evolution. They had no business playing Primus… Magnus pulled his digit away, analyzing just how much the line looked like the branch of a tree.

“I can’t believe you lost the energon,” moaned Drag Strip, his head clunking back down onto the ground. 

Breakdown looked up at him, vocalizer cracking, “ I-I lost the energon?” 

“Yes, you, numbnuts! Sideswipe was right there! And you let him go!” snarled the other Stunticon as Breakdown began to shake slightly, his engine rattling against his frame.

He shook his head, “He was just faster than me–!” 

“I wouldn’t want to be you when Moto finds out,” Wildrider chimed in with a twisted little laugh. 

Everything about the day was going to hell. Motormaster had been called away to a meeting with Galvatron which had left the other four remaining Stunticons to complete their task for the day– guarding this deposit of Decepticon energon stocks. Most days, nobody bothered to try and attack Chaar with its infestation of Decepticons. Today was no different… But someone had decided that they wanted to see how easy it would be to steal a few cubes of energon from their supply. 

All four of the mechs had been lazily 'watching' the storage shed– a metal building with no windows and a flat top with one door to go in and out of. Dead End in reality had been reading, Drag Strip had been refreshing his already perfect paint job, Breakdown had been dozing off, and Wildrider had been slamming himself into a nearby rock wall to see how many times it would take for his forcefield to break. 

Breakdown had been sleeping light enough to hear the noise from inside the shed. When he peeked inside, he saw two pale blue optics staring back at him. Instead of calling for the others, Breakdown screeched , beginning to fire wildly into the shed, worried it was some wild mechanimal. That was, until, Sideswipe had bolted out of the shed with his hands full of cubes of energon. He laughed, rushing past all of them except Wildrider who had run into his legs, sending the Autobot careening aft over helm. Many of the cubes scattered to the ground, some cracking and spilling their contents. Inside, a fire had erupted making a number of the cubes explode. 

Dead End had gone inside to handle that before more cubes were lost. Transforming, Breakdown began to shake as hard as he could, attempting to short Sideswipe out. Instead, the other grabbed the cubes nearest to him before launching himself up in the air with his jetpack. Wildrider and Drag Strip had both attempted to ram him before he could do so, but it was to no avail. Their forcefields slammed into each other which sent the two spinning wildly. By the time their foe was out of range, Breakdown had only worked up enough energy to turn off an actual car, not a Cybertronian. Inside, the fatalist had found a hole that Sideswipe had been able to cut into the shed by sneaking up while they were all slacking off. 

Why did he want to steal from them? Didn’t the Autobots have enough? Or was he just seeing if he could? Chaar was hardly rich in energon. Usually, the Decepticons had to find other means to get their fuel. Now, a number of cubes had been destroyed and stolen in an absolute defeat for the Stunticons. Breakdown didn’t want to think of the beating they would all get from Motormaster. Nevermind Galvatron, who was probably offworld now that the meeting was done to go bother Autobots. 

Or, apparently, the beating only he would get from Motormaster. He knew better than to trust his brothers to protect him, the shaking of his frame picking  up speed. Maybe if he was lucky he could charge up faster this time and short Motormaster out so he could flee back to base. Unfortunately, he could already hear the roar of Motormaster’s engine in the distance.

Chapter Text

Everything was going to be perfect. As the Lost Light jumped, Rodimus watched the glow of the ship pulling through one dimension to the next. To him, it looked like thick, white lines so bright that they could have blinded him. Though, he wondered if it was something so incomprehensible that it was simply what his processor saw it as. Maybe once they got a few hundred more jumps into this, they would understand it all better. He couldn’t wait to perfect everything about how they moved about the multiverse

Eventually, the lights dimmed, showing a vast, darkened sky full of stars. He leaned over the rail of the ship trying  to look at Crankcase’s screen before letting his optics trail back up to the large windows of the flight deck. Stars were a good sign. Dead Worlds usually never had this many. Some of them even had none at all. 

Rodimus looked to Drift to try to see if the other was excited as he was… But his amica endura was busy talking with Ratchet. He let his dermas purse tightly, watching them speak for a moment. Drift had come into his room in the middle of his recharge cycle. There had been a spat between the two conjunx endurae, but Drift had decided to get Rodimus to go back to sleep rather than fully elaborate, which he assumed had something to do with their rebuilding tension around religion. 

Shortly after their first jump, Drift’s dreams had started again. Ratchet, ever the skeptic, assumed it just meant that they would be passing through the Warren or a similar structure again in the future. After all, that was what they assumed had caused it the first time… But now Drift wasn’t so sure. Both he and his amica had met The Guiding Hand, but Ratchet clung to skepticism like a life preserver. Jumping dimensional lines was cold, hard science, but if Drift so much as breathed a word about how interesting he found chakras… 

Well, that was unfair. Ratchet loved Drift. No one could deny that. They made each other happy… But Rodimus knew this was hardly the first time since they started their second quest that Drift or Ratchet had abandoned their shared habsuite to cool off. All he wanted to do was hold Drift, tell the other mech that it would all work out… But he couldn’t do that. Being near Drift was already a painful temptation. 

“Captains,” said Crankcase, “We’ve got a planet in our sights. Not Cybertron or Earth by the look of it, but it’s something.” 

“Mark a course,” he said without letting Megatron deliberate with him on it. As if the other was going to say no. 

A good, solid adventure was what they all needed. He himself was already restless, eager to find something to do before he started holding illegal races through the halls of the ship. Some of the other bots might actually enjoy that, but Magnus would shut it down faster than he could run the race. Plus, there was always a chance of a real accident happening that way. Supplies were good for now, but they never knew when they might start running low. 

Most dimensions had energon that only needed a few additives in order for them to be safe for consumption or fuel use. However, they had encountered worlds where the energon couldn’t be ingested at all. Whirl had been the one to learn that the hard way, drinking a cube without letting Perceptor test it only to wind up in the medbay getting his intakes pumped. It sucked actually, knowing that they might go through a period of jumps with dimensions whose energon they couldn’t use, but their science team was supposedly working on a project that would expand what their intakes could handle. 

The science team had a lot of projects, honestly. Whether that showed a lack of preparedness for their last minute quest or the fact that this quest couldn’t be prepared for was in the optic of the beholder. Not to mention, none of that accounted for worlds where Cybertronians had never come into being leaving them without fuel to collect. He imagined some dimensions were even stranger, though they had yet to come across a place entirely made of pudding or where everyone was a mechanimal in their robot mode.

Several joors passed as they approached the planet. It had no lights, which wasn’t usually a good sign. Usually, as you got closer, you could see light pollution. Sometimes that meant early tech, but other times that meant the planet was dead and they would have to continue onto the next one. Dead or not, Rodimus figured it couldn’t hurt to go have a look around. 

“It looks burned, man…” murmured Blaster as he zoomed in as much as he could on the image, “Like the whole thing was on fire at some point.” 

Rodimus had to agree, there was something foreboding about a blackened planet. And exciting. It was exboding. No, that sounded too much like exploding. Foreciting? No, too much like foresight. Oh, well, he’d workshop the feeling’s name another time. Right now, he wanted to focus on the planet itself. Maybe there was something incredible just lurking below the surface, below the tarnish. His servo flexed around the rail, clutching it tightly. 

“You haven’t sat once since we got here,” Drift said, coming up next to him with two cubes of energon. He handed one to Rodimus, who took it gratefully even though he wasn’t really hungry. The planet was just in reach; he was eager to get down there. 

He sipped at the energon, noting that Drift had added something to make it spicy. It burned pleasantly on the way down, like swallowing the heat of a campfire. Venting slightly to gather his thoughts, Rodimus let himself enjoy the flavor of the energon. Gently, he knocked their shoulders together. 

“First real adventure in a while,” he said, “Can’t blame me for being excited.”

Instead of speaking, Drift took his servo, gently gliding words along with tender touches, You want to see if you can start crossing names off the list. 

Rodimus chuckled. They were amica for a reason, after all. Drift always seemed to know what he was thinking, what the exact mood he was in was… Rodimus wondered if his guesstimates were enough. Was what he thought about how his friend felt in equal measure to how intimately Drift understood him? His digits twitched for a second before starting his response, playing it off of him thinking what to tell him. 

Can you blame me for that either? Rodimus was not trying to replace their lost crewmates… But it would be nice to keep rolling with the second chances. They had managed ones for Tailgate, Cyclonus, Megatron, and so many others… Even himself . The Would-Be Prime turned (Co-)Captain. How many bots could he give second chances to? How many could he make happy? 

Not really , Drift told him, letting his touch linger longer than normal, Thanks for last night, by the way.

You two gonna be alright? Was it the dreams again? he asked, doing his best to convey his concern. 

There was a surprisingly long hesitation from Drift. He was usually so certain , so sure . Much of it, Rodimus learned, was a bit of a front. As long as he believed in himself, in the bot that Wing saw in him, Drift knew he would always come into the person he was always meant to be. Yet, right now, he seemed to melt into hesitancy and doubtfulness, wearing them like a heavy cape. Instead of letting Drift speak, Rodimus squeezed his servo. The other gave him a grateful smile. 

More or less , he replied once Rodimus had eased his touch, We’re working it out . 

Both of them always seemed to be ‘working it out’ these days. But that was the difference between the ‘honeymoon phase’ and actually being conjunxed, he supposed. Not that he would know. Rodimus had fallen in love a few times. But the one he felt strongest about had been the very definition of wrong place, wrong time and now he’d lost his chance there forever. He’d get over it eventually. As long as they got to stay amica endura, he would be happy. 

They had been right about the planet being burned. By the time they touched down, it became apparent that the entirety of the planet’s surface was covered in ash. Brainstorm had determined that there was life on the planet, however, clustered in what appeared to be one central city. Out of precaution, Rodimus had taken a small team down to explore before they determined if the populus was safe, Megatron agreeing to stay behind. That had been one of Magnus’ early ground rules– unless the situation called for it, one of the Co-Captains had to stay with the Lost Light . 

He had chosen Nickel for their medic, the little femme happy to stretch her wheeled pedes. Despite being the former medic of the DJD, he liked her well enough. She didn’t seem to have a bad circuit in her body to tell the truth. Drift had been a must– Rodimus figured that he needed off the ship for a little bit– and he was more than happy to bring Cyclonus and Tailgate along, the minibot eager to see the planet. He’d wrapped up their team with  Brainstorm and then Bluestreak, figuring having a decent sniper to scout out the city would be worthwhile. 

Unfortunately, he forgot how much Bluestreak could talk . He was perhaps the only bot on the Lost Light who could give Swerve a run for his shanix… No, no one could out-chat Swerve, but Bluestreak could babble when he wanted to.  Whirl had wanted to come with them, but Rodimus had promised him that if the city was full of hostiles, he’d be the first bot they would call for backup which had greatly appeased him. Now, he was wishing that he had chosen the former Wrecker to come along. 

“So I says to him, ‘Mixer? I hardly know her!’ and Prowl did not think that was as funny as I did,” Bluestreak said, laughing at his own joke that Rodimus had only been half paying attention to, “Get it? Mixer? Mix Her?” 

“Yes, I get the joke, Bluestreak,” hummed Drift as they carefully drove along the edge of a canyon, going slower than Rodimus would have liked in order to keep anyone from falling off. Cyclonus hovered next to them, keeping his alt mode low in case anyone did fall. Brainstorm was right behind him.

“See! I knew you would! Got a sense of humor which Prowl totally can’t– could never scrounge together,” the Datsun snickered, “That’s what I like about you! It really is.” 

A sense of humor was what Bluestreak liked about everyone. From what Rodimus had been told, Bluestreak had been the sole survivor of the Praxian bombings. Both of them should relate to each other, of dealing with that very specific kind of trauma, but Rodimus didn’t even think he could talk as much as Bluestreak. Why… No, how could anyone just keep going and going and going and going– There had to be some explanation. 

Well, that was the question for the psychiatrist they didn’t have. 

“Bluestreak, let’s go radio silent once we get closer, okay?” he ordered, pretending like it was a suggestion. 

“You got it, captain! Ray-dee-oh silent!” 

Primus help him. That was what he got for being responsible and picking someone good with a viewfinder… Not that Rodimus really disliked Bluestreak. Maybe he really was just on edge. There was something off about this planet despite the fact that it certainly wasn’t dead. Despite the clear lifesigns that marked it as inhabited, everything about its appearance screamed abandoned. Each roll of their tires sent ash flying into the air. Excitement, he reminded himself, this was excitement. He and the feeling must have become strangers after a long, dull period. 

Several long minutes went by, ticking along as the sound of their engines filled the air. They could practically see the city in the distance. What did he care about the rest of this world? Why would Rodimus think to look down into the cavern below? Their destination was so close he could practically take it in his servoes and pull it close to his chest. Instead, though, Bluestreak screeched to a halt nearly causing Tailgate to collide into him. Cyclonus transformed to steady his conjunx on the ledge. 

“Are you insane?” the purple flier seethed in an ice-cold fury before turning his attention to Tailgate, “Are you alright?” 

“A-okay thanks to you!” chirped the minibot. 

Rodimus transformed, the rest of the team following suit to see what Bluestreak had stopped for. The gray mech was leaning over the ledge slightly, optics narrowed in on something on the ground. Following his line of sight, Rodimus first saw a large gray cube, no doubt some sort of industrial shed. From its singular door, he could see a pink glow that almost certainly promised energon. Fuel wasn’t what had caused Bluestreak to stop, though, and his captain knew it. 

Laying in front of the shed was a mech, primarily white or maybe cream and dark blue… It was hard to tell with the amount of energon coating his frame. Dread clenched a firm grip on Rodimus’ spark. Excitement had never been there to visit at all. Bright, neon pink leaked from torn lines, from around the front of his face, pooling against the mech in the ashen dirt. 

Not good , thought Rodimus, trying to keep himself as calm as possible as he turned to the two fliers, “Cyclonus, Brainstorm, fly down and check on him.”

Indulging Tailgate was never a chore, but it sometimes led Cyclonus to places he had never longed to go. From his first sight of this planet, he had felt nothing but revulsion. Everything about the burned husk set his denta on edge. Even as he watched the grounders drive, he could only note that for all the ash that they kicked up, there was only more underneath. 

His pedes finally touched said ash as he landed near the body. Brainstorm had reported that he could detect a spark pulse coming from the body, but it was faint. When he got close enough, Cyclonus felt its faint, irregular field pulse, pulled so close to the mech’s frame. Why had this mech been left for dead when there was so much energon here? Clearly, it was one of the city’s storages. Why turn on their own?

“It looks like Breakdown,” said Brainstorm as he touched down behind Cyclonus, “Oh, I guess you didn’t really know Breakdown. He was a Decepticon. One of the Stunticons– a combiner team like First Aid and all them.”

Cyclonus had only seen the tail end of the Great War, being lost to the Dead Zone for so long. He’d met a number of Decepticons during that time, but little to none of them made an impression. Despite how many thought he was a Decepticon. So, no, he did not remember a Breakdown from his short time trapped among their numbers. It was truly a wonder how their species had slimmed down so greatly that many seemed to know each other, at least in passing, regardless of what side they fought for. 

Gently, he moved the other mech onto his back with his pede, studying him closely. Colored faceplates were always so unusual. Colored helms and armor often dipped around the face of their kind, but most were some variant of white, gray, or silver. Occasionally, a mech or two had black– all were neutral colors, however. This mech, much to his surprise, had bright red faceplates. One optic was completely dimmed, the other totally shattered with more pink energon leaking slowly in a quiet drip.

Brainstorm hummed, “Yep, that’s Breakdown, alright. Someone fragged him up bad.”             

That was an understatement. The injuries on Breakdown’s front were far worse than the few dents on his back, revealing just where the pool of energon was coming from. None of it was from slashing wounds. Breakdown had been dented so badly that parts of his frame had totally caved in, energon spilling out in slow waterfalls. Two were particularly bad: one that made a soft glugging sound in his side and the other a hole in his chest that wasn’t bleeding nearly as bad, but revealed part of the other’s spark casing. 

Who would leave a mech like this? Who would be so cruel as to do this and not finish the job? Cyclonus was tempted to reach for his sword just to put the poor Decepticon down out of mercy. Their medical team would have had words for him about that, however. Brainstorm had two fingers to his comm, facing toward their team on the cliff side while Cyclonus shook his metal of Breakdown’s energon. 

“Nickel can’t help anyone this far gone with just her kit. Captain wants us to take him back to the Lost Light . See if Ratchet can do anything for him,” the scientist reported, “I don’t think he’s gonna make it that long, but I guess we have to try.” 

At first, Cyclonus went to agree with Brainstorm, but he was interrupted by a horrible noise. Harsh, unfiltered static erupted from Breakdown’s throat. It sounded like a scream if one shoved a scream through several dimensions and several hundred filters of white noise. Wounding his pride slightly, the noise made Cyclonus take a step back. He watched as a single purple optic flickered to life on the nearly dead mech. 

“Cy,” Breakdown said, static still clinging to what was no doubt an underpowered if not partially broken vocalizer, “Cyclonus?” Without a second word, the Stunticon powered down again, helm smashing into ashen dirt. Amazingly, Cyclonus could still feel that faint pulse of spark within mech. 

Within the mech that somehow knew him.

Wildrider paced quickly through the shared common area of the rooms the Stunticons had been provided. They were Spartan by all accounts with furniture and appliances of abysmal quality. Instead of each having their own room as they had on the Nemesis , they had a living area where Motormaster slept and a smaller side room that functioned as a shared space between the other four members of their combiner team. To say he missed his first home would be an understatement. He cursed the day the Decepticons had had to finally flee earth, leaving it behind. Chaar sucked . 

“We gotta go back an’ get him,” he said, mind flashing to just how broken Motormaster had left their missing brother. 

Drag Strip scoffed from his recharge berth where he was polishing his right arm, “If we do that, we ruin the ruse. He’ll be fine.” 

“Moto doesn’t care if he’ll be fine,” snapped Wildrider, turning to march on his brother, doing his best to ignore the urge to shoot him in the face, “Lyin’ to whichever leader is left will work if he dies too!” 

That had been the plan. As punishment for having the chance to stop Sideswipe, Breakdown would be their patsy. All he had to do was endure a beat down from Motormaster, making it look like several Autobots had jumped him after he had told the other Stunticons that he could watch the shed by himself. Except Motormaster hadn’t just beat Breakdown, he’d all but demolished him. 

None of the Stunticons were strangers to Motormaster’s fists. One of the first things they had all seen Megatron do was punch Starscream for insubordination. Motormaster had perfected the art of corporal punishment. 

Anger consumed him at all hours of the day as far as the others could tell. Which, truthfully, wasn’t far at all. Their leader kept his part of their gestalt bond walled off so thick it was a wonder that the others didn’t wake up after each recharge cycle thinking he was dead. Even now, they all had to simply sit without any clue as to who Motormaster was reporting to nor how it was going. They were just supposed to wait until Motormaster came to get them with whoever he could reasonably lie to. 

“So?” snapped Drag Strip, mouth curling up into a snarl, “Was that fuckup’s fault this even happened!” 

“We were all slacking off,” Rider reminded him, fist clenching so tightly he could feel the tips of his fingers pressing dents into the metal of his palms.

No one would ever consider Wildrider a saint, not even himself. Especially not himself. Even he had more than once sat back with a smirk watching one of his brothers take a hit. Yet, he knew one of them had to look after Breakdown. Even if he was a fuckup most of the time, he still was part of their gestalt. He was the right leg to Wildrider’s left. That practically made them twins, right? Right. So, Wildrider took it upon himself to make sure Breakdown made it to places like the medbay or acted as a shield when his paranoia kept him from wanting to go to the mess to get his energon rations. 

They had their own troubles between them, but Wildrider still cared the most. Better than Drag Strip or Dead End. Definitely better than Motormaster.

“I’m goin’ to get him,” Wildrider told them, turning away completely before he listened to the voice urging him to tear Drag Strip’s stupid polishing hand clean off.

“Fine. You’ll be next if you fuck up Moto’s plan!” his yellow brother snapped, moving to polish his other arm. 

Dead End said nothing. Even as Wildrider walked past him, he didn’t even so much as hum. He had at least expected his pessimistic brother to discourage his attempt to save Breakdown’s life. After all, they were all fated for death, according to Dead End, no use avoiding it. Wildrider couldn’t live life like that. He’d rather walk the knife’s edge, never knowing if or when he’d fall off, but knowing he’d at least walked it. If Dead End didn’t want to stop him, all the better. 

Energon soaked into the ground, but there was no Breakdown. It wouldn’t be the first time the other mech had resiliently hauled himself to the medbay. But there were no signs of movement and Wildrider knew he would have run into Breakdown on the way out of camp had he tried. Someone had taken him! 

…But his brother’s faint presence in their gestalt bond was growing stronger. How? Breakdown had been practically gushing when the Stunticons had left. Had the Autobots come back? Those soft-sparked glitch-heads probably thought they were doing Breakdown a favor. After all, this had actually all been Sideswipe's fault. As if being a prisoner wasn’t going to be just as bad. Still, if Breakdown’s presence was getting stronger, that gave Wildrider a trail to follow.

By the time, Ratchet, First Aid, Spinster, and Velocity had finished getting Breakdown stable, the rest of the team had continued on to the city. Firstly, they had discovered that it was more of a run-down settlement, running off energon and electricity, each only in fumes. Secondly, the settlement was entirely populated by Decepticons. Ratchet had been getting updates from Drift while he worked, letting the messages stay in the back of his mind while he focused. 

Leave it to them to find a Decepticon colony out in the middle of a dimension they didn't know.

First Aid all but slumped over the berth, “He’s stable now. But there’s no way we have any purple optics.” 

“I think the optic is the least of his concern,” Velocity murmured, putting a steady servo on First Aid’s shoulder. 

Once Cyclonus and Brainstorm had gotten Breakdown– or, at least, the mech they assumed was Breakdown– to a medical berth, he had nearly been flatlining. In fact, Ratchet was certain almost any other bot should have flatlined at that point. The mech had a determined little spark, he had to give him that. And luck, too… If Ratchet had ever believed in that sort of thing. 

Emergencies called for energon. Perceptor had warned them when Whirl had foolishly drank that other world’s energon that there was a chance if they took on any new crewmates they wouldn’t be able to drink what the Lost Light had available, much less giving a direct transfusion into a mech’s system. There was a chance he wouldn’t even be compatible with their medical instruments.

Breakdown, in that regard, was somewhat of a marvel. Not only was his system nearly identical to their own, but his fuel lines, when given a small transfusion to test the effects, adapted to the foreign energon on its own. Could everyone in this dimension do that or had they stumbled upon some unique individual that defied science? Ratchet had a feeling it was the former. If there was something unique about this dimension, it would explain far easier how they had no issues doing a complete transfusion once they were done patching the bleeding holes and exposed cables. 

“Blunt-force trauma”, Cyclonus had reported as they brought him in. At first, Ratchet hadn’t believed it until he began to clearly examine the wounds. Each and every one was a dent . Dents that were so big and so deep that they punctured through to his protoform. A monster had done this. He’d assume this world’s version of the DJD, but the DJD wouldn’t have left the job unfinished. 

::The Patient is stable,:: Ratchet reported over the comm line to the rest of what Rodimus had dubbed their ‘Command’, :: He’ll need a lot of rest and we have a patch over the shattered optic, but he’ll live.::

::Excellent work as always, Ratchet,:: Magnus said, formally. 

Ratchet rolled his optics, ::There were four of us working on him. Couldn’t have done it by myself… Doctor’s orders say it’s not safe to let him back out there.::

::That,:: Megatron finally spoke up, ::Has to be his choice. Tell us when he wakes, Krok and I will speak with him about his options.::

::First Aid is concerned about his combiner team,:: Ratchet added, as he watched the smaller medic get the sleeping Stunticon comfortable while checking his IV, ::That would be not just one but five or six mechs if we really wanted to take him. Those teams tend to stick together.::

Ratchet was certainly not against more crewmates joining, especially anyone who seemed particularly at-risk. Even after being on the ship so long, the Lost Light seemed impossibly huge. His only misgiving was that it was one thing to let Breakdown on the ship. It was another to let all the Stunticons on– he was sure Magnus was even more concerned about that than he was. Stunticons had a reputation after all… 

And, above all, Motormaster was an overtly loyal Decepticon from what Ratchet had heard. At least, their own was. This was no Autobot they had found. The Decepticon brand told them that much. But that wasn’t supposed to matter anymore. Their war, at least, was over. The mutineers had realized their mistake and had been forgiven. The Scavengers had been living peacefully with them since the jump through quantum space. But this was not their Breakdown. For all they could know, he would start destroying the medbay as thanks for his rescue. 

Or maybe this dimension was different. There was no luck, after all, just whatever reality they had come to visit.  

::Rodimus, keep an eye out for some combination of Motormaster, Drag Strip, Dead End, Offroad, Blackjack, and maybe Wildrider. He left in our world, but there’s always a chance he’s still around,:: Megatron explained. 

::Well aren’t you in luck Megs,:: Rodimus all but purred over the line, ::Drag Strip and Dead End just left the settlement.::

The thought had passed Dead End’s mind the minute Wildrider had left. Now, it was keeping him from reading, which he absolutely abhorred. Trying to push the hellish thought from his mind was no use. Light as Dead End kept his presence in the gestalt bond, he could still feel Wildrider rushing headlong into danger. Breakdown was still, miraculously, somewhere in there. Motormaster was painfully walled off not unlike a stopper over a drain. Fool. 

Or perhaps Dead End was the bigger one for that wretched, inescapable thought.

Since his birth year, 1985 in Earth years which was the measurement he preferred, perhaps even since the very second he was brought online, Dead End was acutely aware that they were all going to die. By Autobot, by disease, by planet-eating giant– somehow, someway they were going to die. Yet this stupid little thought plagued him. 

Fine , he snapped at his own subconscious, setting down his datapad. 

“If Breakdown dies, Galvatron will have no need for us anymore.” 

There was a moment of pure quiet between the two brothers. One could have heard the smallest of noises from the understated hum of their internals to the slight shift as Drag Strip stalled on his berth.

“ Fuck. ”

Of all the places for Breakdown’s spark to call him to, he hadn’t expected an enormous white ship with Autobot red detailing and antennae on it. The ship didn’t look a thing like the Ark with its orange paint job and flat, rounded chassis, but it was undoubtedly Autobot in color. That red was unmistakable. It had been Autobots who took Breakdown. Well, Wildrider was going to take him back. 

Wildrider revved his engine. Idiot Autobots hadn’t even put up a shield! That bay door was going to be no match for him. Using rocks as a ramp was far from ideal, but since when did he ever do ideal? He reversed himself all the way back to the cliffside, counting down slowly as he built up the energy before– ZOOM! 

His forcefield kept the rocks from scratching up his undercarriage as the pushed him upwards. Neither the angle nor his wobbling frame were great for his plan, but that didn’t really matter once it worked. He braced himself as his hood headed toward the door. He felt his forcefield touch the metal. Most buildings or materials would have punctured on impact, but this ship must have been made of slightly stronger stuff. Nothing a little extra pressure wouldn’t fix. Wildrider revved his engine again. 

Once it gave way, he felt his tanks drop for the short free-fall which caused him to let out a giddy whoop before his wheels touched solid ground again. An Autobot stared at him, optics practically bulging. Wildrider didn’t get a good look at him before he had run the poor sod over. He’d been tiny though; probably a minibot.

“YEEHAW!” he screeched in tandem with his tires, rounding a corner as he followed the tug of his spark toward his brother. 

Overhead, an alarm began to sound. The more the merrier! He’d take each and everyone of them on! No Autobot deserved their thanks if they were fool enough to fix someone who wasn’t one of their own. Besides, they all owed the Stunticons for Sideswipe’s stunt. Wildrider hoped he was on the ship so he could run him over again and again and again. 

This new ship of theirs was gigantic and he had to wonder as he ascended up floors if it was some kind of guardian robot like Omega Supreme. More bots were filing out of rooms, Wildrider having fun dodging shots, taking hits that bounced off his forcefield, and running over those that didn’t jump soon enough. Few feelings were better than the crunch of metal under his tires. Only human bone really made the cut beyond it. 

No one was going to stop him now!

A wicked laugh ripped through him. If he wasn’t flooring it already, he’d be trying to press his pedal down more, more, more. He hadn’t had this fun in ages! Breakdown should get fixed up by Autobots more often! He banked another corner, eyeing up a bot with two guns built into his chest and one glowing yellow eye that reminded Wildrider of Shockwave. Even better. He had always wanted to run over Shockwave. This one would do for practice. 

Speed was on his side as he let shots dink off his forcefield, though it was running low on juice. This mech was skinny, though. He looked like he could have been a flier build which meant he’d barely leave a scratch on Rider even if the forcefield gave way. All he had to do was not stop! Except he couldn’t help but stop as a huge fist slammed on his hood. 

All of his momentum halted in an instant, sending him upward and then smashing down onto his tires which began to ache as the world started spinning. Trying to center himself, he transformed, feeling his caved in hood on his chest. Several vents later he found he couldn’t hold anything in anymore. Searing hot energon climbed up his intakes and out his mouth, splattering onto the floor. Various mech-fluids mixed in with it, Wildrider nowhere near properly full to begin with, as he retched with empty tanks one, two, and then three more times. 

“ Fuck , that hurt,” he hissed to himself, his arms still shaking as he stared at the mess beneath him. 

“Apologies, Wildrider, I truly did not want to hurt you, but I had no idea how else to stop your rampage,” hummed a rumbling deep voice, though he could feel the displeasure leaking out of the other mech’s field. 

Still, a silver hand came, open-palmed into his field of vision. Yeah, right . Like was going to let some Autobot help him up. Once he was back on his feet, he’d show this dick who terrorized the roads. And their ship’s hallways! 

Finally feeling well enough to look up, Wildrider came face to face with a torso he… recognized. Bar the misplaced Autobot symbol emblazoned on the center of the wide silver chest. He shuttered his optics a few times. Had he hit his head at some point? Confusion pulsed within him as he kept looking up, trailing the frame of the mech who had brought him online. 

“Megatron?” he asked, though he didn’t really mean it as a question. From the silver frame to the shape of his helm to the glow of his brilliant red optics, this was his leader– his original leader. Which left Wildrider with one simple question, “Did I die?”